October 7, 2021

Take your time

It took time, plenty of time in fact, to wedge my body into my neoprene selkie suit the other day.

I had hemmed and hawed over whether or not to pull out my wetsuit and matching cap that have been hanging dry now since last April in our laundry closet.

There is nothing fast or elegant or graceful about donning a wetsuit, and besides being incredibly awkward to squeeze into, also has the affect of leaving me feeling even lumpier and more awkward than I already feel out of the water. The trade off is the fact that the suit helps me spend more time in the one place that I never feel lumpy or awkward—just free and whole and happy in the body I live in.

The terms “blubber suit” and “blubber butt” skirted across my mind as my hands pinched and stretched and tugged the wetsuit over hills and bumps of flesh that I swear weren’t there last spring.

Oh well, so much for being streamlined.

Zipped tightly into my suit I glanced in the mirror, and confirmed that “seal mama” aptly describes my torpedo shape. All that neoprene magically smoothed out at least a few lumps even if my size didn’t change. But by god I’d be warm, I told myself.

As I swung my arms forward and back in a futile attempt to loosen the unnatural pull on my shoulders, encased in all that rubber, I felt oddly comforted and hopeful that I would enjoy this first swim of October.

The sun was shining, I was a walking heater , I still had an hour and a half before work, and the fall day was relatively calm.

It had been quite a week. Highs and lows dashed us hither and yon, too numerous to count. Just another full week on the big blue planet of mayhem and music. With my suit zipped on tight, the water was destined to be tolerable if not downright pleasant, even with night time temperatures dropping into the low 40’s.

The highs of the week included seeing our eldest walk in the door one night, barely one month moved out, and back for a brief visit.

“Seeing you is like medicine. Truly,” I told him. He walked in and my heart felt whole again. Two sons and they hold my entire heart together.

“Aww. Thanks, mama,” he replied.

We’ve all been needing this type of medicine lately—time together—the best medicine for the heart.

The next day when our sons took off together for “brother time” medicine, I looked out at the sunny skies and knew I needed some of my own solo medicine—a swim in the sea.

Any doubts that I had prior to my swim about whether or not the wetsuit was necessary were washed away as soon as I step awkwardly into the salty brine.

All trace of warm water is now gone.

Well, the Salish Sea never was actually warm per se, except for the one freakish week when the heat wave turned the bay into hot soup and cooked millions of clams and mussels and oysters alive in their shells.

Adding excitement to the day, just prior to dashing to the landing I slipped hard and fast on our kitchen floor, slamming my already very damaged big toe into the linoleum. Tears shot out of my eyes as the pain spun around my foot and once the shock wore off I reminded myself that cold water waited—my toe needed a cold soak fast, so I figured I might as well give it a go and take my body along for the ride. And besides, I had spent too much time wedging into the wetsuit to not use it for its sole purpose—insulating me from frigid water.

At the landing, two pairs of plump seagulls picked lazily at the rocks along the shore, and beyond their fluffy white bodies the October sun’s rays dazzled the indigo blue water with brilliant diamonds.

A slight breeze rippled the waves and floating out upon the quiet sea was a lone heron perched upon a raft.

My feet loved the immediate cold, and with my blubbery seal layer for insulation, the acclimatization was quite easy. My hands needed a little swishing time, my face needed a few good splashes and my back braced as cold water seeped in along my back zipper. A gentle breeze fluffed the water’s surface, lessening the chance of any thermal layer on top.

Diving under I turned southward and found the extra buoyancy and warmth of the wetsuit to be a wondrous surprise. I had forgotten the joys of swimming in neoprene. My happy place in the sea would continue to be accessible and pleasurable, with my “selkie suit”, even in the bracing cold ahead.

Relief and joy set in as I swam through the haze of green water, catching glimpses of shell and seaweed beneath the waves.

One bright orange sea star caught my eye, and uncoupling my float I dove for it only to find myself too buoyant to reach the bottom.

I popped up to the surface, exploding with a puff of held air and was reminded again that here, I am but a visitor. My job is to look and take the time to wonder, not possess or disturb all that I see.

Awhile later I spotted a whole moon snail shell, and overtaken by curiosity, again I unclipped and swam hard down to brush it briefly with my finger tips.

The shell didn’t budge. I burst back up through the surface and peered back down to look at the shell. It wasn’t a shell—it was an entire moon snail. Let it be. I peered down again and wondered of it’s age, wondered of it’s size, wondered if it was finding enough food down there, wondered if it was aware winter is coming.

The swim and the cold cradle of water around me warmed slowly with each stroke. My arms cut through the water, a slow steady rhythm flashing arcs of water and light, wave and sea, land and cloud before my eyes. And below the hazy green brown fuzz of sea water, and flashes of golden light revealed brown and grey and black rocks and shell. Wispy red seaweed and flat green seaweed hovered just above the seabed, bright and clear as the sun.

In time I felt no cold, again becoming one with the sea. Two bodies blending into one. Solid and liquid trading places, my body displacing and displaced. Separate but connected. To feel a part of the whole and so small and insignificant, temporary and eternal. In time and out of time.

I returned to the landing and swam west to the pilings where a lone cormorant perched atop one of the pilings. His webbed feet knocked the bright red sign gingerly about as he readjusted his position, keeping a wary watch over my arrival.

“Take your time,” the sign read. Turning a circle in the deep water, I watched the water’s sparkle, I felt my my mind relax and I looked up at the blue sky above me.

I thought of our neighbor, Fred, who just a few days prior to this swim died suddenly in his sleep. This seemed like as good a place and time as any to bid him farewell.

He always had time for a chat in the road. Of all of our neighbors he was by far one of the friendliest, always accompanied by his dog, Layla, he kept a pocket full of dog treats which he doled out with sweet abandon to any and every dog to pass by—including mine.

As I floated into shore, I peered below the water line, and gazed at the rainbow of colors and the shapes of the rocks in the shallows. A few tiny crabs shuffled quickly under the rocks, startled by my shadow.

Fred loved to hear of my swims, and said hello with an easy and genuine warmth that was truly special. He also swam in the bay on occasion or watched his grandchildren splash and swim about off his dock in summertime. He marveled at my longer distance swims past his home, even in winter, and he always made time to listen and talk dogs and children. He and his wife were very involved in helping care for their grandchildren and he would feign annoyance about his “house full of kids”, while underneath the words was a proud and happy Grampa clearly pleased with this reality.

On the short drive home I slowed down as I passed by his house. My heart fluttered as I caught myself realizing that those casual conversations with Fred are no more.

He is gone. But his presence fills this place. He, like the sea, helped me understand what it means to “take your time”.

I shall try to live a little more like he did, and take my time—stop to visit with my neighbors and friends, unhurried, fully present and good natured. And I’ll keep a pocket of dog treats at the ready.

We all might consider taking our time—none of us can know when our time will run out.