I crossed an acre of seaweed and sand to reach the shore yesterday.
I had forgotten how long it can take to reach the water on a tide like this.
I travelled alone, mid day, hours earlier than usual, with work waiting at the other side and a craving so strong to have a watery adventure that no tide, no matter how low could stop me.
Tip toeing around piles and shimmering wet strips of seaweed, appearing like jumbled scarves and heaps of forgotten laundry piles on wet sand, I navigated to the water’s edge with warm sunshine on my back. A lone blue heron fished from the shallows while seagulls pecked at the piles of seaweed, unhurried and glassy- eyed.
The sandy shallows were crowded with clusters of hearty seaweed and eel grass, punctuated every so often by red rock crabs as big as my feet. I continued on to deeper water, as flounder and sculpins darted hastily away from my fleshy shadow, perfectly camouflaged to match the grey sand beneath their smooth bodies. Momentary wisps of sand stirred up by their whipping frenzy of motion kept my eyes darting back and forth, searching snd seeking for more. The sight if so much life around me, wild life, made me smile. I felt hope.
This beach, at the south end of the island, was my dad’s stomping ground long ago. The Bremerton ferry passes by daily through Rich Passage, and where yesterday I got to see for myself the riches of this place—below the water’s surface.
The water held a strong cold punch, but the sunshine and shallow beach made the temperature tolerable as I lifted off and pulled southward over the stands and drifts of seaweed.
With my head above water I carefully swam along the shore, orientating myself to this brand new place in the water, feeling the thrill and slight anxiety of swimming in a new place. Alone.
I ticked off my safety list—fully inflated orange swim buoy? Check. Keeping to shallow water for quick exit if needed? Check. iPhone in event of real trouble, including run in with magnificent sea creature needing to be photographed? Check. Swim shirt fully zipped in event of run in with Lion’s Mane jellyfish? Check.
A solid row of beach houses sat silent along the shore, and I glanced over feeling utterly blessed to have my view from in the water. Nearby a flock of jet black cormorants perched in a ring around the gunnel of an inflatable boat, like candles on a cake. My approach gave them fright and they took off in haphazard unison, their heavy bellies skimming over the water, likely loaded down with tiny fish.
Once my nerves settled and the chill wore off I put my face down into the cool water again and settled in to take in the view below.
On my return trip I swam through murky water, just able to make out the curved bodies of hundreds of fish darting in schools among the seaweed. A glowing pink orb caught my eye, and once I ascertained that it was not a stinging jellyfish but a pink anemone I swam closer to take a look. My eyes darted from one to the next and with silent glee my heart swelled at the sight of these lovely creatures, that I have so rarely viewed during my swims.
The low tide held gifts I needed to see today. It took courage to step outside my comfort zone and swim this new place, alone, and at low tide.
As I walked up the beach over the seaweed flats and up to the fluffy warm sand, I realized how much I was needing to change my routine, push myself out into new waters, and marveled again at how much life there is to see above and below the waves.
As I caught my breathe upon a log, sinking my cold feet into the warm dry sand I looked back over the flats. A cloud of black dots swirled together in the blue sky, the shape undulating and twisting low over the beach. I pulled on my glasses just in time to witness a whizzing ball of sandpipers set down upon the seaweed.
My swim was over, but their feast was just beginning. What a fine day for all of us. I almost forgot everything for a moment.
Bliss. I think that is what I found at low tide, where the Salish Sea revealed a bit more of her glorious beauty to me, and I met her where I could—in the shallows.
Mary Swims 