February 6, 2021

Today I added a Salish Sea swim under my belt, or in my case hat—a new feather: February.

Hoping for companionship and someone else to motivate me to step into the chilly head of Fletcher Bay, I reached out to my neighbor, Dave.

He apologized but had just completed a swim at the north end of the island. Though momentarily disappointed, this was quickly replaced by inspiration—and determination—if Dave could do it today, so could I.

Getting in was entirely up to me. And I was down to the wire so to speak. I had made a pact with myself months ago to get in and swim at least once a week, all the way through the year. Just because.

My open water swimming began last April. If I could make it weekly through February, I reasoned that based on the current Pacific Northwest weather patterns—and my friend, Dave—I will have succeeded in swimming through the coldest months of the year—unless the world gets even crazier and we get hit with a spring blizzard.

Oh boy. Hope I didn’t just jinx us all.

My husband and son giggled today as I loudly talked myself into a swim, over my first cup of coffee, near noon. The pandemic has really wreaked havoc on my sleep schedule—and rational thought. That or peri-menopause. Last Sunday after my first winter waterfall swim I had floated the idea of “getting in every day for the month of February”, as a fundraiser for the local food bank. Well, that didn’t happen.

As I headed out the door in my seal suit, Anders reminded me again of my February fundraising idea.

“Yeah, that didn’t work out. I think August might be the better month for daily swims for a good cause,” I replied.

“Okay, Mom. Have a good swim and text me when you get out.”

“Will do,” I said.

I strolled along the ivy lined path to the muddy banks, grateful to know I have my family looking out for me. Keeping track of the time. Experience and time have instilled confidence in me that I can keep myself safe in the water, and with that has come trust from my family that I’ll pay attention and get out when I need to—and keep myself safe.

After a long morning of conversation and togetherness, I felt my mind ease as I looked about at the naked trees along the trail and down to the green still waters waiting for me.

I was expecting extreme cold, as the fresh water from the salmon stream flows heavily into the bay this time of year. And being fresh water, in winter, this end of the bay is significantly colder than at the landing outside the bay.

I tried to focus on just getting in, and reminded myself that I had just six days ago taken a plunge in ice water much colder than this would be. Without a wetsuit. As I wrestled my mind, I set an attainable goal—get in and float for a bit. If it felt unbearable, I could just swim breaststroke a bit and get out. I had nothing to prove. Or so I thought.

My heart beat quickened as I stashed my bags at the top of the bank, pulled on my cap, took a fast step and slipped hard on my bum partway down the bank. The roots caught me and the jolt was hard enough to take my breath away.

I was uninjured except for being muddy and breathless from the jolt it gave me. I leaned into the fir tree beside me, pulling in air, steadying myself and waiting to decide what to do.

Like most things, I just needed time to sort myself out.

“Take it slow,” I scolded myself and righting myself I carefully stepped down the muddy roots onto the slick muddy beach.

The tide was going out and quickly, and as soon as I floated in, hugging my orange buoy I found myself rounding the first bend, cast adrift, as the familiar wetness seeped into my suit, whispering to me, “now, now, now.”

All was still in the bay, and before I knew it my hands accepted what was, but my face needed extra time adapting. The old “ice cream headache” came fast and strong.

Setting my feet down I found silty soft mud below me, like hidden clouds caressing my feet, and lowering my face in to blow bubbles I was pleased to see the bottom. Sticks and submerged roots hovered like brown shadows along the bay floor. My face and head were ready—and I had a map today.

I tried a few strokes, feeling tentative and though I hadn’t been for a long swim in over a week and a half, I was delighted to find my tight shoulders relax. And I felt good.

I would swim some distance today.

The still bay called me forward, and the sun peeked out, lighting up tiny ripples on the surface and lending a bright glow to the green water around me. My tongue tasted fresh water, followed by progressively saltier water as I made my way to the mouth of the bay.

Most delightful was the temperature of the water. Mid way to the spit, I paused to catch my breath, and the water almost felt warm. The temperature change was dramatic and welcome, as was the familiar cry of a resident eagle and crow, and a third call of a sea gull. The quiet bay was full of music and there was a place for me there.

My hands touched water into the infinite. I floated in and of the water. What a gift to be alive. And here.

The fast moving current carried me quickly to the spit, over the very shellfish beds where in summer my son and I scraped the gooey mud with trowels to pluck Manila clams and lug them home to steam and drench in butter.

I thought ahead to summer and all that the warmth brings. Most of all I daydreamed forward to the togetherness of summer, and the ease of seeing more friends and family outside. Just the thought of summer lifted my spirits.

At the spit I crawled onto the steep bank, as smooth rocks and shells cascaded down in mini avalanches at my feet into the outgoing tide. The current required me to walk around the spit into the bay before I could muster enough power to swim against the current back to the head of the bay.

I began to tire and made a mental map of the various exits I could use along the way, if I ran out of steam. Like a frog on lily pads my eyes hopped from one dock or boat to the next, coaxing me onward. Before I knew it I was in the home stretch, and feeling strong and determined to complete my journey.

As I considered hopping out several hundred yards early, I reasoned that I could manage one more push. I swam much longer distances in summer and again I reasoned that the walk back with an early exit would be colder.

Head down I focused on the muddy floor, dappled with an occasional oyster shell, and found myself in two feet of water and back at my starting place before I knew it.

I don’t know where we are all headed, but I do know that the sea has the power to hold and heal all of us. We all deserve to feel weightless and held, reminded that we are all connected to each other.