August 1, 2021

I’m a fat salmon.

And I have my neighbor, Dave, to thank for it. And the shuttering of the pools last year due to the pandemic also played a part.

This whole open water swimming thing I’ve embraced is entirely his fault, as is my designation as a fat salmon. Over a year ago Dave invited me to try a swim in the Salish Sea, and here I am over a year later, utterly waterlogged, running around coated in salt and encouraging anyone willing to listen and able to tread water to get in. Open water swimming in the Salish Sea has changed me. So did the pandemic, just like everyone else in a million small and huge ways. And my life.

On August 1st, at 11:00am, I stood waist deep in silky green water next to Dave at the landing. Our “race” was blessed with a good luck omen—as I surfaced from my initial dive under to get acclimated a surprise spotting of a billowy whitish pink nudibranch took my breath away, filling me with awe and wonder. It’s delicate body undulated just below the surface, wrapped up amidst a stringy nest of light green seaweed, twisting and slowly writhing easily through the green water.

This was going to be a good swim.

The beauty of this rare creature took my mind completely off of the cold that initially shook my resolve to do this swim, and once Dave pressed start on his iPhone timer and tucked it quickly back in his swim float, we struck south steadily through fuzzy green water.

I had arrived tired and a little cold to the landing, set on accomplishing this swim, with a healthy dose of peer pressure nudging me to get in and get it done.

With sleepy eyes, an empty stomach and only strong coffee to start my engine, and over five hours of performances from the day prior, I was not in peak shape for this. And it was morning time—I’ve become a late afternoon swimmer since the pandemic took away the pool and I took to the open water instead.

With the first strokes the caffeine kicked in, happiness filled me and just as I settled into the rhythm of the swim, we hit a solid wall of tomato soup-colored water. All visibility disappeared and I fought the urge to bail out, unnerved by the brown water. For most of the 1.2 miles of our officially unofficial Fat Salmon Swim (traditionally held on Lake Washington), we swam through some of the brownest water I had ever seen. To fight off nerves and reassure myself that all was fine, I did frequent checks for Dave’s buoy, and was calmed and determined to keep going, watching him pull through the water seemingly nonplussed and utterly relaxed.

Pressure to keep up and keep swimming without stopping helped me continue on, aware that this was timed. I didn’t want to slow Dave down too much and I knew I could swim this distance. Last summer I had gone twice this distance and even though my swims this summer have been shorter, this was a distance I am used to.

My stubborn “finish what you start” mentality was going to help me get through this.

Fortunately I knew Dave was in no hurry, and as I predicted, he graciously stayed at my pace the whole time, tacking a solid twenty-plus minutes onto his best time because he’s that kind of a guy. Like me, Dave swims because he loves to swim and his competitions seem to be entirely with himself. Still swimming year round in only his Speedo and a pair of goggles, he has accomplished a mighty feat year after year. Speed be damned. Who cares. He’s in it to feel alive, get cold, and swim through time. As am I.

And Speedo’s? Who needs them? Like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Dave sheepishly and proudly admitted he sometimes swims naked alone, stuffing his bottoms into his swim buoy. Go Dave, I say.

On our chosen “race day”, we were down to the wire, as they say, waiting until the second to last day to compete. After swimming our chosen distance (choice of 1.2 or 3.2 miles), tracking our time as accurately as possible and sending in a photo of our Fat Salmon swim, we marked our participation and would be able to wear our yet-to-arrive T-shirts proudly.

I plan to wear mine with the same pride as an Olympian sporting a gold medal. I’m no Olympic athlete by any stretch—far, far, far from it—but I share a steadfast commitment to the art of swimming and blinding drive to capture the experiences of the Salish Sea and our need to protect it that rivals the dedication of any Olympian to her or his chosen sport. And as we recently watched a star Olympian just say no, Ms. Biles, whom chose mental health over all else, I will also listen inward to what feels right. If the swim doesn’t feel right, if I’m chilled or feeling unnerved by the water, I too, will get out. There is always tomorrow.

Very unlike an Olympic athlete I have almost no competitive muscle left in my body, and at my age am truly just glad that my body is still mostly cooperating with my physical needs, namely swimming and walking. I had to say goodbye to running a couple years ago, but I never liked it much anyway. Those days are over. Phew.

For the record, I have never in my life competed in any swimming race, competition or event. Ever. And so again, open water swimming provided me with yet another first.

At the half-way mark we paused to catch our breath. I whooped with relief. We battled an outgoing tide on the first leg south, and it had indeed felt like a long half mile. The return trip took us under half the time, as we rode north with the current, the finish line waiting for us.

I tried swimming faster for the last few yards, so pleased to have arrived. Dave waited ahead in the shallows, timer in hand.

“How’d we do?” I asked.

“One hour and 12 seconds,” Dave replied with a smile.

I smiled back.

Tomato soup, nudibranch and all, it was a very special swim.

Maybe next year I’ll try it again. I know Dave will be game, and if the water is clearer perhaps we’ll spot some fat salmon swimming home.

My time might improve or maybe not. Either way, it’ll be a fine time.

Any excuse to swim is a good one.