Mary Swims

Frozen in time…..and water.

The fact that this picture exists is entirely thanks to my swim partner today, Christina. Not only did she delight in and endure the shock of ice water with me, but she managed to coax me in first by offering to take my picture.

I am quite certain that I would have aborted my plan entirely had she not been there—peer pressure can be contagious and helpful in moments like these.

The trade off was I acclimated first, faster than I normally would, in exchange for a photo capturing this first for us both—a Salish Sea swim less than one week before Halloween.

Spooky might be an apt description of our swim, as we made our way out around half of Fletcher Bay, stopping frequently to comment on the temperature which froze Christina’s lips and her pinky, and iced over my bottom teeth. When we paused I could feel the chill sink deep into my chest, making deep breaths more challenging. Again I was reminded of how critical breathing is to successful swimming—it’s almost as if the cold locks your lungs partway closed.

The bay was utterly still, with the only splash (other than our own strokes) coming from the whip of a fish headed towards the creek. Perhaps a salmon coming home to spawn.

The water’s chill was such that I felt short of breath for much of the swim, and found myself humbled by the unforgiving watery world around us.

Despite the frigid water, I found comfort in having a new friend with me to share in both the thrill of conquering this formidable late fall challenge and revel in the beauty all around us.

High above us a blue heron squawked a hello, and flapped her way to a stand of evergreen trees nearby.

“Well, hello there,” Christina said with a smile.

Moments later as we stopped again to catch our breath, we commenced a conversation about alternative ways to stay active this winter, out of this cold watery world—running, rowing, walking, weights. In hindsight I realize that swimming at the pool never even entered the conversation. It’s almost like open water swimming is entirely it’s own sport, not even related to pool swimming.

Around the bay our bodies created a path of bubbles behind us, as we made our way through clear green water. The surface was coated in places with a thin brown film, likely algae, but just below the surface the water was pure green.

Back on dry land we unhooked our swim buoys and made a beeline for my house through the woods. A coyote had trailed us down to the water as we headed out, perhaps the one responsible for disappearing our cat and the neighbor’s cat a few weeks ago. We swapped stories of these beautiful and fearless cat-eating creatures, as we wondered allowed if we will swim through the winter.

Today I found the initial chill wore off some as we went along, but the intensity of the water and our preoccupation with getting too cold took some of the carefree feeling away.

I learned the value of having another with me to gauge the safety of this adventure, and most of all the sweetness of sharing the wonder of this beautiful landscape with another.

I guess I’ll just take it as it comes. If I swim again this October, I will likely keep it short—and bring company.

I don’t wish to promise myself that I’ll continue or commit to a self imposed schedule through the winter. But in my heart I hope I can continue to get in, even briefly. Float and drift in saltwater beneath giant trees and flapping herons while coyotes dash about along the shore.

Cold water makes me giddy. Within seconds.

Today was a day of seconds.

And giddiness.

This was my second swim of the week, my second swim from Rockaway Beach and my second swim with Christina, a fellow mother whom I think may also be part selkie.

I experienced the joy of sharing a swim with another woman struck giddy and weightless in these freezing waters. And strong and confident in this salty world—mid-October—to boot.

My first swim with Christina was with a group of middle school kids a few weeks ago, during one of our Friday’s together spent watching our flock cavort together and learn a bit about open water swimming in the Salish Sea. This class not only brought the kids together, it also brought us together—we were strangers until open water swimming led us to each other.

I arrived to the park today a few minutes after Christina, and found her fully suited up as well—a taller, more elegant version of me—rubbery black suit from top to bottom. And smiling. We glanced East towards Seattle, where we could hear the waves crashing, and hesitated just for a moment as we deliberated on whether the waves might be too rough, and whether the air was too cold as the sun had already exited this stretch of land for the day.

With a shrug and a quick nod, we said “why not, might as well try” and clutching our buoys, goggles and caps we strode quickly to the wooden steps leading to the rocky shore. Our goal was the same—get in and see where the waters might take us.

As we finished preparing for our wild plunge, we again deliberated on whether to go left or right. I voted for right, where the hidden rocks lay, and Port Blakey beyond, confident that with the wind at our backs we might make it around the point—and it was familiar. We weighed the pros and cons, and agreed on trying a swim south.

Out there, where high waves crashed in from the north, I felt safe returning to a landscape I had seen before. Wind at our backs and nothing but glistening water beckoning us forward, we cautiously swam over huge submerged boulders.

My feeling of calm confidence expanded as we entered the clear waters and I learned that Christina had once been a scuba instructor —in warm waters—a half a world away. She was at ease, comfortable in this watery world, a strong swimmer. Under way we took time to bob about, both beaming with delight as high rolling waves bumped us up and down like a carnival ride.

We worked our way south and into the harbor, under a clear blue sky. To the East, I looked out at fluffy white clouds hovering over Seattle. The world looked perfect. In balance. The immediacy of the journey made everything but the swim disappear. For a moment I could almost pretend all was in order.

Along the way we spotted a few moon jellies and crabs scuttling over the large rocks below. The shelter of the harbor gave us a small reprieve and we bobbed about, surveying the lovely bay before bracing for the bumpy trip back to dry land.

Two foot waves met us head on, some fringed with white as we plowed North to the start, as schools of tiny fish shimmered below us seemingly completely unaffected by the roiling surface above them.

My humanness—our humanness—was made clear. No high tech wetsuit or extreme gadget could wrestle these waves into submission. The thrill of the challenging waters, the beauty and the required letting go of control—this is where the giddy ness set in for me today.

To swim through waters like this requires surrender and a healthy amount of determination. We had the option to exit early, walk the beach back, avoid the waves but neither of us considered that an option. The thrill and elation of bouncing over and through this world is infectious—addictive. I felt myself craving the thrill of plunging over and through the cold waves. Why don’t more people do this?

We were both forced to pause, taking backward breaks to rest and fill our lungs with air as we bounced along, beating through waves as the sun sunk farther down. Nearing the finish, we discussed a possible dose of Dramamine next time, as a slight queasiness unsettled us both. Minutes later we giggled as we stumbled clumsily to shore over large slippery rocks and seaweed, swaying back and forth like drunken sailors after a good night partying.

Today was a good swim. I look forward to thirds. Maybe I will get a third swim in this week after all.

There’s still time—and there sure is plenty of room out there.

I dare you.

I love roots. And waves.

These roots are my sturdy, no nonsense ladder into and out of the head of Fletcher Bay. My friend Dave was the first to show me this secret entrance, a short but steep clamber down the muddy bank leading to (usually) still waters.

This wild entry point is the threshold to the other world in which I continue to go, a bit less frequently now as the cold weather rolls in.

After a lazy day spent mostly in my pajamas, leisurely filling out my ballot in the company of my husband Josh, I mustered up the courage to selkie up and hit the bay. Hoping to stave off frozen toes, I tried out booties today, and was glad I did.

At the entry point between the trees, I passed by neighbors busy digging post holes along this public road end, designating the boundary along their newly acquired property. The kind neighbor woman told me (again) that they planned to add steps down to the water on their property to make it “easier for you swimmers”.

I very much appreciate their thoughtfulness, and told her as much, but stumbled over my words as I said the roots work pretty well in the meantime, but steps sound great too.

But what I couldn’t explain, what I wanted to explain was the magic of the wild root ladder scramble. Open water swimming is attractive in so many ways, expansive and calming—and best of all— wild. The roots are the first step on my aquatic journey. I’ve come to love them.

Part of the challenge and thrill is the ever changing landscape around and in the water. What I love is not knowing precisely what I’ll find at the water’s edge, not knowing what the surface will look like, what winds may blow in, what gentle or crazy waves may appear along my journey to challenge me or carry me forward or rock me like a baby. And I am always curious how cold or icy it may feel, and how long I’ll be able to endure each swimming adventure.

I know that I’ll be surprised and challenged by the water, every time.

Today I managed a loop around the quiet bay, through water speckled with red cedar leaves and twigs. I watched a few small fish dart about below me in the shallows, but no jellyfish, no seals.

I swam steadily, pulling along the inside of the spit, watching for my sideways view where the water meets the land. As I headed up the bay, my gaze fell upon the trees, not the houses.

I wanted to be in the wild for just a moment. See just the wild for a moment. Be the wild.

No stairs. No ballots. No pandemic.

Just my own body making little waves. Heading home to my favorite roots.

Swimming is quite literally making me lighten up. In the ways that matter.

Oh, the roundness is staying put, at 47, the days of any weight loss are over. Thank goodness. Nature is making it clear that body changes happen, grey hairs sprout up as metabolism drops and there is no stopping time or the aging process.

Embrace the pumpkin I say, and keep swimming!

Today I took a blustery and wonderful walk with my dear friend, Joy. We both cried at some point, pouring open our hearts as good friends do, shared our sorrow and longings and fears and ended our walk with a masked up hug at Fletcher’s Landing as the wild wind threw white capped waves on the rocky shore beneath fresh blue skies. We threw our hands in the air and howled back at the roaring surf and wild wind, beaming with a moment of delight.

Upon our return to my house, we were looking at my wetsuit and another, discussing which size might fit her. I told Joy my only real concern regarding my own weight is trying to not gain anymore so I don’t size out of my deliciously warm wetsuit. It’s even a soft pumpkin orange on the inside—minus the seeds.

They are not inexpensive and the one I have may just save my life this winter. Two facts that deserve noting.

Yesterday I stood on this same beach, under grey skies, after a chilly and quiet swim south past lone moon jellyfish and a few blue starfish. I told Joy how free I feel when I swim, untethered, held. Supported. My thirst for this feeling, this unending adventure grows stronger and stronger all the time.

Meanwhile, Halloween is around the bend, the election to end all elections looms like the eye of Mordor staring us all down, and just thinking about swimming through the weeks and months to come helps me hold on to hope—my watery touch point of safety, freedom and peace.

Stay in the moment.

Don’t borrow trouble.

The future will be here soon enough. The long, dark days are coming, the freezing rain, and holidays pandemic-style. Whatever that may be. Ugh.

I think daily about my son, a senior, trying to imagine his life, plan his life past high school amidst this pandemic. We talk, we brainstorm, we have no answers yet. And we tell him that’s okay. Really.

Time is at a standstill. Planning somedays feels nearly impossible. We all float about like moon jellies, adrift on a vast sea, eyeless creatures at the whim of forces so much greater than us.

I watch my younger son rise each day, forage for breakfast and amble back to his room to Zoomland. Over and over. He finds a way forward, every day.

Everyone is so tired out. On my good days, my best days, I get in the water. I find clarity there. I come back recharged and feeling powerful, hopeful even. I find more energy to be present for my boys and my husband, all of the people I love.

I want to tell my sons that I know where we are headed. But I don’t. I’m just another moon jelly floating right along with them. Beating heart, suspended, adrift, yes.

But I am also, like them, a starfish. I hold tight to them, my arms wrapped firmly around them, loving them just as they are right now. Fiercely. Unconditionally.

I want them to know that they are enough just as they are, like the waters I visit, they are complete and beautiful and ever changing. They are strong enough to withstand the strongest winds, and they can choose stillness below the surface, no matter how high the waves.

My sons will keep changing and aging just as I am. I hope that they will stay curious and playful, feel loved always, share their love generously and know that I will always try to be the best anchor I can be.

November. I see you. You can wait. We have pumpkins to carve.

“ Mary, I don’t have any brown fat!”

Or so he thought.

Today was the third and final open water swim class with my hearty middle schoolers. Frolicking was again the order of the day, punctuated by trips out through heavy chop and against a strong southern wind for leaps and flips off the float.

I observed from shore, with an early departure requiring my dry leadership, as one kindred mama friend led the jolly bands in groups of three out to the deep water, all bravely meeting sizable waves head on with swim floats in tow. I was struck by the confidence and exuberance running through all of the kids, as they again took to the cold waters in their selkie suits with glee and triumphant shouts and hollers to battle sizable waves.

A neighbor happened to stop by as the kids began launching out into the salty brine, his boxer pulling hard at her lead, intent on reaching the peels of laughter blowing in over the water. He said his dog didn’t care for water much, but she was very interested in the children’s well-being. Oh, the love and steadfastness of dogs!

From shore I watched with another fellow mother, as the wind blew clouds and light around to the west and south high above us, and the water roiled and glowed with shards of light from the fading October sun.

I had visited these very waters earlier in the day, alone, on a mid morning swim but still felt a longing to leap in again with this happy crew. I almost wished for an excuse to jump in, but had left my suit at home. That was wise of me—I know myself too well.

In the morning as I rolled my faux blubber layer up and over my own fleshy landscape I contemplated seals again.

And the coming winter.

Before me is the first fall and winter of my life when I’ll be facing the challenge of talking myself into suiting up as a selkie, in rain, wind and snow (?) to float the Salish Sea. I hope I’m up for the task. I want to be, but am I?

It will be colder. Much colder air. Colder water too.

I’ll need more brown fat.

Tonight I researched brown fat—it’s brown because it has a lot of mitochondria in it, turning it brown. And when it burns it creates heat without causing shivering. Well, until you get too cold. Then you shiver regardless.

Turns out we all have some around our shoulders and neck at least—exposure to cold water helps you build up more of it. Babies have about 5% brown fat. If I could pick a spot for brown fat I’d choose my hands and feet. My selkie suit covers the rest.

On my solo swim today I began by watching a trail of leaves float by like parade confetti from the red, orange and brown trees lining the bay.

Then I swam through still green water, found my breath and a broken moon snail shell outside the bay. I wrestled with choppy waves and a steady wind outside the bay, and returned to the still waters where my focus fell on my bubbles.

The bubbles led me to thinking of humpback whales, and their mind bending method of coordinated bubble feeding, working as a group to hunt by blowing bubbles.

And blowing bubbles leads me back to brown fat and the beginning of all of this wandering tale. Namely, that we all start life as babies, with open eyes and curious hearts and zest. We learn to blow bubbles and look for shapes in the clouds and grow into gangly teenagers fearless and desperate to feel a part of something bigger. As adults we get smarter or dumber—if we are smart we recall what was magical and good about being a kid.

I hope these kids remember these cold water swim days. I hope they remember that it’s good to have some fat on your body.

And I hope they remember how to blow bubbles and watch for clouds shaped like animals in the sky—and look underwater at life below the (sometimes) very choppy surface, and remember that they are never truly alone.

Rockaway.

Today I ached for an adventure.

Heavy hearted and feeling sluggish, I knew the cold would help but I needed more. I wanted a new view below the surface, the challenge of different terrain, the high excitement of exploring unchartered (by me) waters and the possibility of seeing different sea life.

Full selkie suit and gear packed up, I hopped in the truck unsure of where I would end up for today’s swim.

My younger son asked me to let him know which beach I chose. I drove south past Lynwood, almost turned right along Point White Drive, almost pulled in at Lytle Beach, stopped to gaze at Blakey Harbor but kept on until I reached Rockaway Park. This had been my plan all along, but indecision was running high in me as well as a decent dose of anxiety. I texted my son. Arrived.

The tiny roadside park was empty save for a lone seagull perched on a rock outcropping just offshore.

My plan was working out, except the part where I finished flattening the bumps of my wetsuit, hoisted it up and over my shoulders…and couldn’t get it zipped.

Abandoning my towel and swim buoy at the beach I quickly decided that my options were to either find a safe-looking stranger to help, or abandon the swim. One look East towards Seattle sitting under a hazy October sky with deep blue waves rolling in and I knew going without the wetsuit was out of the question.

I wanted to swim and I needed a helper.

One short drive, two joggers and a few minutes later my problem was solved by a kind middle-aged woman, whom also took a moment to tell me I must watch the octopus documentary. I thanked her and smiled counting up the number of people that have told me as much—maybe it’s finally time to see what all the buzz is about.

My greatest wish as I stepped into the light choppy waves was to swim out south around the rocks and discover an octopus in the shallows for myself. A long shot, but my wish nonetheless.

I clumsily made it out over the fist-sized rocks and clumps of brown seaweed piled high on the beach, eased in and felt the cold water like a kiss on my face, hands and feet. Breathing came easy.

The sun was out, the waves rocked me about and I slowly worked my way around the submerged boulders and craggy mounds from which I imagine this place gets its name. Rockaway.

I peered about into the cold water, eyeing dozens of anemones and waving fingers of brown seaweed hugging the rocks, careful to pick my way through and around this new landscape. I could feel joy sinking in as I settled in to the rapture of floating alone, forced to stay in the present, watch my surroundings and map my course forward—and keep an eye for sea creatures.

An octopus could be around the next bend.

Alas, no octopus was spotted today. But I floated among glistening brown kelp and shaggy strands of green seaweed dressed up with fuzzy brown leaves and small fish too fast to count.

I watched a ferry boat go by and I looked south past the island to see the top corner of Mount Rainier peering back at me.

I palmed a few moon jellies by accident and felt their slippery bodies fill my hands, smooth as silk, then seemingly disappear.

I swam over sunken pilings, and considered the bustling village that once perched in this harbor and before that the First People that fished and traveled these waters, lived by the tides and the seasons.

Nearing my exit, I grew tired from the swim and the mounting afternoon waves forcing me to double up my breathing and turned my face skyward to suck in extra air. I turned on my back to float and rest, then rolled back over to discover a large moon jelly hovering just below me.

I watched it float and gently pulse, as bits of kelp and seaweed strands hovered around it, suspended.

Fragile.

Just being.

Maybe sometimes that’s what we all need to do—Feel our own fragility, float among strangers and remember that we all belong here.

Thank you, Rockaway. I’ll be back.

I am hereby (un) officially proclaiming October 2nd Salish Selkie Day.

Yesterday, beneath a brilliant autumnal sun and blue skies, I coached my group of middle school swimmers through the rubbery wrestling match that is putting on a wetsuit.

Excitement ran high as the kids slowly and clumsily donned these thick skins, with the promise of a much warmer swim then last week leading to collective happy chatter as we agreed on a (safe) plan for a deep water swim to a nearby float.

One exuberant boy whom last week claimed that the cold didn’t affect him, was most eager yesterday to clamber in to his wetsuit, and needed the most instruction in understanding how to flatten the folds from the ankles up, listening intently with a delightful curiosity and determination I appreciated.

Nearby a girl silently worked on her suit, and I glanced up just late enough to discover that she had worked very hard to get it half way up her slender body—backwards. There was no choice—in my kindest voice I instructed her that she needed to start over, with the zipper on the back. With grace and a smiling eye roll she began again, as I apologized for missing this mistake earlier in the process.

Once the group was transformed into two-legged seals, with four swim buoys at the ready—one for each swimmer—I took the first frantic teen pod out to the float while the others splashed and dove with gusto in the shallows.

Out at the float my selkies quickly clambered up, to enjoy time flinging their beaming faces and cozy bodies into the salty water.

One small 7th grade boy, whom just last week met this group of classmates in person for the first time, found his confidence and a new friend atop the float. This watery adventure and the camaraderie afforded by this shared delight, transformed these strangers—instant friends were born.

I watched from my position treading water nearby, as this petit 7th grader snuck up behind his new friend, an 8th grader twice his size and pushed him in.

The 8th grade boy popped up from the depths beaming. The new friendship was sealed.

I invited the pod to join me for a short swim to two nearby pilings, where spider crabs often roam. We circled around, peering in, greeted by one crab and clusters of barnacles several inches thick.

A full hour and four trips later, all of the kids enjoyed multiple trips out to the float—the number one desire of every young swimmer. And dear Catherine, with a brave laugh, boldly led her son and the rest of the boys to the float for a spell—likely deafened by the peals of laughter and verbal jests tossed about among the group.

My favorite sweet moment was the last trip out to the float, in the company of the three girls. Equally happy and equally confident in this cold water, they bobbed out to the raft for the final plunges of the day.

I relished this moment, together in the company of these young girls, sharing in the joy of a unique freedom found only in the open water.

To feel weightless, and brave and powerful and supported, loved and in love with a watery world and sweet companions.

What more could anyone ask for?

A Poem

The steps down to waters edge 

Worn round by naked feet

I go there to look

And mark my days by strokes through icy water

I am looking for something cast away

Buried under my own dread

Grieve a loss for what never was

Only shadows of what may have been linger

The murkiness feels safe somehow

No one looks too closely here

Few slip into the salt with me–

It’s better alone

The cold comes hard, settles in, a steady march 

Sinking through layers of tired flesh

The pinch of a year sucked out of me with one drive to Poulsbo and back–but one understands

I lead my own cold march into the slick mud

Hoping to swim one year of life back into me

A day an eternity.

But wait! Outside the bay a crab waves to me– 

I am not alone.

Here is where I rest.

Sometimes, pictures speak louder than words. This is one of them.

And sometimes, if you are lucky, you will experience a few moments in your life—minutes long, or hours at best—when everything feels in perfect balance. When your spirit rises up and you feel utter delight, weightlessness, a clarity and rapture, a joyfulness that dissolves all fear, all grief, all pain.

Yesterday was one of those moments. This moment, in the rain when the sky and earth merged into one.

Under a steady rain, with the help and support of two courageous fellow mothers, I introduced eight middle school children to the art of open water swimming.

Every child braved the cold, stood in the salty brine with me, listening to my wandering, and wordy instructions on this watery passion I have found.

Some hesitated to take the first steps in, one shivered slightly, arms tight around his middle, a few boldly entreated me to allow them to swim out to a float in the deep waters prior to getting in, unaware of the intensity of the cold they would soon encounter.

With safety in mind, we circled up, masked and still dressed beneath a blue tent where we talked about the bare (physical) necessities: suit, goggles, cap, swim buoy, rash guard. And additional options—a wetsuit and insulated cap.

I shared the importance of knowing your surroundings, knowing the water you enter ahead of time, sight checks, watching for boats, docks, sea life, and changing weather, tides and currents. I pointed out that unlike a pool, the water temperature can change instantly and dramatically based on the presence (or absence) of wind and currents and tide exchanges—the stratification of water.

Nothing stays the same in the open water.

We talked a lot about the challenges and dangers of cold water swimming—hypothermia’s warning signs, planning your swim prior to heading out, having a back up exit strategy, when cold is too cold, listening to your body, how every body has a different tolerance for cold. And I told them about brown fat, the body’s natural defense to cold water built up over time.

All important information, yes.

And then we talked about breathing, and a slow entry. This latter was the hardest to convince my young charges to understand. I explained that a slow entry is critical, that the sudden shock of cold to your system can make you gasp for air, lose control of your breath.

Keeping control of your breath is everything.

And keeping control of your urges. I made them enter slowly, despite pleas to dive in.

We stood for several minutes, then we splashed our arms and then some joined me in lowering their faces into the water, to slowly blow bubbles, turn, inhale air slowly, then blow bubbles. And repeat.

I was taken by their determination. These eight children, living through school online, missing out on so much that school in person gives them (social and emotional growth so critical to growing up), finally outside together, all stepping outside of their comfort zone to greater or lesser degrees to try something new.

I wonder now if their attention and commitment to this cold plunge would have been the same in a non-pandemic world. There was such comfort we all took in being together, with nature calling the shots. Such joy in just being with fellow classmates. Their determination was contagious, and pure.

When the time came to invite the children to dive under and swim, the girls went first. The boys hesitated, then followed, all marvelously pleased with themselves. I get it. It is thrilling. Feeling brave and bold is powerful—even if it’s just plunging into frigid water.

We divided up into two groups, with Christina leading one group north along the beach while I took several south, and Catherine stayed on shore ready to assist any early exits, and ready the hot cocoa for the crew.

We stayed in the shallows, on my insistence, offering a possible deep water swim next week (with wetsuits on) and float buoys to those interested.

The rain poured down midway through our salty retreat. We celebrated.

After the swim, we stood around, sipping cocoa, recounting the adventure, our shared success and fearlessness, as the rain ceased and the sun poked through the clouds.

The lightness of the group was palpable.

For a moment, life felt normal and safe and beautiful.

And eight smiling middle schoolers and two lovely mothers promised me they’d be back next week, come rain or shine.

I couldn’t be happier.