Hood Canal. Unspoiled. I think.
Yesterday we woke to sunshine.
And reports of a massive spill of untreated sewage and drain water in Seattle—11 million gallons—into Puget Sound. Concerned friends sent me texts to alert me, while swim groups online buzzed with reports of the spill and debated when and where the water would be safe to swim again. Some ventured out for short swims anyway, heads above water, hedging their bets that the benefits were worth the risks.
One day prior to all of this, after seeing first hand the muddy waters surging into the bay from the massive rains this past week, and the blessed forecast for sun, I had already set my sights on a swim adventure off island. I hopped on Google Earth to study the shoreline of Hood Canal, the nearest saltwater I could get to that surely would be clearer. Then yesterday’s terrible news cemented the plan.
I texted my friend and music partner to invite him to accompany me to Shine Tidelands on Hood Canal, knowing we both would surely benefit from a trip off island—he could enjoy the beach, and me the water—and we could talk life and music, and have a break from the hardness of now.
Without hesitation Larry agreed to come along and thoughtfully offered to bring hot coffee and chocolate biscotti to enjoy afterwards.
The dismal news of the sewage disaster hung heavy in my heart as we crossed the Agate Pass Bridge, over a glistening expanse of still water below. I was a mix of relief and quiet guilt, knowing that I was headed far away from the polluted water to swim, while the full time residents of the sound stayed behind swimming and breathing in putrid water created by me and my humankind, and feeling very lucky to be able to drive to cleaner waters.
It is finally sinking in to my 47-year old brain how much I have taken for granted, and how much more I have to learn.
Living most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, there has been much to take for granted. The majestic mountains, pristine lakes and saltwater bays, clear skies, towering trees, and people in love with it all. And many people, thankfully, open to and working for change and equality and LGBTQ rights, and access for all.
But last summer, this beautiful place was choked by wildfire smoke while whole towns burned to the ground along the West Coast and people and animals died. And the sewage spills of yesterday, also caused by humans directly and indirectly, as we continue causing climate change , leading to outrageous storms and strange weather patterns.
This is a lot to absorb.
My blog has been centered on open water swimming but I realize that I cannot write about this watery pursuit of mine without addressing humans impact on the open water, life around the water and pausing to talk about access to water.
Not only who can access these beautiful bays and beaches—the means to live near them or travel to them, but who has access to the resources to even learn to swim. This topic deserves its own post, which I hope to try and address next time.
I wish to end this post by speaking of Hood Canal. End with a little lightness and hope, something we all so desperately need.
I was spoiled yesterday, by a pristine swim alone through clean water, under blue skies dappled with bands of white clouds. The bay was shallow, and as I swam along gazing at the sandy bottom, speckled with beds of oysters, I dreamt of summer swimming here. Shallow bays mean warmer waters—in summer. Shallow bays in winter….are freezing. As much as the sun lit up my heart and eyes with light, even giving a bit of warmth to my back as I swam along, the water stayed frigid.
I had set my mind on swimming a full mile, even mapped it out ahead of time. I recognize today that it was directly linked to my intense need to feel in control—of something. Anything. Feel powerful and capable, as our country heaves through another terrifying week. And most of all, a swim long enough to help me let go, for just a moment, of all thought, all worry, all doubt. To just be breath and flesh.
The water and my body allowed me that gift.
Completing my goal, I heaved heavily to shore, my face numb. Larry stood waiting in his red and black checked coat, smiling, a handmade fly carefully stitched to his cap.
“My face is numb,” I said.
He reached his hands out to cup my cheeks, offering some warmth.
“That was a big, swim,” he said.
“Yes,” I mumbled through a stiff smile.
He asked what I saw out there. I told him I saw some oyster beds here and there, and a bed of purple sand dollars.
The bay was rich in sand dollars and oysters.
After bundling head to toe, hot mugs of coffee in hand, we strode back to the water’s edge to nibble on our biscotti.
I was aglow in contentment with my quiet swim. I told Larry that I always return to the shore after changing, to reflect on my swim and give thanks for making it back safely.
And yesterday I also gave thanks for friendship. And a moment to let the light in with another human who gets up every day helping make things better here for all of us. Just by showing up.
Mary Swims 
🌟🎀💧🧵🪡🧵💧🎀🌟