January 31, 2021

My first dip in the pre-Salish Sea.

Since all water runs downhill, I find myself able to justify including this swim here, within the folds of this blog where float my many musings on open water swimming. Though technically not the Salish Sea, I figure eventually this water will make its way to the ocean, and merge with the saltwater…. and, well, you get the point.

And besides, we found a giant waterfall today, and I’m so tickled I just feel this story belongs here. Today’s cold water reminded me of the power of cold water to not only rejuvenate, but enliven unlike anything else in the universe. It erased my grief and worry and cluttered thoughts like I imagine a skilled Buddha experiencing a weeklong silent meditation —something I’ve never done but am sure would be equally transformative. And leave me equally calm if I could stay quiet long enough.

But my plunge only lasted about five holy minutes. And shook me so profoundly in a good way that I sit here tonight contemplating daily dips without my wetsuit and long swims through winter with my wetsuit, to make the most of all the water has to give.

We found this mighty waterfall on the Olympic Peninsula, among the very mountains I have spotted from afar during my swims in the Salish Sea.

Today started with a long, rainy drive north and west in the company of my husband and a days worth of plans to head to Sol Duc to hike, outfitted with some snacks, jasmine tea, an emergency kit and our reliably late start of a full two hours after our intended departure time.

On a lark I instinctively grabbed my little green quick-dry towel, on the very remote chance that I might find myself in need of a swim. Just the act of packing the thing felt like some sort of good luck charm, and a slightly subtle way of cueing Josh into this watery possibility.

“I’m bringing this just in case,” I said sheepishly, whipping it quickly into my backpack.

“Of course you are,” he said barely skipping a beat.

Out the door and on the road we crossed the little Agate Pass Bridge and drove through a steady rain to Hood Canal. Halfway across the canal bridge we spotted a lone porpoise surface like a fleeting thought and disappear into the raggedy grey water. The low hills and distant mountains were socked in clouds, shedding rain and slowly chipping away our feeling that a day hike was a good idea in this soggy world.

“Maybe it will clear up,” I said hopefully with little hope.

“Or we can just take a long drive,” Josh replied.

Either way we would make it a good day.

Despite the rain, our long drive gave us what we needed most—time to talk and a day away from home looking out different windows and remembering how big the world is. Our two sons opted out of today’s adventure, happy to have a parent-free house for a day, and so our adult day away from home proved beneficial to everyone.

As we made our way downhill towards Lake Crescent, the stillness of the water, untouched and absent of all visible life was breathtaking. Low clouds hung around the steep mountains circling the lake, and small waterfalls gushed beside the lakeside road, hemmed in by lush ferns and gnarled trees dripping with moss. Again we were reminded of the cost of all that lush green that is the Pacific Northwest—the price is a very wet, long winter with lots and lots of rain.

To our disappointment the road to Sol Duc was closed, but with an adequate map and the determination to have an adventure, we continued west to scout out other trails. After exhausting the nearest options, we decided to drive to Salt Creek, a wonderful park on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, with sea stacks and tide pools—and lots of salt water.

I could feel my body warming up already in anticipation of a salty plunge.

Along the route Josh glimpsed a wall of white water through the trees, and we stopped to investigate. A short muddy trail led us to a magnificent waterfall, at least 80 feet across pouring down into a deep pool.

Our day trip was looking up and after a quiet visit we hopped back in the truck. I looked back wistfully, and thought of the many dippers I’ve seen through a UK online group, and wondered what a dip there would be like.

My thought tucked away, we drove happily on, with waterfall mist still clinging to our faces.

A mile or two on we discovered the road ahead was closed. Again our plans were dashed.

Sometimes plans have to change and sometimes that can be a real drag, but sometimes it can be a gift. Today’s surprise changes were a gift.

As we turned around to retrace our steps, I announced that I wanted to take a swim in the waterfall.

Minutes later we were back in the half moon gravel lot, digging through our bags. I grabbed my little towel and equally small foam seat mat to stand on after the plunge. My feet suffer the most after every swim, and this little pad always helps stave off the cold from the ground.

A young couple beat us down to the water’s edge, and wishing to give them a moment alone—and have the place to ourselves, we waited up top until they passed by.

At the water’s edge, among slick brown boulders I stripped down to my underwear, and with the cold water dippers of the world on my mind, I stepped tentatively into the foaming water, still donning my trusty wool hat. I would keep my head out this time and give this type of icy swim a try.

The water was so cold I carried my thoughts to my breath, ecstatic to be heading towards the mammoth wall of white water before me and fighting the urge to move quickly.

Slow. This needed to be slow. I needed to enjoy this moment and go in as I know how, with intention and openness.

At waist deep I bent forward, paused, then lowered myself in. The rush of cold was extreme and beautiful and I swam breaststroke slowly into the great splashes of water, bouncing up around me. The waterfall was roaring down before me and the water around me danced and jumped vertically like mad white puppies vying for treats.

I laughed out loud and opened my mouth in a wide grin of triumph just in time to get a wave of icy cold right in my face. The taste of the water surprised me—no salt—as my mind caught up with this new environment.

I turned towards shore where Josh stood at the ready, capturing my January frolic on camera.

After a short circle around the pool I headed to the shore. My clothes lay piled on a nurse log, heavy with raggedy moss, wet ferns and a huckleberry tree.

I stepped out repeating myself over and over, “That was amazing! I feel amazing! That was so amazing!”

Other words failed me as I beamed ear to ear, ecstatic with the burst of energy and life force coursing through my blood.

I felt electric.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Josh smiled back, and helped me dress quickly, happy for me and with me.

We returned to the truck and found a hike after all, to Marymeer Falls, as the rain continued to fall. We stood by the second large waterfall of the day, just listening. At the river we stood below giant cedar and fir and spruce trees, again just watching and listening.

The rain kept falling.

The river kept whispering.

The trees stood witnessing.

We were home.

As I watched the suspended waves of the river spit and bubble, I whispered a wish,

“See you soon.”