Mary Swims

Frozen toes.

They are not pretty. And tonight I am making a public apology to my wee toes for freezing them to death, and thanking them for turning back to pink. Eventually.

Open water swimming in November has a few downsides….this is one of them.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, my toes take turns going numb now during every swim, turning this peculiar shade of yellowish white reminiscent of chicken fat. Even tucked into my little neoprene socks.

The first time they turned white it was my left foot, the fourth toe, and the fleshy pad nearby, the next time was two left toes plus the pad of my foot. Today was my right foot—and my left foot. Raynaud’s syndrome is the proper term I believe. The body’s way of moving precious heat to the core when subjected to cold temperatures meant for polar bears and narwhals.

But that wasn’t all. Today my feet were so cold after my 1/2 hour swim that I experienced searing hot- cold pain for a good hour or so until the blood finally broke through the ice wall to get back to these little pudgy extremities of mine.

Why am I still swimming?

Good question.

It’s getting harder. No doubt. But every day that the air gets colder, the water is that much warmer, in comparison. If this isn’t a lesson in perspective I don’t know what is.

I am learning to adjust my expectations, and set attainable goals. My goal today was to get in the water, and spend at least a few minutes in the water—long enough to cool my brain, slow down my thoughts and let go of a little stress built up from the morning.

At Fletcher’s Landing I found a high tide, a strong southerly wind and white capped waves crashing onto the beach.

I realized my “take it slow” approach wasn’t going to work quite as well as I entered the water and foot high waves sloshed up my belly and cold water seeped quickly down through my zipper, forcing out mutters to myself along the lines of, “oh shit that’s cold. Okay. Oh shit what am I doing. This is nuts. Oh.”

Cold water swimming is leading me to talk aloud to myself more than normal, as I coach myself to just face the pain and get over it. Shift my attention outside of the pain. Feel the cold without surrendering. Get tough. Be brave.

Once I’m in there’s no going back. Like Narnia, once I go through the wardrobe I’m held captive by this other world. And I want to be there, explore it, seek out the mysteries there. The cold air and dark skies and shortening days make it all the more forbidden and enticing.

The dark skies and cold also lead me to swim faster, to stay warm. The balmy days of summer swims with happy sunshine to dry me out at the end are a fading memory now.

I drank more saltwater than usual today, chopping through high waves with high strokes, the water a fuzzy green, my focus on forward motion and grabbing enough air into my lungs to keep myself afloat.

Once underway I set my sites on reaching the last house in the string of houses to the south of the landing, far enough to feel a sense of accomplishment, and short enough to avoid too much exposure.

A few moon jellies marked my path, floating low down away from the churning surface, suspended and silent, hovering with a grace and simplicity I envied, as I bounced along awkwardly above them huffing and puffing away.

I knew my return trip would be easier, maybe even relaxing, with the waves and wind at my back. My prediction was correct, and as soon as I turned north I was rewarded with nature’s watery hand pushing me along. I rocked forward and rose one minute, then dropped slightly and realigned away from the shore the next minute, as the waves worked to spit me ashore, cast me out like a soggy towel.

The waves were my main company today, moving with a force and will of their own, reminding me of my smallness, my impermanence, my fragility.

Nearly back to the start I looked ahead and saw a large brown kelp floating in the green water. A surprise find in such shallow water, likely cast adrift by the strong winds and waves, its roots yanked loose from deeper waters.

I have always loved kelp, a unique plant able to grow at tremendous speeds and provider of habitat for many creatures—the sea otters chief among them. Arriving before it, I reached out to stroke the thick, wide leaves, like tamari-soaked fettuccine fit for a giant.

I followed the leaves with my eyes, watching as they waved slowly in the water, as the cold set in and I prepared to finish my journey.

And then she appeared. A small spider crab, the size of my palm, stood upon one of the waving kelp leaves.

At first I doubted my eyes, surely a crab wouldn’t be riding up here, far from the safety of the sound floor. I moved in closer, and sure enough, there she was— alive. Not a figment of my imagination.

This little crab was enjoying the open water too. Unaffected by the wind, the chop, the cold. Out enjoying the day, looking for food, maybe a little peace and quiet.

I doubt she went home with white toes. But maybe she brought home a story too. Of waves and light and beauty all around.

Last light.

Racing the inky darkness and my own quickening heart beat, I rose out of the salty cold tonight just as the sky swallowed up the last window of sunlight.

I swim to get away from one part of myself and back to another.

At 5:12pm I stepped ashore at the landing to fight gravity once more, dashing to the car for my phone and our meat thermometer, to capture a photo or two and record the water temperature. I wasn’t sure how the meat thermometer would work, but figured why not. This whole swimming thing started with a big “why not”.

On the way to the truck I dropped my key, then dropped to my knees to pat the pebbles and twigs in near darkness—to feel for said key. After a slightly panicky 15-second search, I found my key. And shook my head at myself for misjudging how quickly the dark did arrive as I realized not finding the key would have meant a cold 1/2 mile walk home in pitch darkness.

Ten more minutes searching and I might still be out there, patting rocks.

All summer long it never occurred to me to find out just how cold the water is, but now that the water is officially warmer than the air, I am more than curious.

All of this measuring and recording and writing and reflecting is expanding my understanding of open water swimming —and giving me something new to study and look forward to every day.

(And no, I don’t swim every day—but I think about swimming every day, in case you are wondering).

I woke this morning and brightened with just the thought of swimming. But then I stepped outside to walk the dog. And then I wasn’t so excited about the idea of a swim as the damp Northwest cold sunk into my bones. The air was a not-nice dank cold. This is not a cold I like.

I returned home after the walk to tackle some things as I contemplated the dark grey day—and the likelihood of whether I would be able to talk myself in to an afternoon swim.

Well, I’m happy to report that I found a recipe.

Here it is: Start with a quick peak at the headlines over a cup of strong coffee, then spend hours cleaning a summer’s worth of dust and dog hair out of every hidden nook and cranny to channel the anxiety and anger and fear and some hope —then get errands done, eat a big giant sandwich with more strong coffee and suit up ASAP while the caffeine surges through your veins and the sandwich settles.

Fuel and chores. Swimming requires fuel, and if I’ve learned anything it’s that eating matters. Especially when it’s really cold—both in and out of the water. And well, chores are a big motivator for me—if I set out to get at least some done, then swimming becomes a sweet reward.

My swim today was a reward and a test. Most of all a gift. I swam 1.3 miles in 51.6 degree water, alone, along a quiet beach with only my thoughts and bubbles, both forming and bursting along my route, slippery as sea otters.

Northward I travelled, watching the light fade as smooth quiet waves padded by me. I could feel my lips tingle slightly as they adjusted to the cold, my strokes fast and even as I churned through the water quickly to warm my body and force the chill to dissipate.

I paused to rest once north of the mouth of Fletcher Bay, and glanced up to a sky full of seagulls soaring in great circles. I scanned the water’s surface, wondering if perhaps they were eyeing their dinner. No fish leapt. No seals appeared.

Then I saw him—an eagle. She floated over me, and the seagulls scattered. Here was the reason for the commotion. And yet, I still took the sea gulls and the eagle as an omen—they were looking out for me. Or maybe I was looking out for them. I think it goes both ways, actually.

On my trip south, the darkness grew, along with my nervousness. Goal: Race the light and get back to shore before dark. To distract and reassure myself I kept close to shore to study the bottom below, and followed shells glowing white, like reflectors on a dark country road guiding my way.

In the quickening darkness I paused and stood upright to find myself face to face with a giant boulder, covered in barnacles. One more stroke and I would have run right into it.

Fortunately, fate or dumb luck was on my side and I just avoided this collision.

Swimming in the near dark proved exciting and perhaps sounds a bit risky or scary to some. For me, the darkness stretched me a bit, challenged me, but also protected me. I felt oddly safe, hidden, held afloat in water that stretches around the whole world.

Makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?

Buddy Swim Report for this Monumental Day in the United (?) States of America.

Swim Buddy: Dave C.

Launching Point: Point White Pier

Water temperature: 51 degrees

Air temperature: 48 degrees

Distance swam: 1 mile or so

Swim Goals for today:

1. Get in, breathe deeply to calm down nervous system, heart rate and allow time for body to numb up, using distraction techniques such as studying cloud shapes and wave direction to determine swim route.

2. Swim with buddy to bring back a tranquil mind after harrowing week waiting for Biden/Harris to secure the win, and discover that again, yes, the water sustains me, holds me and frees my mind. Every time. And tells me to trust and keep holding onto hope that we can make the future better with a lot of hard work and determination and fearlessness and grit and an open mind. Kind of like open water swimming.

3. Maximize the therapeutic benefits of cold water shock therapy by swimming as far as possible while avoiding Raynards’ Syndrome, hypothermia and red jellyfish, or any other unpleasantness if at all possible.

4. Seek out any sea life along the way, including moon jellies, seaweed bits, crabs, one purple starfish and one mid-sized red jellyfish, observing from a respectful distance, and look for moon snail shells to add to growing collection that is starting to appear in every corner of my small house, much to my family’s dismay.

5. Return safely with swim buddy to Point White Pier, exit water via dock ladder as quickly as possible, run numbly to van, dripping black and swaying slightly side to side like a deranged seal sprung from the sea trying legs out for the first time, retrieve phone to get a buddy photo, get photo from locals passing by aghast at the insanity of open water swimming in November, dash back to van, dress awkwardly with little concern for privacy as utterly preoccupied with getting heart to pump enough blood to stiff fingers in order to peel out of rubber suit and manage dressing as the chilly air tries to freeze droplets of salt in place, or so it seems.

Post Swim Notes:

All goals listed above were achieved for the buddy swim. And, as always, there were a couple of surprises. That’s the whole point.

The surprises:

First, there was the sunlight. The sky was a patchwork of grey clouds when we arrived, having dumped rain just prior to our swim, but as we headed north, bit by bit, the blue broke through, and sunlight surprised us midway through our swim, lighting up our path, as gentle waves from the north nudged us south back to the start. Muted sunlight swept the sandy and rocky bottom below, a reminder that the light is always there even when we can’t see it.

The second surprise was the moment I realized how elated I felt as I pulled and kicked along in water so deep that I couldn’t see the bottom. All I could see was water, flecked with a bit of seaweed here and there, maybe a lone moon jelly, but otherwise blank like a green screen. There are few places one can go, other than deep water, with eyes wide open and experience such a simple view. This view led me to more daydreams of deep water crossings in the future, my mind fluttering to where and when and how. And I will.

The final gift, and surprise of the day was from my swim buddy, Dave. With kind earnestness he told me he’d look for moon snails on our swim, aware of my fascination and growing shell collection. Several times he spotted live ones far below, ones I did not or could not see without my glasses.

And then, almost back to the dock, he called to me. I looked over, he raised his arm up, and as I approached I saw he had found a moon snail. He handed it to me, the weight surprised me—it was not just a shell. It was a living moon snail. And it was perfect. We tread water for a minute, as I held this clever creature, lightly touched its sealed hatch, the one opening protecting it from the outside world.

And I smiled and thanked Dave. We were both pleased, and enjoyed this quiet moment of shared delight, and peace and friendship, in the company of a moon snail.

With one last look, we parted ways, and I dove under to release this magical life back to its home beneath the waves. Down it sank, landing softly on the sand.

And Dave and I swam home, empty handed but with treasures galore.

I walked the beach today

My footfall over a three inch blanket of shimmering seaweed, slow and sweet, stretching down the beach in shades of green and brown and red

Waves broke, gently calling me back in—but no time today for a watery retreat

Dark birds, backlit by the low hung autumn sun, rode the waves, bobbing then diving under for an afternoon snack

One seagull soared above, easy and free

I travelled the Crystal Springs beach, my brown eyes seeking bits of shell—moon snail—my mind catching on where to dive in here tomorrow

First one, then another, and ten minutes more and my sweater was filled to overflowing with every imaginable fragment of moon snail shell—they were here all the time

I stopped too, to crouch down, my boots brushing the waves, lowered my free hand to scoop water onto my cheeks, touch what I love, say hello, a prayer of sorts for peace within and peace without

What better way to pass a free moment then next to my sister of salt and sand?

She is always ready to take me in, hold me, lighten my burden and listen to my heart beat while her own steady drum beats on and on into the infinite

To walk beside this sister, like my own of flesh and bone, is to live honest and free.

Beside me, a sister of the same waters, together we travelled these waters turning styrofoam riddled with tube worms into sailing ships

Years ago we cast about, lost our sails, pitched overboard and pulled each other back over the splintered rails dripping and frozen, wrapping the other in blankets of pussywillows and tulip tree leaves—

Only now we begin to understand that we save ourselves by saving each other.

From the beach I ended my swim today in fading light, a shifting palette of shades of grey coloring water, sky and land in every direction.

Clouds to the west hung low over the first snowfall I’ve seen this year on the Olympics—a clear and silent reminder that winter is fast approaching.

Today I was prepared for the cold. I wasn’t prepared for my solitude to be shaken by a leaf blower whining incessantly across the bay. The water amplifies all sounds, pleasant and unpleasant.

Shaking off my annoyance with the noise and refocusing my eyes over the still water, I breathed deeply knowing that once I dove under this buzzing world and my deafening thoughts would retreat. They always do.

My path south was smooth and refreshing, the water a speckled shade of green. The water almost looked half frozen, but more likely the result of days of strong winds that stirred up the water like cake batter, thick and heavy.

The water feels heavier now as the temperature continues to drop, but my body seems to be cooperating with these continued late fall swims, as I seem to have pushed my mind to accepting the abrupt rush of cold. I dread it until I get suited up, but then an urgent anticipation sets in and I can’t wait to push through the cold and get to swimming wild and free.

To keep swimming now is taking a strong will and steadfast commitment to this journey I have set myself upon.

Raindrops fell lightly as I paused at my half way point today, offshore from a lone grey house with windows glowing warm with light from the inside. I floated a bit, and spotted a blue heron perched, head tucked low, upon a nearby buoy.

Like a curious seal, or at least hoping to appear seal-like, I slowly glided towards this great bird, happy to have found one friend out in all that water with me, enjoying the day. The stillness. The space.

Two dingy lengths away, I paused and watched this grand bird spread his wings and take flight.

I swam strongly back to the road end, scanning the bottom for shells and creatures. As I neared the start my eyes caught sight of a perfect clam shell book.

Another place to capture my stories.

As I peeled off my wetsuit and booties I sensed a numbness again in my middle toe on my left foot.

My toe and the tissue around it on the ball of my foot had gone completely white. The good news is that the numbness and whiteness wore off—hours later—and I’m a little bit familiar with this phenomena, having seen it on other swimmers’ extremities—in life and on screen.

I’ll keep an eye on it, read more about cold water safety, Raynaud’s syndrome and keep swimming.

It just feels so good. And, I figure I have nine other good toes.

If my head goes white then I’ll have a real problem….

Leaves and a light bulb.

Rain and wind now whip the windows, it’s pitch dark outside and well past midnight, and I’m wide awake and we don’t know yet who will lead this broken country next.

I went to the water to escape today, hoping for a sign, any sign that somehow this election would work out okay, the tables would turn, we would elect a new leader. And we might. Time will tell.

At the water’s edge I looked upon swirling debris in the water with my friend, Dave, wishing to myself that I could read it like tea leaves—see the future. Adjust the future to something better. So, so much better.

I want to tell you that I saw jellyfish and wind and high waves and clouds of infinite shapes decorating the sky and took comfort in swimming next to Dave with his orange buoy bobbing along in front of me and I saw the November sun shining bright and low through the trees to the west and that under the water everything looked safe and ordered.

I want to tell you that Dave found a lightbulb in the green water, and stuffed it in his buoy to bring home and I wished that I could use magic and make it glow and I wished that a seal would swim with us and gift me with her amazing swimming abilities and show me her world below and take me away from the constant chatter and clutter and mayhem above.

My wishes didn’t come true.

But my hope that a swim would help me quiet my mind and that sharing this space with a friend might be calming and draw me back to the present moment and the truth that we are all living this, whatever this is, together, did work out.

Together we swam in very cold water, and tasted salt on our tongues and fought off large waves outside the bay and fought our way to Fletcher’s Landing, swimming into the crazy wind and enjoyed a bouncy, rolling, pitching ride north back to the head of the bay with the wind at our backs— Mother Nature’s reward for our efforts.

I did see a few jellyfish floating in on the tide and I did see Dave test the temperature of the water at the head of Fletcher Bay before we set out—53 degrees.

And I learned that the highest temperature he recorded in summer was 60 degrees.

And I learned that he jumped through ice into the bay last winter, no wetsuit, and stayed in for ten minutes. And we both agreed that February will be a very cold time to swim. And I asked him if he might consider a wetsuit this winter and he said he might. And I remain in awe of his ability to swim without a wetsuit this time of year.

I guess when all is said and done, it was a good swim. The darkness came quickly when we re entered the bay, and racing the fading light we swam fast back to the muddy bank, as yellow lights came on in the houses.

Arriving breathless and pleased to have made it to the finish just as the dark closed in, I scurried back to my own little warm house. This home, waiting for me, filled to the brim with two sweet boys and a dog and two cats and a husband with a fantastic sense of humor who cheered me up this morning by watching clips of the Wonder Twins with me, and reminding me that we will get through this. Together.

No matter what happens. Life will go on. It’s messy, I’m still scared, but at least I can handle myself in cold water and have an awesome team of lifeguards for a family to toss me a ring.

And a few good swim buddies too.

Long shadows today. And more firsts for me in the Salish Sea.

Delighted to wake to glorious sunshine, I looked forward to picking my entry point for an afternoon swim on what would be my first open water swim in November.

Energized by the light of the day and my desire for a little adventure motivated me to head East, towards Fay Bainbridge Park.

Half way there I remembered Manitou, the old neighborhood of my mother-in-law, and the happy memories of beach time with our little boys came flooding in. Yes, this was where I would swim today. A familiar beach beside waters yet to be explored.

Already suited up, I parked at the little Manitou Beach public lot and set down on the boardwalk to pull on my booties.

As I sat gearing up, a cyclist sat nearby and we chatted about our parallel adventures. She shared that she was not comfortable biking off the island and a little tired of the roads here.

She lost me at “getting tired of the roads”.

I felt a quiet relief that I swim, and huge gratitude that I was afforded the opportunity to learn to swim, another thing on my long list of things I shall not take for granted.

I can honestly say that I never tire of my views or what I see—even swimming the same routes, because they are never the same. And the limitless quality of being in a place void of roads—to swim, for me, is the ultimate freedom.

With a friendly goodbye to each other, I stepped carefully over the large round rocks, softball-sized and mostly void of barnacles. Seattle’s skyline and the peak of Mt. Rainier looked back at me, as familiar as my sister’s face, etched into my mind’s eye. Just stepping into the water, feeling at home and confident, even on this new swim beach, made me smile.

With a few steps in, I found my feet suddenly caressed by the softest sand. Even through booties, I could feel the earth give beneath my feet, like a door opening wide welcoming me in. This was the right choice.

A few splashes in my face and some long slow breaths later and I was under way. Most of my journey was over sandy stretches, highlighted with stands of thin eel grass and sand dollar colonies.

If I am lucky, I will have moments void of thought. When I am nothing but breath and steady motion and light.

Today memories floated in and out as I went along, including to the way back as I recalled that this beach was where I had my first kiss. Eighth grade. The boy lived along this road, for all I know his parents might have watched me swim by today. I can still remember that moment, the crazy anticipation, how monumental that moment seemed at the time. And I recall dashing home and brushing my teeth frantically, not sure if I had enjoyed the experience or not, and telling my best friend and both of us laughing hysterically as we nervously pondered what this new world all meant for us both.

My mind wanders to many places when I swim, my thoughts sometimes drifting lightly like tiny flecks of seaweed or hovering and sinking like leaves or waterlogged sticks. Other times, the best times, are when my heavy thoughts get transformed and change color or shape, like an octopus. There is a quality to the open water that has the power to take my thoughts and wash them, dilute them, lighten them—and me. We all are no more or less than what we believe we are.

At the corner where Falk Road meets Manitou, a cluster of pilings sits like an abandoned forest, a common perch for cormorants, seagulls and the occasional eagle.

When my mother-in-law lived just south of this intersection, we would often gaze out at these pilings, to watch the cormorants dry their wings atop these black perches. At low tide, we would sometimes count the blue herons fishing in the shallows, or watch giddy dogs skip across the sand after flocks of seagulls.

On cloudy days when Mt. Rainier was hidden from view, Linda would often remark, “Well, looks like they took down the mountain today. How dare them!”

My waterlogged mind took me farther back still, to the days when our little boys rocked in the flying machine in the gravel driveway overlooking the bay, a huge moving sculpture that was almost as unique as my dear mother-in-law.

At the two shallow pilings I took a rest, gazing out longingly at the forest of pilings a good 100 yards further out.

Deep water. I wanted to go—what held me back? I took quick stock of whether I was prepared, and decided that other than a stray orca mistaking me for a seal, I had nothing to fear. I swam strongly out to the pilings, spending most of the swim through the beautiful clear deep water trying not to think about orcas.

Arriving winded and equally pleased with my successful side trip, I slowly floated among the pilings to watch a lone eagle tear apart lunch atop the farthest perch. Not surprisingly, he was alone, likely having recently scared off any other birds from his private buffet. He was huge. And then suddenly not alone. A young eagle swooped in to score some free lunch and they both took flight, swirling above the water. I looked away, lost sight of them, and looked back just in time to see the largest eagle heading skyward with what appeared to be a new catch—a seagull firmly lodged in his talons.

I decided this air show was enough excitement for one day, and feeling the coolness soaking in I headed directly in towards shore, close enough to see rocks and shells below me—-a comforting sight indeed.

My return swim went quickly, and after pulling off my selkie suit and flinging it all over a log, I decided to go back in. Just for a moment. I took inspiration from the skin swimmers I’ve been obsessively following through video and story—and without hesitation, dove in with only my red swim suit on.

I am certain that the hour I had just spent in this water helped me brave the cold, but the surprise was my skin. I dove under and swam a few kicks, and felt thousands of prickles in my arms and legs, like I was rolling through frozen nettles.

And, it felt strangely wonderful.

I felt so alive.

And ecstatic with the joy I had found again.

Swimming.

And the spider web

of bamboo and kitchen string

strung with candy and care

in hopes that sweet children in gay costumes

would soon appear….

Even now. Especially now.

And they did.

And I was so glad to see them all, bursting with delight and sugar.

So was Greta, my swim buddy, pictured here. She did a fantastic job holding the moon snail shell and greeting neighbors strolling by.

Today during my swim I saw an extraordinary thing. Well, actually several extraordinary things.

Where to start the story is the trick. I wish to draw you in and make you hold your breath in anticipation to find out what good things I found in the salty waters this afternoon.

Like my swims, a good story is much like the journey I go through to move from one element—earth—to another—water.

It begins with the desire to find an interesting setting, varied and forbidden—with just the right amount of danger, but not too much. Of course, for me that always includes cold water, and even with many swims beginning off the same beach or muddy bank, the setting I find is always original.

The cast of characters always changes too, and of course there is the main character, with a challenge or some trauma or drama to work through or overcome, or a quest, involving interacting with interesting characters along the way that include moments of hilarity, tension, regret, wonder and sometimes transformation.

And all stories, like my swims, involve love. And loss. And renewal if I’m lucky.

Which leads me to today.

My story began on a brilliantly sunny beach, where a man and his dog were meandering home I suspect. As the main character, I was on a mission to dash into the frigid water as quickly as possible, in search of my center, myself. A simple quest. I have been on this quest many times—

As I passed the man and dog in my selkie suit, I was delighted to see the water kissed with little waves, gently lapping the shore.

“It’s nearly perfect out there. Enjoy,” the man said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

These kind words, the clear water and bright October sun helped ward off the cold water surprise that I soon encountered. I grabbed handfuls of water and after a thorough liquid self flagellation, of at least a dozen rounds of mad splashing, I dove under and headed south.

After holding my breath for the first eight strokes, I came up for air. Yes. My adventure was off to a good start, I felt strong and free. Elated in fact.

I swam past two plate-sized moon jellyfish, pausing to study their liquid dance. I felt joy, the only word that fits, at being in their world, sharing their water, drifting through their home.

I fell in love with swimming. Again.

My next encounter was with a large school of little brown fish that hovered comfortably around and above a boat ramp, unperturbed by the rising waves which forced me to swim harder to get the precious air I required.

I enjoyed the company of a couple crunchy old crabs, decorated with barnacles, resting quietly below me as I passed by on the surface.

Back at the road end, I was ready to end my short swim, my cautious inner voice telling me I shouldn’t get too cold, nagging me about the fact it is nearly November, I’m swimming solo, blah blah blah.

But the thing was—I felt strong. And warm enough. And I didn’t feel alone. Seagulls soared and cried above me while two crows kept busy dive bombing an eagle perched high in a fir tree not far away.

My swim wasn’t over. Taking a tight left turn I pulled and kicked with ease through the cool green waters out to the set of pilings where a seagull perched, standing watchful like a miniature lifeguard, ready to blow his whistle should any tomfoolery occur.

As I paused to reflect on my quest, to take in the view of distant mountains, the solitude above the waves—no—among the waves—I looked skyward at my lifeguard gull, looking to bond with this feathery fellow. Feel one. A red heart sign nailed to the piling on which he perched read, “Take Your Time.”

And just as I was feeling the oneness of it all, content and centered, my seagull friend let go a big splash of white poo near me and took flight.

I laughed out loud. At myself. My feigned seriousness. The lesson about finding my center? Be light. Ease up. Let go and take flight.

After recovering from my private giggle, I swam north to the mouth of the bay, over this familiar beach, my eyes lazy as all was so familiar. I’ve swum here enough times that I have begun to memorize the lines of white clam shells and dark areas of crab grass and seaweed along this path.

And of course, as life always goes, a final surprise awaited me.

I had turned south, ready to finish my swim, my mind drifting to a half baked dinner plan—involving eggplant—when my eyes caught sight of something pink.

I braked in the water, as much as one can “brake” suspended in liquid, as my eyes scanned around to locate this strange sight.

A light pink Pom Pom? Fluffy pink seaweed? A remnant of a plastic toy?

I hovered a few feet above it, gulping mouthfuls of air deep into my lungs so I could study this thing facedown in the water until I figured out what it was.

My excitement, and slight fear, set in as I soon realized that this satsuma-sized thing was moving, undulating, pulsing of its own accord. This fuzzy tentacled creature, with no discernible head or behind, fins or gills, and flecked with what looked like tiny brown slivers….was alive. A creature.

It looked alien. I floated facedown, studying this small life, and waved my hand nearby, startled as it hovered close. Almost instantly, this little being started sinking to the rocky floor, and most astonishing to me, changed color. Before my eyes the pink faded to the lightest brown to almost translucent, or so it seemed, and I completely lost sight of it as it camouflaged itself.

Sadly I struck for my exit spot, sure that I must have killed it by startling it. I felt remorse, disappointed with my fear that led me to wave my hand so close to this little being.

Back at home I shared this discovery with my son, Aidan. We were both excited, and curious. A quick look online, and I was able to figure out two things—

1. This creature was likely a nudibranch

2. I didn’t kill it—some nudibranchs can camouflage themselves. I startled it and it wanted to get away.

So that is my story.

My quest to find my center again, was, well, mostly a success I’d say. I made some friends, had some challenges, pushed myself, overcame a little fear, had a laugh at myself, encountered my first nudibranch (I think) and made it home to tell the tale.

Seagull poop be damned!

Oh the best laid plans. I had no plan to swim today, and after yesterday’s icy swim didn’t even consider when I’d dip in again.

I made it less than 24 hours.

Nature called me back. This afternoon I couldn’t sit still as I attempted my 3-month overdue project sewing more masks for family and friends. As I sat at my machine my mind went to that list of top worries: my struggling sons, the pending election and a world abuzz in so many woes. And no end to the pandemic in sight.

After a few glances out of the window at the lowering sun, a quick pep talk to myself about the freedom an escape to saltwater nearby might provide me and an utterly unscientific assessment of the likelihood that the sun would be shining at Fletcher’s Landing awhile longer, I made the call. I dashed about quickly getting geared up and hit the road.

At the landing I was thrilled to find not only a bright sun beaming down, but also to discover a sun quite high in the sky. A golden invitation to brave the waters and slow time for a moment.

A small chop met me on entry, and I stood for awhile, eyes closed, dipping my hands in and out of the water. Hoping to avoid the brain freeze I experienced yesterday, I splashed my face at least a dozen times, giving my mind time to catch up with the inevitable.

Perhaps it was the sun, or the warm memories that flooded in as I stood in the same shallow water where my middle school friends frolicked last month, but whatever the reason, the cold wasn’t so cold.

I swam north into the bay, the water a fuzzy green, my mind absorbed in each stroke, while my lungs worked to take in the air deeply, settling my thoughts like sand after the waves roll out.

I did promise myself a short swim, as I heeded the advice of other swimmers on the necessity of shorter swims this time of year—and didn’t wish to push my luck.

Inside the spit I paused to look up at the blue sky rimmed with fluffy clouds and watched a seagull fly west into the sun.

Midway in the bay I crossed over between two docks, my invisible turn around spot, and gave my energy over to the swim. I swam hard back to the road end, arriving winded and pleased with my decision to take the plunge today.

I hoped to find peace afloat today and I did. Like a good friend, I always feel welcome here.

My thoughts, my wishes, my fears, my sorrow and my joy keep me company here. There is infinite space here for all I carry and all I need to set down.

As I stepped to shore, I looked down to find bright green seaweed glistening in the sun. Little waves rolled in over bright white shells and speckled rocks. The sun hit my back, softening my shoulders from the strenuous swim. All of this reminding me that we are never alone.

Nature provides and nurtures us. We just need to notice the details, the broken shells, the drifting leaves, the soaring birds and show gratitude by getting quiet and relearning how to take care of the only world we have.