I considered giving up winter open water swimming today.
The only thing keeping me from throwing in the towel was the jovial companionship of my friend, Dave, and my own inner voice reminding me over and over again that swimming would help. Probably. It always does.
I always feel better after I swim. It had been several days since my last cold trip, and to keep up winter swimming I promised myself to take a plunge in once or twice a week.
As we began our journey south, a large fuzzy log caught my eye, and I climbed it as it sank quickly below me, no match for my weight. As I pushed off of it, I lost sight of it and realized that it might rise back up below me and give me a knock. Fortunately my cold brain wasn’t factoring in the current and when I looked back after a strong pull away from the place we had met, the aged log rose lazily to the surface like a sleeping whale. Non plussed and carefree, and a safe several yards behind me. For a moment this playful trip transported me back to summer and frolicking on floating logs with my boys when they were little. And farther back still to my own early years rolling logs in the water with friends, testing our balance and daring upon these benign sea creatures. For a moment I felt summer and I smiled.
I usually feel better once I have a couple hundred yards under my belt, once my body surrenders to my hearts desire, and its had time to reacquaint itself once again with the icy charm found only in the sea.
But today, I couldn’t stop fighting.
Large, awkward waves jockeyed about, vying for my attention and testing the limits of my patience. I couldn’t find a rhythm. I couldn’t sight, follow a line or see the bottom, stopping frequently to try finding my bearings in a grey blue blanket of chop.
As we made our way along the shore I knew I had enough breath, but was still breathless, likely caused by the inner tension of trying to follow a line, battle the rough waves and avoid a multitude of logs and large sticks floating every which way, just near enough to shore to require frequent site checks. I felt hassled, even annoyed and quickly realized there was no choice but try and adjust or turn back.
To keep my bearings I told Dave that I needed to swim closer to shore where I could at least track my progress by counting the shells, watching the rocks go by. The water was very murky and I was in less than four feet of water before I could see the bottom. Sighting the bottom worked well to quickly reassure me that I was making progress and the shells provided a familiar road map, like little mile posts spurring me on. Seeing the earth below me eased my tension. The beach was steps away if I needed it.
The shells helped but the swim was not blissful. Mindful swimming just wasn’t in the cards today. All of my sloshing about could not alter what was—no amount of huffing or splashing or cursing could change what was. The water was rough and cold and I was in it. All I could do was keep swimming.
I wished today to just be a log, immune to the cold, unattached, adrift and empty of all thoughts.
Surrendering to the waves was impossible, and with relief we reached the house at a 1/4 mile, and turned north for the swim home. With the waves at our back, my battle with the waves dissipated and I relaxed a bit as the waves rocked me northward. The cold stayed close, buzzing like a pesky mosquito in my mind, and to distract myself I began spinning on all of the warm things I could have chosen to do —instead of swimming in January in the Salish Sea. I dreamt of roasting marshmallows over a fire , baking in a sauna, eating hot chicken noodle soup and cuddling on the couch with my dog and some hot cocoa, under a massive pile of blankets.
Dave and I seemed to be the only life out there today, the cold kept most inside. As I stepped back onshore, I scanned quickly about to locate Dave. For a moment his orange buoy was nowhere to be seen and my heart skipped a beat. And then I saw him, taking the long way back after a visit to the pilings set offshore a few hundred yards. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Dry and dressed, blessed in double socks and the quiet contentment of another swim behind me, Dave handed me a hot mug of apple spice tea. As he poured his cup, the shake of his hand sent tea sloshing over the rim.
“Are you okay, Dave?” I asked, his quiver impossible not to notice.
“Oh, I’m fine,” he quickly replied.
He’s used to this. Skin swimming in winter and the post swim shakes. The shakes don’t look fun to me, but I believe him that he’s fine—and know he’s used to it. I’m plenty cold in a full wetsuit.
As we stood sipping tea, stomping blood back into our feet, my gaze fell on the endless folds of water we’d just exited and farther out low grey clouds parting just enough to give a peekaboo view of mountains to the west heaped in snow.
This is winter swimming. As we walked back to our houses, we mused on why we enjoy this most chilly of pursuits.
“There is something about it that just pulls me back again and again,” I said to Dave.
Maybe enjoying it requires not trying to figure out or name exactly what it is that drives people to swim in cold water.
Maybe that is the magic. I plan to keep swimming, despite the cold and waves.
And I’ll look forward to spring and summer, when the water begins warming up a little.
I think February will be the real test—the coldest month to come.
I’m not quitting. But I’d be lying if I said that I’m looking forward to the water getting colder still.
Brrr….wish me luck.
Mary Swims 