March 31, 2021

Seaweed and seals.

I took to the water yesterday, pushing through a wall of fatigue, unsure of myself, questioning whether the cold water would invigorate or sink me. I had returned from work to eat lunch and had collapsed onto the couch for an hour long nap. I don’t nap. Ever. Only sickness leads me to sleep during the day. When I awoke, fatigue lingered still but the sun was out and I couldn’t stop thinking about the water.

After weighing the risks and benefits of a swim, whether I was indeed getting sick or just feeling the belated effects of accumulated fatigue, I decided I might as well try. Nothing to lose but everything to gain by a cold water swim.

As soon as I pulled on my wetsuit I felt wide awake, like a veil lifted. I was made for the sea. I was made to swim. I just needed to remember this truth.

Late March beside the Salish Sea has brought very cold water, with night time temperatures dipping low enough to frost windows and leave me doubling up on sweaters for morning walks with my dog.

Tomorrow I will have made it full circle—swimming weekly through every month of the year. And yesterday felt as cold as December.

My hands recoiled at the cold and only surrendered as I offered no alternative, and my mind urged me to remember that the cold soothes my stiff fingers. Until I dove under to face early flecks of seaweed, the water fuzzy with pollen and infinitesimally small creatures did I remember that I was swimming through spring.

I took my familiar route south as the sun lowered and cast hazy streaks of light across my watery green horizon, bits of seaweed in browns and greens showing themselves to the light. My body fell into a calm rhythm, the strokes tied to each other like the notes of a song, carrying me forward, floating across the endless sea.

I paused to catch my breath and looked across the tiny waves —all was quiet. I was home again and my nose caught the sweet and intoxicating smell of the summer sea—joy overtook my being as I dreamt forward to low tide clam digs and piles of bright green summer seaweed, the hoisting of crab pots, lazy rowboat rides, cold beer, sleeping in tents, high mountain hikes, long warm water swims with jellyfish in just my swim suit and rollicking leaping dives off of docks with my sons, and maybe even more floating concerts with my tiny, happy band.

I turned northward and found my friends. At first I thought they were a flock of ducks or some other water birds, hoping for seals but doubtful that all of those shapes could be seals. An entire year of swimming along this shore and I only spotted one or two seals at a time.

But wait. Those weren’t birds. My eyes adjusted and I floated, intently watching their slow movements. Seals. I counted one by one, as they appeared and disappeared like dreams, in the deep, here then gone. They also were heading north, the tide pulling us all along, the highway to dinner for my perfect swim mates—a banquet of fish below—or so I hoped for them—to fill their bellies and keep them strong and happy.

My heart beat faster as I absorbed this fact—I was alone in the water with five seals. I assessed my surroundings. I was in deep water, but close enough that with five strong pulls I could be in the shallows and wade ashore. I had my bright orange buoy, a possible deterrent to the seals and I had my thick wetsuit on in the event they wanted to give me a nibble. I continued swimming, stayed my course as I continued reasoning that the seals were in search of fish, not humans, and if I just thought of them as water dogs I could relax a little and slow my heart rate. I was a mix of fear and excitement, thrilled to have company and equally anxious and longing to find one swim close enough below me to catch site of their exquisite torpedo-shaped bodies, dappled with polka dots and broken light from the sunlight cutting through the surface.

From time to time I’d pause to peer back at them, watching their speedy progress northward, in awe of their speed through their watery home. I longed to glide through this watery world with that grace—they moved perfectly with the water. Of the water.

My heartbeat settled as I reached the road end. For a moment I longed to turn seal, not feel the cold, dive for hours and days, live the water life. Swim like a wave, of the water. Bound to the tides, the currents, the migrations of the fish, the mysteries below.

Back onshore I hauled my clothes down to the sunny bench to dress and watch the water. With my glasses back on, I pulled on my socks over frozen toes and started counting. Twelve? Fourteen seal heads out beyond the pilings. Out of the corner of my eye a large splash, then the familiar bark.

The feasting was underway. I sat marveling at this wonder of bodies dancing in the evening light, the world spinning all the while around the sun.

Eat well, my friends. And keep swimming.

I will too.