June 19, 2021

This is why I swim with jellyfish.

How could I not?

Since the memorable jellyfish sting incident of three days ago, I’ve been back in the bay twice.

Yesterday I launched from my aunt’s dock, after a careful survey of the placid waters, where floated one yellow jellyfish. Like a misplaced traffic light, it hovered a few feet from the float, reminding me to slow down, and proceed with caution into the infinite green waters of the bay.

I dashed up the dock to fetch my camera, hoping to snap a photo of this mysterious creature before my swim, but by the time I returned moments later it was gone.

The water called, and after one more scan into the depths I lowered myself down the ladder, outfitted with my son’s long sleeve rayon shirt. I will make due with it until my new swim shirt arrives. I have decidedly sworn off bare arm swimming in the Salish Sea, for now at least—or until the stinging memory fades or I decide I need a surprise sea flogging again. A dear friend suggested I wear my wetsuit for full protection, but the freedom of skin swimming in summer is too wonderful, and the wetsuit too hot. My selkie suit will have to wait for the cold months to return.

Like the jellyfish, I too, love the warm waters that are swirling around this little island I call home. The warmer weather has come early this year, and with it bath-like water temperatures at the head of the bay—and the early arrival of jellyfish.

Yesterday I scanned the water cautiously with every stroke, but in time eased off a bit and tried to focus on the joy of swimming warm—instead of swimming scared. Easier said than done.

The tide was going out and I could clearly see the muddy bottom inches below my hands as I neared the head of the bay.

With relief I was able to circle out and around the bay, with nary a jellyfish in sight, and capitalized on the presence of paddlers enjoying the bay to ask them if they had spotted any jellyfish. I was thankful for their company, and glad to have their extra eyes to spot the fuzzy pom pom drifters.

Today I enjoyed another sting-free swim, and my first muddy entrance from the head of the bay, where I first began this wild swimming habit over a year ago.

I slipped down through the oozy mud, holding the rope for balance, and stepped in. Small crabs wiggled along the edge of my feet as I scanned the water, where a light breeze cast small ruffles across the surface.

I dove under, the water so warm that any jarring shock of cold was completely absent, and a moment later I caught sight of a red jellyfish a few feet to my right. I quickly flipped myself onto my left side and with a forceful kick shot away from the creature, my breath catching. Like yesterday, my swim began with a bright warning—this one red—and a clear message: proceed with extra caution. This one was the same color of the one that stung me badly a few days ago.

I slowed my breathing before setting out into the quiet bay, the green water like glass.

I love to swim. To my core.

Happiness flowed in as my fear dissipated to the edges of my mind. With the arrival of summer, so too, has returned my desire to swim as much as possible. My stamina is not what it was last summer, and building up strength for longer swims will take time. But that’s okay. I’m patient.

My goal is to swim for the love of it, and on days when I have more energy, I can swim farther. That is the unique magic of the open water—no limits. No edges. Around the world we go!

Today as I continued out towards the mouth of the bay, with my eyes on high alert, I quickly realized that my best view of the water was doing the crawl stroke. Without a wetsuit I am able to do the breast stroke, being free of the awkward buoyancy in the hips which makes breast stroke uncomfortable in a wetsuit. As much as I love breast stroke, on jellyfish patrol I quickly realized that I had a more steady and frequent view of the water just below the surface doing the crawl, and stuck with this stroke to maximize my chances of having time to maneuver out of the way if need be.

As I paused to catch my breath and scan for any threats, I was delighted to discover the familiar shiny head and eyes of one lone seal peering at me from several boat lengths away. It has been several months since I saw a seal while swimming, and this sighting delighted me. I took this as an omen of good things to come, a safe swim, and a sign of healthy waters full of food.

We hovered and observed one another, and I thought again about a Buddhist teaching that my friend Steve shared with me once—

“If you worry about something happening and it does come to pass, then you have lived it twice.”

Fear makes us captives of ourselves.

The seal and I gave each other ample space, and moments after she appeared to me she was gone, slipping beneath the water as silently as a cloud.

After she disappeared I slowly swam forward, and found myself fretting about her approaching me, bumping me or even nibbling my toes. Wrestling my thoughts I tried to focus solely on each stroke, the clear water free of all signs of jellyfish or seaweed.

The seal did not reappear or bump me or nibble my feet. The only danger was my own mind running amok, interfering with my need to stay present of my watery surroundings and keep my breathing steady. I told myself as I had in the past when encountering seals that they are like dogs. Friendly swimming dogs. Curious, harmless and kind. Respect them, give them space and they will respect you.

My mind began letting go of the fear, and I reached the entrance to the bay, where dark patches of seaweed blackened the water below. Outside the bay an algae plume muddied the water, and with visibility near zero, my anxiety rose again.

I really wanted to avoid a sting, and turned back to swim along the inside of the spit, stopping on the steep bank to capture the view with my camera.

With some effort and determination I made it back to the start, where the waning tide exposed a bit more of the muddy bank.

I clambered awkwardly up the familiar roots, my legs shaking a bit as they readjusted to bearing weight again.

I walked slowly home through the ivy in the shade of cedar trees.

I felt strong. And relieved. And so very grateful for another swim.

I didn’t get stung, yesterday or today, but my worrying about getting stung took away from my ability to be fully present.

I suppose there is always tomorrow. Another chance to practice letting go of fear and living in the moment.