Mary Swims

An invitation to swim with me, today at 4pm.

Calling all whom would like to celebrate the last day of summer with me with a swim in the sound. Or just a plunge—this is a zero pressure event!

This photo was taken yesterday…. not a bad day.

PM by 3pm to RSVP and for location/details.

Love, Mary

My stars! What a birthday. Feeling loved and blessed with so many magical, beautiful people in my life.

Touched the shore today, splashed saltwater in my face and rejoiced with these two fantastic fellas watching our mutt swim for sticks at the road end.

Got a belly full of hot coffee in bed and a delicious muffin baked from scratch by my youngest. Got a huge hug from my eldest after his busy first day at his new job.

My day was capped by pulled pork nachos and the world’s best margherita prepared by my dear Josh. Best ever. And music by the fire with a few of the sweetest people I know. Including these two.

I am feeling the love tonight.

Thank you.

Left my silkie suit behind today, inside out, hanging in our Japanese maple tree. My thoughts lay piled high like driftwood this afternoon, crawling with sand fleas, and despite my fatigue I hoped a swim would help. Clear some clutter out or at the very least numb my heavy thoughts, the collective weight of everyone’s private deserted islands of doubt and fear and uncertainty.

I hoped for solace, and energy. A break from the anxiety and ever present realization that this is all far from over. And that this, whatever this is, has changed us all. There is no end. And in many ways that is good news. There is no shortage of bad news. And there is a lot that needs fixing.

What I can count on is the tide. I have formed a new habit this summer of checking my tide app before I even check the weather, to see when I might fit a swim in.

I know that the water will look different every single day, with different shades of green or red or blue  or black. I can count on new treasures floating around me as I make my way forward. But I know that the creatures I encounter are indifferent to me. They have their own work to do.

Today I stayed cold. Maybe it was the angle of the sun or the scattering of leaves I noticed on the still water at the head of the bay, reminding me that fall is upon us at any minute, but my skin felt different today. I swam in and out of long shadows, winding my way along, seeking out the sunny spots where I could find them and still keep my steady stride.

My feet stayed cold, I felt the coolness on my arms and legs, occasionally disrupted by a shot of warmer water in my path.  Certainly the contrast from yesterday’s adventure with the wetsuit was still a memory in my body. What was I thinking?

But I’m not quite ready to give up the cold yet. I am drawn to the clarity and physical exuberance it manifests within me.

Today there were few treasures. No crabs, no seals, few fish, no jellyfish and no complete thoughts. I just kept coming back to the green water before me and the bubbles. The water was so absent of debris I found myself watching my hands carve in, forming bubbles. I listened to my breathe become bubbles. I surveyed the shore, noticed which boats had left their docks, watched for gulls and herons and crows.

I stayed in the bay, circled to the outer edge and was met by a new kind of cold. My body said no. I turned in, along the spit and came to a patch of seaweed. I was startled by this floating island and quickly dodged away from it, peering suspiciously at the underside preparing for blood red tentacles to appear.

They didn’t. I kept going, my mind relaxing and glanced left to find a large swirl of sea kelp hovering just below the surface. One strand was caught on an oyster net on the bay floor. I thought of sea otters.

I remember years ago taking the boys to the Seattle Aquarium. We stood outside the glass watching a baby sea otter rest on the ledge of their concrete home. The mama was cruising around in the water when suddenly the baby rolled off the ledge. Within seconds the mama otter appeared, rolling under and scooping up her baby onto her tummy in one quick motion.

I will never forget those two. Effortless swimmers, insulated with the most fur per square inch of any animal on the planet (I think).

The memory is sweet, except for the watery cage. The mama was likely rescued or bred in captivity, like her baby. Regardless, those two had each other.

One could say we are all trapped in a watery cage. The tide keeps rising and falling and rising again. The daily tallies remind me of the tide charts.  The winds blow in then disappear. The stillness is rocked occasionally by noisy boats or the cry of an eagle. The rainy weather and grey skies loom over us. It’s hard to think about the darkness ahead when despite the sunshine there is so much darkness now.

But we have warm blankets and cozy dogs and mint tea and funny boys and hot showers and pea soup and wool sweaters and maybe even some fresh cookies if we are lucky.

And we are lucky.

We are lucky like that baby sea otter, with a mama to be there when we need her. We are the mama sea otter too, capable of sweeping in and protecting our babies—caring for each other—even in the endless wild sea, with crashing waves and miles of sea kelp twisting around our furry bodies.

We have each other.

Today I pulled my selkie suit down off the hanger and took it for a swim.

The tide was low when I headed out at 10:15am to the road end. Without a moments hesitation, I let go of my habit of “skin swims” and wisely opted to dress like the seal I wish I was and enjoy a good swim today.

Time was limited, and this was my window. I had band practice, kid taxi rides, picking up my dad and a visit with my cousin and hosting outdoor dinner with my parents scheduled for the rest of the day. All  would require a fair amount of physical and emotional energy—this morning was my moment to be free and clear my mind.

There was no time to deliberate and wrestle the cold.

At the water’s edge, my seal suit on and yellow cap in hand, I quickly stepped in over the barnacled rocks.  I had forgotten how warm my suit is, and felt nothing  but sheer delight looking out over the quiet waters, my feet bare and pure joy brimming over as I realized that I need not waste a single precious moment getting used to the cold.

I was already a seal.

Black blubber suit in place and my goggles strapped on, I splashed clear cold water on my face and looked west at the Olympics barely capped with snow, then south then north, contemplating my morning route. Weighing the pros and cons. The southern route was familiar and I had memorized  the lineup of houses and bulkheads and buoys. The northern route is much less familiar, and I had only ventured that direction once before. The sunlight helped me decide, as the southern route was still fully shaded by the trees. 

Today I chose the light, the warmth. The route to my right, facing west was aglow in the morning sun.

North I would go.

With my first dive under into the clearest water I’ve seen all summer, I knew my little decisions added up to the perfect sum.

I powered forward, floating higher than usual in my selkie suit, scanning the bottom for crabs and other critters among the yellowish barnacle-crusted rocks. Broken lines of sunlight dappled the rocks below me as I marveled in the comfort of the weightlessness of swimming once again.

I swam north, across the opening to Fletcher Bay, then on along the high bank waterfront with no houses to distract from the natural beauty all around me.

I felt spoiled. Exuberant and so very happy to be visiting this watery home once more. My suit also reminded me of how warm I could be in the coming months, when the sky and water blend into one grey mass—cold wet walls of drizzle. 

I will swim then. I must.  How can I give up swimming where there is no edge, no limit, no end in sight—just an endless world of saltwater brimming with life?

A world so linked to ours and yet so very far apart. So invisible. So secret.

As the late August sun starts to fade and the cold mornings hint of Fall, my greatest fear is how to not lose this water time when winter finally does arrive.

Freedom. I have found freedom and space amongst strands of seaweed and tiny schools of black fish and sunken oyster beds and moon snail nests. I will continue to find freedom here, even when the rains come.

I will keep searching for treasures, and clarity while the world heaves and grieves and thrashes about.

I returned to shore today with this moon snail. It caught my eye and to reach it I had to unhook my float belt. My first dive with the belt on kept me tethered to the surface, just out of reach of this marvelous shell.

To dive down, I had to let go. Just as for this swim I had to let go of the silly notion that I couldn’t swim yet with a wetsuit, because it’s still August. As if there is some reason why I have to wait for fall to officially begin or the temperatures to drop to some arbitrary amount prior to donning a wetsuit.

Back at the truck I peeled my suit off the only way I know how—from the top down like peeling a banana. Turning the suit inside out, exposing the fuzzy orange interior, I thought about the ridiculous rules and self-imposed mandates we make upon ourselves everyday.

We carry such burdens around for no good reason other than to cause unnecessary suffering. There is already plenty of suffering in this world. Already so much work to do. So much healing and reconciliation and acceptance needed.

Maybe our job is to keep swimming towards the light. Find warmth. Look for the hidden treasures of the people all around us.

There is good in this world.

We just need to keep our goggles clear so we can keep finding our path forward, and keep our buoys close to help us stay afloat.

And we need to put on a selkie skin once in awhile to get outside of ourselves and remember that we all started life in the water.

Yesterday I received a text from a friend asking me for advice on how to acclimate to the cold water.

And yesterday my answer to him was this,

“Love to share what I’ve found helps! It is cold. My best advice is to get in slowly. Like walk in up to your knees. Stand there. Look around. Wait. Like really wait. Your legs will acclimate. Wait until they adjust, then take another step. Lower your hands in. Swirl the water around. Splash your arms a few times. Then your face. Wait. Prepare your mind. Dive in. There is something called “brown fat” that builds up in bodies that subject themselves to the cold. I don’t know if I’ve built that up or my mind has accepted that there is no choice. Maybe both. I likely have the added benefit of more body fat than you, being female helps too on this. We are more fatty. Finally an advantage to carrying a few extra pounds!! I was reading about this famous swimmer—a woman—set records for cold open water swimming. She has incredibly high fat ratio….it makes a difference.

And there is always a wetsuit! This morning when I felt the air temp, I found myself pondering when I’ll start wearing mine again. It’s a fine line between safe cold swimming and hypothermia. Yesterday I had mild body drop after my morning swim—as in chilled to my core set in AFTER I got out. It lasted for a good hour. Always warm back up slowly, get dry clothes on, hat, sweater. Drink warm fluid and water. Good luck!  Let me know how it goes. I hope this helps.“

Well, let’s just say today I was reminded by the icy waters off Crystal Springs to take my own advice, and know when the water requires a wetsuit. None of my tricks worked. I was humbled by the cold. And wary of the cold and this new swimming spot. All of my other swims save one inside the sand spit at Fay Bay have been in Fletcher Bay.

The Crystal Springs beach I know well, from way back. As a kid, my sister and I walked along this beach from my grandparents’ house to get Fudgsicles and Lemon Heads at Walt’s. Dad said that once when he was a boy they found a huge barrel on this beach—full of mayonnaise. And they opened it. And tried it. The story has become legend in our family.

But the water didn’t want me today. Despite my best efforts to acclimate, the cold set in.

As I stood waiting for acceptance, a grey haired woman  in a tie dye passed by me on the beach, carrying a plastic bag. I waved, and thought she was picking up garbage. A few minutes later I looked back towards her. She had opened the bag and quietly sprinkled  bright pink flower petals Into the water.

I was curious, but still focused on my task of becoming seal-like so that I might swim. I looked out again at the wind on the water, dipped my hands in. And then I heard it. Singing.

The flower petal woman started singing. It was prayer-like, a kind of chant in a language I didn’t understand.

I waited, keeping my eyes over the waves. Trying to give her voice space. I watched the petals slowly drift out over the waves, pulled out on currents I couldn’t see.

The singing stopped. I turned and watched her walk away across the sand back to the road.

Looking for a reason to give up my idea, I exited without even trying to dive under. Standing on the shore I looked out over the sparkling water, hungry to try again. Longing to swim away the stresses of the morning which were many. Paddle out and see what there was to see here.

I walked back in. I couldn’t decide which way to swim. It was still so cold. I dove under, braced myself and counted 10 strokes, as the ice flowed through me. So cold I didn’t bother to take a breath.

I popped up and quickly found my footing. I headed for shore and my towel and sweatshirt.

I had come to a place I had once known so well, spent hours hopping from log to log along this beach, but the water wouldn’t take me. My few strokes in the water felt like ice.

I questioned my toughness, my stamina, found myself disappointed with my inability to take the cold.

I had come prepared, but found myself completely unprepared. The rawness of the morning, my emotional strength was gone.

And yet. Today I heard music from the shore. The gift today was this woman and her petals and her singing.  Her petals drifted off, cast out to wherever the waters might take them.

There is so little that we control. I thought I could defy the cold and with enough will power stave off the icy chill. I could not. As much as I want to be seal-like, surely I am not.

Maybe I’ll come here again sometime, and bring my wetsuit. Or maybe a bag of flower petals and a song.

Either way, the water will be here ready for me. To carry my thoughts away, or wash new ones in. Or perhaps just accept my petals and hear my song.

Another prayer for another day like this one, with happy crows perched on the logs and seagulls flying above and diamonds on the water and warm sand to take the chill off icy feet.

 This is where I start and end most all of my swims. The roots down to the waters edge hold the muddy bank together and I trust them every time to support my clumsy clamber in and out of the bay. Two old frayed ropes are tied to the roots providing some assistance getting in and out—I mostly rely on them getting in to assure a slow entry. Without them there the mud is so slick a slow entry is nearly impossible.

Today’s swim began at 9:20am, an enormous departure from my habit of late afternoon swims. This marked my first morning in the cool waters. The sun was still coming up over the trees when I slowly let the cold water sink into my skin. There was no warm layer, no warm currents, no steady sunlight beating down to take the chill off. But somehow it was okay. I found my eyes wandering up to notice the tall fir and cedar trees lining the bay. It’s funny what you notice when you change your routine, shake up your habits in some new way.

I’ve always said I hate the cold, hate getting chilled. Today I realized there is a difference. I felt the cold, but no chill—well, at least the chill waited to come after my swim. But while in the water I tried embracing the feel and carving my way forward, focusing on the clearness of the water.  Before I knew it I felt fine. And the coolness felt okay, even good. I felt alive. Warm water sometimes makes me lose focus. The coldness kept my mind sharp.

The salt water held some magic today that was different. First off, it was morning and the bay was still and empty and the water was it’s normal healthy green color.  The surface was carpeted with little bits of algae, but otherwise was clear.

Swimming at the start of my day felt like a brand new adventure, and I guess I needed that. Never before had I braved the morning for a swim.  I needed to be stretched, and challenged physically. The water didn’t disappoint. I guessed it would be colder than a late afternoon swim—it most certainly was.

I had already been atop these waters In a rowboat less than an hour earlier to check our crab pot outside the bay, and restock the bait in anticipation of my niece’s visit, hoping to delight her with success in her first time crabbing.

With the sun scattering across the bay floor, held in my aquatic trance, my body on autopilot freestyle I calculated that I had enough time to leave the bay, and take the long morning swim I hoped for.

Once outside the spit, I headed towards Fletcher’s Landing but knew where I would end up.

My crab pot was soaking just south of the landing.

My morning adventure was suddenly about to get more exciting.

I swam parallel the beach, past the two houses to the north of the landing, and setting my sights on the red and white buoy, made a beeline with steady strokes pulling me onward towards my goal.

As I approached our crab buoy it occurred to me that pulling up a crab pot from the water with nothing but a swim buoy for flotation might not work so well.

I tried it anyway.

And the pot rose up from the deep.

Inside? Two good sized crabs. One night prior Anders and I caught our first Dungeness crab —7 inches!—and these two looked quite large as well.

Curiosity overtook me and I unhooked my swim buoy so I could hold it in one hand as I bobbed up and down in the water, titling the pot sideways to see if the crabs were males, my waterlogged mind considering four things:

1. Swimming with a crab pot 200 yards to shore for the sake of two maybe legal size crabs was perhaps pushing my luck, and not a fun idea.

2. Arriving to shore with the pot, even if I did succeed was useless as I had no way to carry all of this home in a timely fashion.

3. I was likely to get dragged from the water that I do so  love if I messed around much longer, as I must have appeared a bit  batty to any onlookers as I wrestled the crab pot without the benefit of a boat and may startle some poor person thinking I was drowning.

4. I didn’t have my crab license or drivers license on me.

So, I took one more look below the water, trying to assess the sex of my two crabs, and in the process of tilting the pot, one got away.

As I let the pot float down into the depths, I was careful to stay clear of the line. I then strapped my swim buoy back on and headed home.

Tonight as I rinsed the two crabs that my niece and I caught this evening —by boat—preparing them for a meal tomorrow, I thought about crab shells. And trees.

Crabs grow these tremendously thick shells, with barnacles and such, but as they grow they have to climb out of them and grow new outer shells to fit their bigger bodies. If they didn’t shed their shells and literally climb out of themselves they wouldn’t grow. They couldn’t survive.

Today I climbed out of my shell. And maybe grew a little. I want to survive.

And the evergreen trees. I admired them on my swim today, even as they blocked the rising sun from warming the waters around me. For the trees give life to the waters I swim in. They keep growing skyward, all the while they stay rooted, stretching their limbs outward, while possums and raccoons scamper around them and owls perch in their branches and insects burrow in their bark and humans hang hammocks in them and forget they are living.

I want to be like a crab and a tree. Rooted, and generous and always reaching for the sky like a cedar or fir. Well protected and resourceful like a crab, but willing to shed my shell so I can keep growing.

And tolerant of the cold and wet, even in winter.

As I made my way back to the muddy bank today I looked down and saw a small maple leaf resting on the clam bed below.  Fall is coming.

Today I swam through time.

The high tide was hours away when I finally committed to taking the plunge, and as such my entry point was Fletcher Landing as starting in the bay would have forced a very short swim with no chance of a watery exit out of the bay.  Muddy clam flats are exposed at low tide, and I knew I needed to go far today.  I just knew.

Josh and Anders dropped me off just before 5pm at the beach. I didn’t exit the choppy waters until 6:51pm, according to a fellow beach goers’ phone. My look on Google Earth revealed I swam about 2.25 miles.

I am just this side of aching now after nearly two hours swimming through my past, present and future all at once.

The gifts today were many, including clear water with no jellyfish, no algae, no boaters of any kind, no interruptions—and no escape from my thoughts and swirling emotions.

The waves and wind carried me south, and combined with my caffeinated self chugging along at a good pace made the waters tolerable. Though there wasn’t a warm top layer like I find inside the bay where it’s calm, the overall effect was a pleasant cool warm temperature.

With the clear water around me I found myself studying the sea floor, watching sun shadows dance across barnacled rocks and white shells and wisps of feathery pure white seaweed float along the bottom, like little clouds fallen from the sky.

I was pleased to be greeted by a young crab with my first dive under, her two pincers raised to warn me and cheer me on, as my body eased into the rhythm of swimming again. Soon I spotted a starfish, and then a large crab. Both creatures needed a good look, so I back peddled to give them a closer look.

I have come to expect at least one surprise on these swims—some unexpected delight. I have yet to be disappointed. Today’s gift was a flock of large white seagulls sunning themselves on the beach. In hindsight perhaps I should have heeded their warning and considered a shorter swim, as the wind and waves ultimately pushed me to my physical limit.

In the moment I saw them, energy and a goal were on my mind, and as I quietly swam by them on the beach they all took flight at once, swirling up into the cloudless sky. I turned on my back and watched them sail in every direction, wings wide and free.

My goal was to reach the north end of Crystal Springs. My turnaround spot was set to be just offshore from one of my dad’s oldest friends, Sandy. When I was a kid we spent hours down here at his house, at family parties, on the beach, swimming and even waterskiing.

As I neared the spot, just offshore where long ago we beached the boat onto the sandy shore and waded in from the boat sometimes for surprise visits, I suddenly gasped and turned west to clutch my swim buoy—-and wept. I couldn’t stop.

All of the loss and change and uncertainty of the past few years and the reality of now hit me like a tidal wave. I wept for what was that is no more, I wept out of emotional exhaustion with the present and I wept in wonder with what may come. I floated free and all alone on my salty tears that tell so much that I will never be able to explain in words.

And the water held me.

And I continued to rock.

And then I started swimming again, a little farther south, away from my childhood memories and towards the next chapter of my life, just after I married Josh. As I headed south towards the beach house we rented the first year we were married, I imagined myself literally swimming through time.  I paused to consider the distance to get there, and realized that if I swam that far south I didn’t think I’d have the strength to swim all the way back to my starting place.

So I turned around, into the wind and incoming tide and relentless waves and swam towards my present. I was swimming home. To the home I have built with Josh and our sons and our dog and three cats.

I needed to swim home. The last mile back was achingly slow. I maneuvered around large submerged boulders, and sunken half-submerged trees, and batted floating leaves and twigs out of my path. Twice I stoped to just sit in the shallows and regroup. With every stroke I tried to distract myself from the fatigue by keeping  my focus on what presented before my eyes. I noticed the colorful rocks, the green and brown seaweed lightly battering me as the waves kept sloshing into me, forcing salt water into my mouth and nose, swelling my tongue. I felt the burn of salt in my throat and kept going.

I started considering getting out early. But every time I arrived at a possible exit point, I found myself driven to continue on. There was nothing to prove, no one with me to worry about. I just felt this intense need to make it all the way back—swimming. At some point it occurred to me that swimming was probably easier than walking—and if got our early, the spell would be broken. My experience diluted. I’d have to make small talk with whomever’s property I’d have to trespass politely to get to the road for the walk home.

This swim, like all of the others, is all mine. I have so much work to do. And I have to do it alone.

The other day my friend, Steve, said something about my swims that has stayed with me and guided me and I am so grateful for his wisdom.

I shared with him that I’ve been approached by some people wanting to swim with me. I explained that I am torn. There is something to protect.

He said, “Don’t dilute your experience. Swimming is your meditation. You need to keep it as such.”

He is right. My swims are sacred. I am exposed and tossed forward and backward in time.

These are journeys I have to take alone.

In the last moments just as I was exiting the water, a shining fish leapt high in the air.

I made it home.

Three crabs, two exits, one algae bloom and no jellyfish.

My swim today included a mad dash to the bay with sweat dripping down my back and some kind of crazy notion that if I got into the water quickly enough I might somehow be more likely to not run into a stinging red jellyfish cousin of the one we saw from the boat the other day.

The water was freakishly warm today, a genuine surprise to me, as the air was cooler, the clouds rolled in last night and the sky even spit out a few drops of rain throughout the day.

The bath-like water made entry very comfortable, but this sweet comfort was immediately forgotten as my mind slipped like a slug on butter to the very real possibility that at any moment I might run headlong into an oozing hot mess of stinging tentacles.

My other challenge was physical, not mental, as visibility was nearly zero through much of my swim due to a tremendous red algae bloom that turned the water from an earthy green to a bloody brown red—which only heightened my preoccupation with scanning the water before me with every stroke to look out for any solid red masses that might suddenly appear before me. Not only that, but I was also convinced for most of my swim that the redness was red tide, not algae, and it was thanks to my cousin, Ted, that this concern was laid to rest when I passed by his house and he shared this observation with me. Toxic poisoning from red tide —no good. Phew.

A few minutes into my red adventure, I found myself recalling a story from Josh’s mom about wolves when we were visiting his Grandma Lorna in Idaho years ago.

As the story goes, one day when Linda and her sister, Teri, were little and were bouncing off the walls, Grandma Lorna told them to go outside and run around the house three times, and gave them one specific instruction, “Whatever you do, don’t think about wolves.”

Well, guess what they thought about.

Like the wolf story, I found myself thinking about the red jellyfish more and more, every time I tried to “not think about a red stinging jellyfish the size of a VW bug.”

The bay was empty save me and a colorful mess of seaweed floaters and debris, with the tide very high—to the brim, leaving me with plenty of water to swim in….and plenty of room for…..jellyfish.

But there were none. At least none by me.

Finally with my determination to get at least a mile swim in firmly stuck on my brain, I neared the mouth of the bay where the thought suddenly occurred to me that I was as likely to see a seal as I was to see a jellyfish, and maybe if I contemplated this idea I might not only enjoy my swim more, but experience this alternate reality….or at least perhaps skirt around getting stung.

This thought eased my mind enough to allow my eyes to scan the bay floor, and I will admit, I realized that perhaps swimming close to shore might be less tempting for those creatures whom depend on currents and space to float around.

Near shore I was startled by the appearance of white tipped sea grass, swaying around like underwater tumbleweeds. I gingerly stroked the fine fingered tips and plumes of what looked like pollen burst out.

I let myself get distracted by the treasures below, and with my near shore strategy I also skimmed by three sizable crabs, that gave me the “claws up” wave reminding me who was trespassing on who.

At the road end I paused to stand and look at the clouds.  On my return trip the bay got murky and stayed red. I exited  early onto my aunt’s dock, from which I was able to scan the waters up the bay.

No sign of jellyfish.

The bay called to me again, and back in I went. In the last quarter mile the waters cleared and a light steady rain began to fall. I stopped to look up at the sky and watch circles burst on the glassy surface all around me.

The red algae bloom subsided and the green filled in.

I felt a calmness settle in and relief as I made my way back to the muddy root exit.

I thanked the seaweed for giving me frequent physical reminders to stay aware of my surroundings, catching on my arms and goggles and toes.

I didn’t think about wolves, and thought less about jellyfish than when I’d started.

We are what we think. What we believe is what we become.

Today when I was talking to my sister about writing and swimming, how they have become one somehow to me she said warmly, “my sister the seal.”

Maybe I was the seal today.

Wolves don’t like water.

And maybe jellyfish don’t like seals.

Breaking with tradition, I am writing tonight following a boat ride, actually two boat rides. There was no swim for me today, but Rocky took care of two swims for me —one planned, the other swim not so much…

First, there was this.

My first red jellyfish all summer.

I picked the right day to meet this massive alien water orb with tentacles 10-15 feet long from the safety of an aluminum boat, with my brave son and dog at my dry side. Emphasis on “dry” here.

Today I showed Anders how to get an outboard onto the transom of an aluminum boat just seaworthy enough to handle it’s 5-horsepower. I am still giddy hours later recounting this tale, as launching this old boat of my dad’s with my sister’s engine in the company of my son was just about the pinnacle of summer satisfaction and proof to myself that, yes, I can handle a boat by myself, thank you.

Our salty adventure today included the following:

1. Quality time with a crow bar ripping off the inner board—too wide for the engine to attach onto

2. Additional quality time with a chisel hacking a plastic tube out of the oar lock so we could use said oars as needed

3. A very spontaneous and unplanned man-over board drill when my very special Mariner’s cap—gifted to a Josh by my paternal grandma years ago —flew off my head just outside the bay

4. A mind blowing sighting of what I am sure was one of the most beautiful giant red jellyfish that ever was—made even more beautiful in every possible way because I was not in the water swimming into its one thousand and twenty two stinging tentacles

5. A speedy whoop holler of a ride through just choppy enough water, with just the right amount of spray, the water aglow with red tide and seaweed sparkles with mountains in the distance, and my face practically cracking in two with delight taking two of my boys—one furry and one not-so-furry— on a happy jaunt across waters that I roamed long ago with my dad and sister. The feeling, the spray, the memories of supreme delight flying along with the engine all a hum below a clear sky of blue—it was all there again today.

I told Anders that for me, being on or in the salt water is summer at its purest. There is nothing better.

Our adventure concluded with a hysterical moment when Rocky leapt out of the boat onto our neighbors small floating dock, only to then immediately leap off the dock on the other side onto a gigantic patch of seaweed that strongly resembled a muddy lawn. Well, it was about four feet deep so our dog quickly went under, spluttered and used his mad dog swim skills to make a beeline for shore, with speedy direction and orienteering assistance from Anders.

When Josh got home a bit later, I was ready for another ride. With a gentle coaxing after his long day, he accepted the invitation. I steered the boat. The waves were grand. The engine hummed.

I smiled the whole way.

 I read a story awhile back about a very sad, depressed woman. She felt all alone, like a castaway out at sea, adrift in a boat—no compass, no direction, no companions. Her therapist replied, “You are the boat and the sea. You are both.”

Today I visited the water twice. First from land, with my youngest son and our dog. Rocky practically pulled us off our feet on our way there when he realized that we were taking him to the beach. He lives to swim too. So do both of my sons.

Our dog’s enthusiasm to submerge in the cool water matched my own, but my swim came much later in the day.

As Anders and I took turns hurling a tennis ball out over the waves for Rocky to retrieve, we both smiled with delight watching this furry boy dash out until his paws barely touched, then tentatively transition to floating and paddle with all his might to reach his goal. Sometimes he would turn back, deterred by the distance or the waves, a sign of uncertainty. Caution. Often with a gentle command and soft encouragement he’d turn back and try again.

His cautiousness keeps him safe, and his enthusiasm keeps him trying again despite the fear. The instinct to survive is hard wired in all beings. But I think to survive, we need beyond caution and constant planning to survive a drive to experience delight, in whatever form that may be.

Today was a serious day for me, and it was this beach visit and my swim

later on that reminded me how important play is to survival.

Rocky most assuredly experienced delight splashing in the water today—Anders and I delighted in watching him.

After three swims in a row, I thought I should take the day off….

and yet… I knew the bay lay waiting under a full day beneath the cozy sun. Chances were good that with little wind and only a few paddlers, the top few inches would be lovely warm. And they were.

At 5:38pm I found myself stretching into my suit.

“Just going for a quick dip,” I told Josh.

He looked at me with my goggles and cap in hand.

“You’re going for a swim. You’ll be awhile. Have fun,” he replied with a grin.

“Yes. Thanks. You’re probably right.”

I took my familiar path to the shady start. The sun soon would be below the trees. It was calm and still. 

I scrambled down the roots and stepped in through the glassy surface.

As I headed out I recalled swimming in the pool during my pregnancies with both sons. I remember feeling like a ship, with my precious cargo carried along inside. It was a good feeling.

I think I am the woman, the ship and the sea.

Seeking delight.

Finding delight.