February 23, 2021

The sea is a great equalizer. But things aren’t equal.

I met up with a stranger yesterday to take a swim at Blakely Harbor. Having never met this woman before, I had a hurdle to overcome that I hadn’t anticipated when I put out a call for company earlier in the day on a FB group.

I was angry. Boiling over with anger as I arrived at the beach, gathered my swim kit and pulled myself to calm preparing to meet up with a complete stranger. I suppose I could have backed out, but that felt awkward and I knew I could make small talk and get into the water, and, hopefully sort it out there.

I constantly have to check myself as I write, knowing full well that exposing my heart and life can be dangerous. Many folks who read these stories know me, to some degree more or much less, and to others I am but a stranger.

This morning I woke to reflect on yesterday’s swim, trying to make sense of what happened in and out of Blakely Harbor.

I am happy to report that the kind woman I met was easy to meet in the place I found myself. Had I been alone in that moment, with my anger, I may not have succeeded in finding the peace I needed to find. And the understanding beneath the anger.

As we prepared for the water, standing barefoot on broken shells and grey sand, I learned that she is a mother too, of at least one son. Like me she raised a boy, hers much older than my own two sons. She shared with me that his partner has fallen under the spell of open water swimming, and she said this pleased her immensely.

I have yet to meet an open water swimmer not thrilled to bring others over to the sea-side, and share this magical world with them.

I said that I myself had received “cool mom” points, open water swimming through winter. She said she doesn’t swim for points, but for the joy it brings. I do too, but the truth remains that most every parent I know wants their kids to like them, be in some way inspired by them.

We stepped into the still water as the clouds rolled in, blocking out the sun in spurts. Tiny waves lapped the shore over crystal clear water. She, nearly twenty years my senior, wore nothing but booties, swimsuit and cap while I fussed one final time adjusting my full selkie suit and thermal cap.

She told me she used to wear a wetsuit, but no more, having once upon a time been pleased to discover the wonders of a wetsuit which allowed her to swim in the cold sea. But now she managed without, swimming twice weekly throughout the year. I envied her the hassle-free effort of hopping in to the cold water with just a swim suit.

Our swim plan was East, out and around the nearby dock and along the beach. She told me she doesn’t care for swimming with seals, and pointed out that a few of these curious mammals like to circle the middle of the bay. Today we were to avoid them. I filed this information away, promising myself to return and take a swim towards these majestic sea friends next time.

Already the sea had washed away my rage and left some wisdom behind. I had been angry about the selfishness of people, the lack of ability for the most vulnerable to get the care they need, the ongoing struggle to help my mother in law, whom lives with MS, to get a vaccine while others work the system and carelessly cut in line, leaving those most in need without.

And this isn’t just a local problem or our country’s problem. This is a global problem. Those with the means, the resources get help first while those most vulnerable go last. Or never.

I realized that we all need to care much more about all of humanity. The choices and daily decisions we make will and do directly impact those immediately around us, as well as those strangers whom we may never meet. And we need to care about and love the strangers.

Swimming in the Salish Sea has heightened exponentially my love and concern for the life that resides there, as well as greatly expanding my awareness of my direct and indirect impact on the natural world around me.

Through this journey I have also come to love and care for the strangers whom I have only known through seaside photos or reading snippets of their stories online, recounting their toils hacking through frozen lakes, floating down rivers in bobble hats halfway across the planet, or fearlessly crossing channels and miles of ocean, fueled only by the power of their arms and legs and minds. They too, have found peace and healing and relief from suffering. And joy—lots and lots of unbridled joy.

I guess what I came to realize yesterday is that the open water, be it sea, river, lake or ocean, is a place where we get in and get wet and everyone is welcome. In the water we become the water, floating and swimming forward, crossing paths with all manner of critters—and people. But not everyone has the privilege or ability or means to get in the water, let alone learn to swim.

If I do nothing, I will never take swimming for granted. I won’t take the sea for granted. And I will try to show up and be a kind stranger, and remember that we all arrive with hurdles, carrying our own demons on our backs.

We have to take care of each other. And keep swimming, if we are lucky enough to reach the water’s edge.

After yesterday’s swim, my swim buddy said goodbye for her walk home. I stayed at the beach as the sun burned the clouds away. Sunlight sparkled in patches around the quiet harbor, as ducks floated and dove about.

I closed my eyes and felt my body ease under the sun’s warmth, burning away the residual cold from my swim, deep in my core. I thought of my therapist whom recently suggested that I perhaps could think of how anger is ultimately about wishing things were different. Some things I do wish with all of my being were different.

But not this moment, when I opened my eyes and looked out across the bay where two seals appeared, lazily turning in slow circles beneath the blue sky, floating in a sea of golden diamonds.

Next time, I whispered.