November 1, 2021

It’s hard to choose. Land or sea. But there is no choice, they both complete me. I require both to live.

I love them both, entirely, like I love my two sons. They hold each other in balance, infinitely unique but forever and always connected. They dance together at the crossroads, the light within reflecting the sky, the earth that is their bodies pushing skyward. Feet of stone, hearts with wings. Of water, of light.

I swam here yesterday, heart full, hands and feet frozen, sideward glances catching the corners of blue waves. My body moved between the worlds of water and sky, below me the sea floor cast in a greenish hue like the imagined witches brew I whipped up in buckets as a child.

This Halloween swim was anything but scary, and nothing but life affirming. Beautiful, sweet, soothing and expansive.

Liz joined me, or rather, I joined her. Her invitation got me in yesterday on what proved to be the most beautiful last day of October on record in my memory.

Temperatures the night before dipped down to 33 degrees Fahrenheit, and as I expected the water reflected this yesterday, even after a full day swirling below the blazing sun.

As Liz picked me up she said, “The air temperature is the same as the water right now!”

52 Fahrenheit. Ulgh. Sometimes I think it’s better not to know the actual readings, but either way we were going. Nothing like having a buddy to help see you through.

The day prior I had enjoyed a spontaneous dip from the landing in my underwear, my dear childhood friend looking on in a mixture of amazement and dismay.

Yesterday in my full selkie suit I reasoned that the water would and should feel more tolerable, but instead we stepped in and I recoiled at the chill. Liz and I agreed that we had no goal, no plan, no distance to cover, only the desire to get in. As we splashed ice water on our faces and plunged our hands into the sea, I contemplated getting out. It hurt, until it didn’t.

I know this cold, I know it passes and I reminded myself that the water would make me forget the chill and the journey before me would be worth it. To abandon this swim with brilliant sunshine and Liz’s bright enthusiasm and sweet company to warm me was unthinkable. I knew it was just a matter of time. We hadn’t enjoyed a swim together since August, and we both felt determined to make the most of the beautiful day.

More breathing, then a dive under, we struck north heads above water. Waiting.

“I can’t put my face in,” Liz called.

“I know. I can’t either. That’s okay, we can swim heads up,” I told her and myself.

We were choosing to do this. We get to make our own rules out here.

We bobbed along and after a few more face plunges I found my rhythm, my head acclimated, the brain freeze faded to the background and I found myself carried along swimming freestyle watching stones and bubbles pass by.

We circled into the bay, where the late fall sunlight lit up the steep bank of broken clam shells lining the spit. Autumn showed herself above and below the water, orange and yellow trees lined the shore dropping summer leaves into the bay, and tiny pine needles hovered vertically below the surface drifting in on the tide—like tiny exclamation points, reminding us that winter is coming.

We hugged the inner spit, the water growing dark as we approached the south corner where tall cedar and fir trees blocked the sun.

Below the surface, layers of decaying leaves, dark brown and still as stones littered the muddy floor, heavy and frayed like an old quilt. The view gave me pause, as it looked more like a lake or river bed than a salty bay.

My mind carried me to the countless river and lake dippers in the UK that I have come to follow online, in my ever growing fascination with this art that is wild swimming.

Sunlight came in shards, Mother Nature‘s highlighter, drawing colors up from the dark bottom of the bay. A large lone maple leaf, light brown and edged with orange floated stem down like a dancer en pointe, signaling fall time below the water line. I swam close along the spit, reaching out with my hand to peer beneath the submerged pickle weed, hoping to catch sight of a fish or scuttling crab. Only bubbles and clam shells appeared.

Our faces red with heat and exertion, we returned to the landing, a handful of white-tipped toes between us.

Under a blessedly warm sun I dressed upon the bench, then sat with Liz to share some of her homemade chai and bask in the warmth.

This cozy exit was likely one of the last we will experience for many months to come, and I wished for time to stand still. Though the rains and wind will come, and maybe even snow, the blessed peace of swimming will remain— I’ll just need more layers and a steadfast resolve to keep getting in.

We smiled with relief and sat still, feeling the earth beneath us, watching diamonds skip out across the waves. Liz entertained my suggestion that together we work our way around the island over the next year, with our final swim on October 31st, 2022. We both agreed it would be grand fun, need to not be in any set order, and possible if we give ourselves a year.

The maps will need to be drawn, routes plotted, adjustments made, weather considered, life managed, tides respected, crossings carefully weighed, rain checks expected, more experienced swimmers consulted, chai tea steeped, and freezing cold days embraced.

We don’t yet know how this will work out exactly, but we know we will be challenged and look forward to getting a look at this little island from all sides, by way of the sea. Perhaps we will enjoy some more company along the way, creatures of the land —or sea—if we are really lucky.

Guess there is only one way to find out!