I swam home today.
I literally swam all the way to my childhood home today. Dock to dock in freezing pouring rain.
I had put this swim off for a very long time.
I feared the grief that might overwhelm me, returning to swim here, having endured too much loss from one neighborhood. The ghosts of my childhood live here still, the old house now sheltering complete strangers, untouchable, few neighbors from my childhood remain and recent years of too much pain associated with this place shine brightly like a fleshy open wound, staring me down and burning me every time I drive past this frog and down to the water.
Down the hill and around the corner from this frog and this ladybug is the home my parents brought me to at 9 months old, along with my older sister and brother. A return to the island where my father grew up—Berkeley, California, in 1974 was not where we were to spend our early days.
Being less than a year old when we moved to this neighborhood, the old house here is the earliest home I can remember.
The first saltwater I ever tasted or swam in was here, in Port Madison, where blackberries dripped from thorny vines all along the curved stretch of beach, a rainbow of pebbles and shells up top, then a vast expanse of barnacled rocks, and finally grey sand down low and an edging when the tide was lowest of ballast from the old sailing ships that once harbored here, bringing timber to the mill. In spring and summer we spent hours and hours at this beach, running through the tide flats with our dog, seaweed and salt flying every which way, building sand castles for tiny crabs and constructing forts and boats of driftwood and washed up styrofoam riddled with tube worms , weaving tall grass and harvesting clay and geoducks—the latter with little success. We leaped off of docks and searched for old glass bottles in the layers of thick salt-soaked sawdust, deep brown and dense the color and texture of coffee pucks leftover from espresso. We danced over purple expanses of sand dollars and caught flounders with drop lines and squealed at the sight of the ominous red jellyfish. We learned to row a boat and sail and water ski here.
And, no, I had no idea how magical and special a place it was to live back then—it was just home—it was all I knew.
Once we happened upon a dog carcass washed up with the high tide, earless and hairless and white. We tried to bury it, but the ground was too rocky, and it floated out again as it had come in, leaving only its sad memory behind.
A few times we floated messages out in bottles—dreaming of pirates and treasure—and one time my sister found a message in a bottle from a girl way up north in Canada.
Once when I was in high school a grey whale visited the bay, and we almost paddled right over it as it made its way north, the only exit.
It’s no accident that today of all days I decided to swim here. I was in such a dark mood, hanging in suspense like the black clouds oozing rain relentlessly all day long, feeling adrift and uneasy about the whole world, I figured I might as well pull off my only bandaid.
If I was bleeding already, what did I have to lose but time?
As I drove across the island, suited up and resolute in my decision, I steeled myself to take on the cold, uninviting weather. In my mind I checked a few boxes:
1. No wind. Good. The wind had died down which was promising—perhaps the water would be calm, and the air less cold.
2. Familiar beach. Safe. I knew the beach and the water like the back of my hand.
3. Steady rain. It was pouring rain, which almost guaranteed I’d have the entire place to myself—the only way I wanted it or could bear to experience it.
4. Mint tea. I had a thermos of tea, two pairs of socks, two towels and tons of warm clothes to put on after.
I parked at the public dock, grabbed my light, turned it on and throwing it in my buoy, strode quickly to the beach. Rain drops fell steadily on the still water, where a few small pieces of driftwood floated on the high tide. I stood next to the dock and stared north, to the next dock sitting 1/4 mile away, a road to nowhere now that I go. This was the dock, our dock, we shared with the neighbors next door. I lived 18 years in that house, my parents over 40 years.
The rain cast everything in dull shades of grey, and even our old house looked lost and forlorn. But the beach shells shown bright white, and my heart beat picked up as I anticipated the cold plunge to come and as I scanned the curve of beach that I had walked so many many times, I suddenly felt okay. Even happy. I had made it. Goodbye band aid.
I stepped into the water and looked about in all directions. Everything and nothing looked the same. Across the from the public dock an old red house still stands boarded up just as it had been years ago, standing sad and lonely before the most exquisite stretch of sandy beach in the entire bay. As kids we’d sneak ashore to revel on the nice sand and swim off the steep shoreline.
After a few splashes of water on my face, I dove under. I took a few strokes and popped up to ease the inevitable brain freeze that always comes at first. A lone crow cawed, pulling my attention away from the pain. A few deep breaths later and I was under way again, the water fairly clear to my delight and I swam through the shallows north over the rocks and sand.
It all looked familiar. I was home. My delight surprised me as I moved swiftly north towards our old dock, unafraid and happy to feel so free and peaceful.
I never plan nor want to walk the old hallways of our old house, but I realized today I don’t need to. The place was gutted anyway—it wouldn’t feel or look like home anymore.
Everything I need is in the water.
As I swam along the beach, I thought of my sons who played on this beach with their pre school friends, and skipped rocks from shore with their Grampa.
My gaze and focus caught on a school of tiny fish close to shore, and I felt joy in knowing I had company. The quietest kind.
I recalled swimming as a girl to the beach from the end of the dock at high tide and feeling so pleased with the great distance I had traveled. I remembered learning to windsurf with my dad and watching him build the bulkhead and mow the lawn thousands of times. And I looked at the flower boxes atop the bulkhead and remembered the thousands of sweet peas mom grew there every summer—enough to fill an entire florist shop. Just in the yard above was where I had said, “I do” to my kilt clad groom, a mere 22 years ago, beneath a driftwood arbor.
When I reached the old dock in front of the old house, I paused to look up. I recognized it all, but it was like looking through a hazy screen. The outlines looked the same, but the center was gone. The heart is gone. And I have changed.
The water held me afloat as I passed under the last few docks leading to the mouth of the bay. A flock of seagulls took flight from the last dock, scattering like shells into the dark sky.
I floated still a few moments, catching my breath, the rain drops setting down like quiet notes of a song across the water.
When I reached the old dock on my return, I was winded from the exertion of swimming against the tide. As I floated beneath the dock, I reached up to touch a creosote piling. I remember dad always warning us to not lean against the creosote—impossible to get out of clothing.
Tears burst from my eyes. I cried for peace and relief. I was tired but determined to swim back to the public dock. I had to finish this journey.
I had hoped to spot the old cement ring beneath the dock—as a child, every time the tide was out I’d check the contents—a miniature tide pool, a little ring of little lives.
Back home tonight my shoulders were sore washing out my suits—still are. After dinner I stepped into the kitchen and baked a lemon huckleberry cake. It tasted like summer, and my family was happy.
The rain falls steadily outside the windows. Everyone sleeps. And I’m still salty.
Some things need to be washed away. But not the salt. Never the salt. Or the good memories.
The salt and good memories are worth holding onto.
Mary Swims 
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