February 18, 2021

The open water. It’s always open.

No reservations. Well, there are some reservations—stinging jellyfish, frozen faces, feet, hands, poor water quality, and fear of hypothermia (especially this time of year). But there are no “Reservations” needed to secure a time or lane or day.

And space. There is plenty of that. And there is always room for one more.

Today, that one more was my son’s teacher, Liz. I met this exuberant and fearless woman at the landing near our house, and initiated her into the art of open water swimming in the Salish Sea.

Last night I received an unexpected text from Liz with a photo of a pristine beach an hours drive north from here, the water sparkling with diamonds under a sunny sky and in the distance a small group of swimmers, their heads just visible above the surface.

The message read, “….four women swimming together and I was mesmerized. It was so beautiful and clear and I wanted to be with them. So then I thought of you and I am hoping you will still be my teacher.”

Everything about this message made me smile.

“I’m going tomorrow.” Come.

My day had not been a good one, and suddenly I felt better. I was needed, called to do something that I love to do (swim in cold water), have a swim buddy (it had been a lonely day) and have an adventure with someone I have always admired (she is so good with middle school kids in the ways that matter) AND I would be guaranteed to make my goal again to swim every week through the coldest months of the year.

This was exactly what I needed.

In the morning before work I carefully laid out my gear, packed my bag, prepped the cocoa to bring along and sent one more text to Liz.

“Bring goggles and swim cap too!”

I wanted this to go well. My son jokingly said he expected me to get him a higher grade out of the deal, taking his teacher swimming. What would I get out of this swim? Not grades. A friend.

I sincerely worried that Liz would be warm enough, and considering that she was making a go at this for the first time —in February—with piles of snow still melting along the roadways—heightened my sense of responsibility to get it right.

And I wanted her to love it, get hooked, share in this delightful and challenging outdoor challenge that has given me so very much.

A steady rain fell as we parked our cars along the road in muddy tracks, the sky a heavy grey mass. Our smiles lit up the road as we donned our caps and booties, our rapid speech reflecting the thrill we both felt anticipating the shock of water soon to arrive.

The words from Liz, during our flurry of texting the night before, floated through my head: “I read a few of your blog entries and I am equally excited and terrified.”

I was equally excited and terrified in my own way. I had hoped to encourage, not scare her, by sharing my blog.

But we had made it this far. Surely, the excitement had beaten down the terror.

No expectations.

As we walked to the water we agreed that the goal was to just get in, float a bit, and swim a bit if it felt right. We both came with our strengths—Liz has been swimming laps at the local pool, and I’ve been in the open water for months. I reasoned that her better swim shape would match my acclimatized body in the cold water. At least, this was what I reckoned would make us a good match.

As we passed the rock wall a large brown chipmunk appeared, dashing in and around the wet boulders. His presence gave me pause, and I laughed aloud, surprised to see this most unexpected fur ball here, at the beach. He dashed in and out in a game of peekaboo, as I wondered about his beachside mission. Had he been here all along and just never shown himself before?

My superstitious mind decided that he was a good omen. We had ourselves a petite, twitchy-tailed lifeguard to observe our crazy human shenanigans. I couldn’t have dreamt of a more perfect creature to appear. We matched his high energy and curiosity, talking rapidly about getting in, our plan and our hopes for the day.

We stepped in to the quiet water, small waves lapping our wetsuits and spent time splashing and chatting, the snow- cold water turning our exposed skin bright pink within minutes.

We swam south towards the float where last autumn I watched a handful of Liz’s students leap off like lemmings. I had introduced a group of students to open water swimming over three Friday afternoons, and now I was here, with a chance to teach their teacher.

Liz never stopped smiling. We got cold, but not too cold. We turned northward at the float, and passed the landing to enjoy a bit more time swimming in the frosty saltwater. Twenty minutes later we were done.

We dressed at our cars, poured hot drinks and returned to the beach to walk the spit. The beach was a flutter with bright white seagulls, soaring and crying and dropping their lunches to crack open upon the exposed rocks. I showed Liz the still bay and we eyed the clam beds, exposed by a rare low tide this time of year.

On the way back I reached down for a dark grey moon snail shell, mostly whole, sitting upright on the beach.

I was ecstatic. So was Liz. Like me she has loved swimming all her life, but had been hesitant to try the open water.

And now she has done it. And I have just one more swim to do in February. Or maybe more. This coldest month will soon be over.

As we said goodbye, I told Liz that most every swim I’ve done this month I’ve had somebody with me. I don’t know if I would have made it through late January and most of February without people with me—my husband Josh at the waterfall, my neighbor Dave in the ice, my friend Mckayla in Port Madison and today Liz, in the freezing rain.

What have I learned? Warmth and safety come in pairs.