Morning time.
My first swim of fall, and we struck out at 9am in the morning.
It felt good and right to shake the summer routine of afternoon swims and welcome autumn in the bay on a glorious sunny morning. Not to say it wasn’t a struggle. Dave, too, prefers the afternoon himself and is not a fan of early morning exercise. Especially outside, in cold water.
But morning was also the only time I could fit it in to a very busy Saturday and after several days out of the water, with a forecast for 74, I was desperate to get in. I invited my neighbor to join me and was glad to have Dave’s company on what I anticipated would be a challenging entry.
Accountability would get me in the water first thing in the morning, and a little healthy peer pressure would get me out for a decent swim. Dave often swims a couple miles on his own, and I knew his presence would help motivate me to cover some ground. I really wanted to see the bay in the morning light as the sun rose up through the trees, and swim as the bay woke up.
I knew it would be cold—even Dave, a year-round skin swimmer—dressed differently, donning a swim cap to fight the chill. I bundled up over my swim suit in fleece pants, warm robe, and wool socks for the short walk to the bay, and all this after slurping the hottest coffee and hot water I could bear. And it helped—I knew that starting warm, as warm as I could before the plunge would help me manage the cold. The goal always is to conserve as much body heat as you can before and after a cold water swim.
With night time temperatures dropping to 50, and clear skies at night, I knew the water would be chilly. I had decided against the wetsuit. I’m not ready to pull on that rubbery layer just yet. Staying curious I figured the sun was out and this might be the last day of summer weather (forecast was for 74), so why not keep skin swimming as long as I can bear.
It’s hard to believe that an entire year has gone by since I first braved the open waters of fall and winter.
I wonder how I will keep myself getting in, as now I know what open water swimming through winter in the Salish Sea feels like.
I wonder what ways I will explore the months ahead, challenge myself, perhaps more skin swims or perhaps I will find my wetsuit the best choice. Curiosity about swimming in the sea keeps me coming back, and has become a critical motivation for continuing on. No one is demanding that I do this, and there is no motivation but my own inner fire to keep me diving under.
Equally surprising to me yesterday was how quickly I acclimated to the saltwater of this quiet bay that feels as familiar as my house now.
Oh, it wasn’t perfect, nothing is, and I sucked in air sharply upon entry, verbalizing the experience with Dave, who waited patiently in the deep water as I lingered waist deep, waiting for my body to give up its fight against the cold.
The tide was high at the muddy entrance, and the water coated with a fine layer of brown sediment, swirling in thick bands atop the pea green water. The sun shone brightly in the back of the bay, but had only recently appeared and the top layer of water had a surprising chill.
As we struck out around the bend into the early morning shade, a blank vision of green filled my view and I realized how the seasons have turned in the sea, with the top layer now colder than the water below. With each stroke my arms broke through an invisible band of icy water and down into a slightly warmer band. I let myself notice the cold, then turned my attention elsewhere, peering up to gauge Dave’s whereabouts and pick my route forward.
With each breathe on my left side I caught the glimpse of the morning sun rays slicing through the evergreens. Bands of light fell in my path and we made quick progress to the mouth of the bay, where small waves rocked back and forth beyond the spit.
The water was void of debris, save two lone yellow jellyfish below in the fuzzy water, that Dave and I had spotted independently. At one point my leg brushed by something that I was sure could only have been the bell of a large jellyfish, but the sensation was gone so fast I still am not sure what it was. Perhaps a head of kelp, but either way I was relieved that no stinging sensations arrived on my skin and I was glad that I had worn my swim shirt to mitigate any close encounters such as this.
We decided to circle the bay, do the mile swim and as my body cooled ever so slightly I went through my mental checklist of exit options as we cut through the still water.
Swimming’s magical rhythm took over in time and I felt like I was along for a ride with someone else at the helm. My mind danced through wandering thoughts as I passed maple leaves suspended in the water, and autumn colors of reds, oranges and yellows flashed in and out of view along the shore.
No humans were out on the bay on this quiet morning. No seals or river otters or crabs showed themselves to us in the bay.
This time of year is when everything is flipped upside down. We retreat, hide, close in, hole up, seal doors and windows, stoke fires, bundle up and batten down our external and internal hatches.
I marvel at how open water swimming endures through the seasons, how vastly the swims shall change and challenge me through the coming months.
Adjustments, adaptations and creative arrangements must be made in and out of the water as summer surrenders to fall and fall opens itself bare to winter.
As I prepare for the months ahead, I imagine swimming along, drawing up water from below, instead of trying to stay high in the water to reach the warmth.
I shall let myself sink in, and hold onto the warmth deep inside.
And be grateful for my friends—in and out of the water.
Mary Swims 