Mary Swims

Today, on the hottest day of the year, I had my first ever miso soup swim. I couldn’t have dreamed this up if I tried.

Breaking with tradition I slowly lowered myself into the bay off my aunt and uncle’s dock. I hoped to find my youngest nearby with his buddy, but they had headed up the bay by the time I arrived.

Underneath the heavy heat of August, the water felt shockingly cold and was literally brimming with life—this normally sleepy bay was a simmer of grateful humans in all manner of floating devices, motorized, inflated, paddled and adrift in suits—everywhere in between was riddled with seaweed and earthy debris, like a wild miso soup piled high with a rainbow of ingredients.

With so much company, my swim felt like a party—busy, distracting, happy…but without the rhythm and solace I normally find there and have come to depend on. And no room for a trance. With so much company, a trance-like swim might have left me running headlong into floating fiberglass or an unsuspecting paddle boarder.

After saying my hellos to my various relatives enjoying the cool water I settled in and made a beeline for the mouth of the bay. Never have I swam through so much seaweed. It wound around my shoulders, between my fingers, over my goggles and between my legs.

I felt a slight itch beneath my suit and after a few strokes I decided to investigate—the scrunchy culprit was a leaf. One little leaf. Demanding my attention.

All this floating matter felt like some sort of test. I opted to plow through, and other than my frequent site checks I opted to stay on course, more or less, to the road end and head back in the bay. It was good to cool down, but I felt a rush to get out. Like the too noisy party you can’t seem to leave.

The miso soup bay gave me my final surprise upon my return.

Normally my treasures from the bay are sightings, thoughts, a salty suit, renewed energy and a good appetite.

Today, as I rinsed off in the shower, I found that some of the soup came with me—yes, a dead baby crab along with some bright green seaweed.

Maybe I should’ve made soup tonight.

My swim habit is not a habit anymore. It’s feeling like a calling. My swim buoy is closer to my reach outside the front door, and now my goggles and cap have joined the party waiting for my return.

Perhaps the fact that tomorrow is forecasted to be near 100 is influencing my desire to be ready for a swim.

I would be crazy not to go in on what may be the hottest day all year.

But then….today was very warm, and I expected warm, but much of the swim was not.

I took a long time just putting my feet in today. Distracted by my thoughts and the view of so much green. And the wind! These tremendous gusts made watery clouds on the surface today. They danced about and I got lost watching them.

As I scrambled down the muddy rope I knew to expect a rush of cold. I find that giving my legs a nice long wait time to adjust is working well. But the first dive is mind over matter. The transition from land life back to the sea is a blessed moment.

Today as I did my first dive under I noticed my hands. My front flippers that do so much of this swimming.

I adjusted to the cold but the wind gusts and the chill of the incoming tide deterred me from leaving the bay. Instead I found a heavenly stretch of warm water along the inside of the spit, staying close enough to shore that I could almost pet the broken shells scattered along the steep bank.

The bay was mostly empty save a few  boys on a floatie and some kayakers.

I kept my head in the water, but gave a short wave. I have manners, but that’s about as social as I can get when I’m in my watery cocoon.

It’s a private place below the surface. Everything fits. As I walked to the start today I was very aware of the pokey twigs and roots and sharp rocks between me and the bay.

I realized that so much of the magic of water is that it always fits, no matter how tired or happy or pensive or sad or angry or big or fleshy or pimply or grumpy I am.

The salt water always fits. It doesn’t poke or prod or bind at the waist or shout or demand or scoff or dismiss or begrudge or fear or envy or judge you.

All water does is hold you. That’s it.

That’s why I swim.

To be held.

No strings.

No weight.

No fear.

 These feet got me in the water and back home again today.

Whatever absence of energy I had yesterday dissolved this afternoon.  Today I couldn’t wait to swim again.

I always walk barefoot along the gravel road and ivy-lined trail to the waters edge behind my house. It’s more than knowing I have nothing to go back for if I need to cut my swim short—bare feet is freedom. I have all I need, utterly self contained.  And barefoot  allows me time to literally absorb the coolness of the earth from the ground up before full submersion in the salty brine that is Fletcher Bay. My bay. I’ve claimed it as my liquid home, but really I know I’m just a visitor, passing through. Thank you, I say, to the thousands of generous hosts burbling above and below the glowing expanse of water.

Today I swam with my friend, Dave. As we stood on the muddy bank lined with cedar trees, donning our caps and goggles, I remarked that I hoped to see a seal again sometime. Dave reminded me that they are likely to appear again soon, with Fall on its way and the salmon returning.

“Oh right!” I said with a smile.

As we slowly entered the still waters I took some long slow breaths and looked out wondering what I might see in the bay this time. Another starfish? A stinging jellyfish? Wondered what adventures awaited.

The swim began. We headed out, the water a soft green, nary a speck of seaweed, twig or leaf. Just pure water. It was perfect. The sun had warned the top later just enough to take the chill off.

We continued on, with each sweep forward my mind eased open, and I let go a little. The swim trance was strong and I felt strong, like I could swim clear out of the bay without a break.

And then Dave stopped. During one of my periodic site checks to survey my watery home, checking for boats, docks, and of course my swim partner I saw that Dave had paused.

“Look,” Dave said and pointed.

And there she was. A glimmering seal head not more than 15 feet away.

Instinctively we got quiet and slowly swam towards her. Hungry to have a moment with her. I was so grateful in that moment that Dave was with me to notice her and give us pause, as my trance was such I am sure I would never have noticed her there.

The bay was calm and absent of any other human visitors. We circled around, peering below the surface hoping to catch a glimpse of this lovely animal once more. She showed her head again and then dove down.  “What I would give to swim like that!” I thought.

Again I peered into the waters, and to my left I spied  her. Her speckled grey-white torpedo body glided by about 10 feet away, and as soon as my mind caught up to the vision before me she was gone again. I know I saw her, but it was so fleeting it seemed almost unreal.

So, in the moment I wasn’t looking for this seal she appeared. That’s life isn’t it. We look so hard for things, purpose, order and answers but they are never where we expect them to be. And often there are no answers especially. Just more questions. Maybe that’s the magic. Maybe that’s why wonder is such an important state of mind.

Today I wondered about what I might see. I expected to not see a seal today, it’s not Fall yet. But there she was. Today. Sharing her home with us, a most generous host.

Outside of the bay, heading south to our one-mile mark, this seal appeared again. Like a long goodbye I like to think she was giving us a warm send off. Or maybe she too was just wondering about us. Maybe wondering how us leggy, noisy, clumsy creatures manage to swim with such terribly designed flippers.

But, they are my flippers. They are all I need to swim in this watery refuge from time to time.

Thank you for sharing your home with us.

I swim where there are no walls.

Today I took an old iPad to my dad so we could FaceTime with him as he sits in his quarantined world, walls within walls.  He just wants out. And I have no answers for him. Only empathy.

“I know dad. I hate this for you and me. At least we can see each other now when we “visit”.”

He is thankful. I am heart broken again and again. There is no end to this. The news has made this crystal clear.

Meanwhile he puts on a brave face and tells me he loves me. My sons put on their brave faces too. Every day, just like dad.

And I leave again.

Once home I hurriedly put on my suit, grab my yellow float and cap, goggles. Slather on some sunscreen and body glide to keep rashes away.

I can’t fix any of this. Another bandaid on the day over my broken heart, another summer of my own father stuck inside four walls. A thousand walls.

So I swim to relieve a bit of the pain. I swim to feel strong and free and cold to keep me in touch with now. I go where there are no walls, no floor, no ceiling. No glass or carpet, no human made surfaces. I can’t bring dad with me. I do this best alone.

In the water, I wait. I wait for the cold chill to subside, I breathe slowly as my brain accepts that my body is in charge. There is no escape. The next swim is about to start. I lower my hands in, swirl the water around. Splash my face. And start. I think of dad inside. I think of my sons, wonder about their future here. I will carry them with me.

 I breathe slowly, easily and think of how grateful I am for clear lungs.

The air is warmer today and the sun is warming the surface. I am relieved, and hopeful.

The tide is on its way out. I swim out of the bay, following tendrils of seaweed and moon snail nests like road signs guiding me out towards rougher waters.

I race myself. I race my own bubbles that appear with each pull of my arms. This is all the racing I need.

Outside of the bay I turn south again, following the broken shells with my eyes and millions of rocks. An occasional crab. And the light. The sunlight glimmers over the rocks and sand, short waves of light. Exquisite. My hidden treasures, dancing before me.

Today I take no treasures in kind. Today I bring home unbridled joy in spotting my first starfish, bright purple. First I’ve seen in two years. I thought they were all gone. And yet, there is this one. My star. A promise from this watery world that the natural world is resilient. And perhaps I am too. Perhaps we all are. Even dad.

Still swimming. It was cold tonight. Really cold.

Swam south from the road end. Had the whole place to myself save a bunch of crabs looking for dinner in the shallows. I pushed through the cold, and reminded myself that I could bear it. 14 years ago I gave birth at home to a near 9-pound baby. Yup. I can do a little pain. I still have it in me. And it’s all been worth it. Especially the mama part.  And I plucked a broken moon snail from the bottom on my way back, strapped it to my float belt and felt so badass soaring home with my salty treasure.

I am swimming. Not every day but the deep pull into the salty waters gets stronger all the time. Not until this summer did I ever try open water swimming.

Every day I force myself to keep my eyes open and read the news and feel the weight of the heartache and hidden despair and fear of everyone I know bearing down like birth. And the love too.  The pain is unbearable at times. I heave and then I breathe and catch myself again.  Sometimes I can let it go for a bit.

Today I swam 2.5 miles —out of the bay, headed south and back to dry land. The water was clear, and I saw shells and bubbles from clams below me and brushed my hands through clumps of seaweed and I kept going, carried along by my own determination to keep going. Force all thoughts out. I tasted too much salt on my tongue, got tossed by too many evening waves. But every sip, every wave up my nose takes me back. Way back to all of the hours I spent in and on the water as a child. Just up the road from here. The salt water is me. I am it. Never do I feel more at home than in this endless salty stew called Puget Sound.

I wanted to stop. I was so tired. As we headed north back towards the entrance to the bay, I told myself I’d stop at the road end. I’d find solid ground and tell my swim buddy I needed to get out. We reached the road end. I kept going. The water started to flatten out. The stillness was beckoning. I knew with a bit more effort I could enjoy the smooth sail back into the still waters of the bay. I could do it. And I did. And the bay was calm. And the tide carried us gently back in. And I felt weightless. And I again succeeded in embracing the cold, no wetsuit. I did what I do everyday that I swim. I breathed deeply, kept it steady. Acknowledged the sensations of cold currents, and warm currents as they came and went, and all the while brought my attention back to my breath. Right inhale, exhale, left inhale, exhale. Thousands of bubbles. Me and the clams. Breathing together. Witnessing the planet. Sucking in the saltwater then letting it go. All of it.

And tomorrow, if my shoulders will allow, I’ll do it again. I know without a doubt that the tides will rise and fall tomorrow, and if I time it right I will ease in slowly as the tide reaches its peak, gooey mud between my toes, red suit, yellow cap and clear goggles to see what’s below the surface.