Mary Swims

There is a lot of rain falling down, down, down these days. And a lot of wind.

Every day more leaves twirl and spin earthward, glistening with rain, rainbow colored, each one a perfectly formed postcard recounting the brilliance of summer, the stark blue skies, the happy swimsuits and boats and the warm scent of seaweed and salt air on the breeze. And now, November and daylight savings has begun, the light fading fast with the last leaves, merging with the dark earth to start the cycle again.

The heaps of decaying leaves piled in corners and along muddy trenches I know I will see again, reformed and reconstituted next year in the tides of spring, recast as seaweed and fresh batches of jellyfish, baby crabs, and hopefully more starfish.

I walked my dog the other morning in the pouring rain, and listened to the river fall from the sky. Like the sea, the rain touches everything, turning dirt dark, giving a glossy glow to fallen leaves, drawing mushrooms from the earth and washing everything light enough to float back into the sea. Daytime temperatures are now staying consistently below that of the Salish Sea.

The water runs in circles, sky to earth to rivers to sea to sky and back to earth again.

I haven’t been back in the sea for over a week, but instead found myself again at the local pool yesterday. A long overdue visit to the chiropractor revealed that my back and left hip muscles aren’t so happy. I have been having low back pain after my cold water swims for some time, and now am struggling with tingling down my left leg, hip to toes. Cold water has aggravated my already tight muscles to the point that my back muscles are locking up in the cold water, and at the end of my swims I can’t bring my knees forward without pain.

So yes, sea swimming is on hold for me right now. At least for a little while. The 80 degree pool water followed by the jacuzzi are proving beneficial in another kind of way and I find myself again feeling gratitude to have access to a nearby pool with warm water, kind faces and old friends.

I miss the sea. But my stretching regimen and warm water swims this past week are feeling like the right choice. I know the sea will wait for me, but I am trying to listen more to my body and not push my luck. My chiropractor didn’t say I couldn’t sea swim, but he did say that warm water and heat is probably most beneficial right now. My body agrees.

I have loved the thrill of swimming solo out there in the open water, the expansiveness of the wilds, the wind, the waves, the wild life found only there.

But the pool has revealed itself as a place for me to do some much needed healing, and letting go, and revealed itself as another kind of wild space. Easing into the pool water is providing an instant relief of a different kind. There is no recoiling, no zing of chill, no muscles shrinking and shortening. The warm water is a different kind of salve, the company of strangers and lifeguards providing me with quiet support that I think I’ve been needing, and brought my awareness back to the grand diversity and beauty found in my fellow humans.

The pandemic forced me to step away from the pool, the only place I knew how to swim any distance. When I tried the open water for the first time over a year and a half ago, I didn’t know how it would change me and challenge me, and I learned to swim a distance there too. Swimming in nature, exposed to the elements has helped me realize my own strength, my need to test myself alone.

Returning to the pool now has opened my eyes and heart to some of what I missed. I missed the people, the steadfast support of the lifeguards, the wildness of other humans.

And yesterday, as I sat for a short soak in the jacuzzi after my swim the wildness of life came in a completely bizarre and unexpected form—a tornado warning.

A crackling message over the pool’s loudspeaker broke the quiet hum of the pool deck, instructing everyone to immediately head for the locker rooms. A tornado was brewing to the north and the weather service instructed that everyone seek shelter.

A few quizzical looks and comments passed between strangers and friends as everyone heeded the warning and smartly shuffled to the locker rooms, dripping and surprised.

Lifeguards and staff joined us in the windowless room, as women stood and sat in groups or alone, waiting. The wait was predicted to be a half hour.

I looked around and found myself thinking about how surreal the tornado warning felt, as the Northwest is not exactly high tornado country. That said there was a deadly tornado several years ago just an hours drive away, so I knew it wasn’t impossible.

This sudden surprise got me thinking of all of the ways people are forced to hunker down for so many reasons, and how minor and benign this interruption was, compared to what it could be—and is—for people every day, be it natural and man made disasters, or worse yet attacks.

The half hour of suspended time in the locker room was like a pause button, a chance to reset, and for me a gift.

I said hello to my mom’s neighbor, an elderly Cuban woman usually sporting a smile as wide as the day, who stood alone and looking serious, wrapped tightly in a towel. I stepped over to her and pulled my mask down as I said hello, reintroducing myself.

Her stern look melted into a big smile when she saw me, “Oh hello! Of course I know you! These masks make it so hard to recognize people!” She exclaimed, followed by a knowing comment to reassure both of us i think, “I’m okay. I’ve done this before. I lived in Houston!”

I thanked her for telling me and headed back to finish dressing.

Two ladies sat one bench over, smiling eyes over their cotton masks, twittering like happy school girls, in blue and white stripped swim suits. One woman wore a navy blue old style swim cap, dimpled and rising high above the crown of her head like a stretched balloon, the white chin strap dangling down and swaying lightly as she laughed and carried on a lively conversation with her friend.

I wanted to talk to these strangers, share in their joy.

“You two look so cute in your matching stripes!” I offered with a wink.

They both looked at me, then each other, both laughing bashfully with my unexpected compliment. I had remembered reading about happiness, and strangers awhile back. And thinking about how we find humanity and happiness when we open ourselves to talking with strangers.

It’s risky or can be, as to do so requires allowing oneself to be vulnerable. This was a low risk place to strike up a conversation with strangers, two cute older women sitting on a bench smiling, all of us bound together waiting for a possible (but very unlikely) threat to pass. Their smiling eyes were an invitation, and they had a infectious glow about them that I felt hungry for. Like me they were taken by a young toddler who wiggled happily nearby in his patient mother’s arms.

All four of them were by far the happiest lot in the locker room. I too felt content, having just enjoyed a good swim and thankful that the tornado warning arrived post swim. Other attendees to this unplanned event looked less than thrilled, having just showered and prepared to begin their pool time.

I am grateful for all of the watery places I am privileged to visit. The pool and the sea water came from the same sky. Both bodies are givers of life and release, support and healing.

The tornado never materialized, and we were all relieved. I had briefly considered an open water swim before arriving at the pool, and was glad on many fronts that I had heeded the advice of my chiropractor and my stiff back and visited the pool instead.

I hope to see my new old lady friends with the smiling eyes again when I return to the pool.

And when I do get back into the sea, I know it too, will give me a warm welcome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t put my face in,” Liz called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guess there is only one way to find out!

Leave the land, go to sea

Face down and with heart up

Think south, but head north—

Keep breathing, stop thinking

Abandon fear, notice beauty

Feel the water, forget the chill

Be each wave, no direction, no destination

Change form, stay fluid

Accept change, reject loss

For nothing is lost, really, just absorbed like the sea dissolves a wave

To float is to trust the unknown, to know that you are but a wave

Dancing, falling, flowing through and of the mystery that is life

There is no end, just a new wave to take you

Do not resist, for to live fully is to surrender

Water surrenders and still conquers all

Gives life, takes life, moves life, calling us back

To now

There’s no life guard on duty here.

And I suppose it’s alright since nobody seems to be swimming—except for maybe my neighbor, Dave. He always finds his way back in, snow and rain and arctic blasts be damned.

I myself have been feeling a bit soft of late honestly, but felt the longing to swim again yesterday as I rowed my neglected rowboat, coated in mud and barnacles, to the landing and hauled it from the Salish Sea in the company of two four-legged’s and my friend, Erin.

Two seals eyed us from the still water, cruising serenely around in their home, unruffled and seemingly unimpressed by our arrival, reminding me of what I was missing and helping me recall a dream I had the other night—about two seals.

In my dream I was walking down a metal gangplank near the ferry dock and reached my hand down to pet two spotted seals that swam parallel the dock, their glistening wet backs silky and soft. Their bodies were a light grey like the Pacific NW sky, with dark spots all along their streamlined bodies, black pebbles in wet sand. I reached out to feel their backs with my fingertips, and they hovered there, looking back at me with eyes as black as night.

The rest of my dream was chaotic snd disjointed, stressful. Only the memory of the seals in my dream stayed fixed and firm, the one sweet relatable part of my dream that I was determined to cling to like a life raft.

I woke happy. And made my husband hear about my seals. He smiled.

Today I had half hoped to swim in the sea, but found myself instead driving to the local pool. I didn’t find any seals there, but I did find a couple lifeguards. And a few old pool friends that I hadn’t seen since the before Covid times.

It was my first swim in a pool since January of 2020. The water was as mild and chlorinated as I expected, and like my few lake swims this past year entirely free of jellyfish, barnacles and seaweed. My eyes followed the even pattern of light along the pool bottom, as I relearned flip turns and let myself enjoy the easy work of swimming in a big hole in the ground carved and heated by my own species.

I was so grateful. For the warmth, the quiet company of my fellow swimmers, the amazing engineering feats of humans to build such things as swimming pools and a chance to move around in my favorite medium—water.

As I counted my laps, my mind a whirl thinking about my first year open water swimming, I fought the feeling that I was somehow a traitor. Was I leaving the natural world behind? Turning my back on the sea? And would there be a story to tell?

As foolish as this may sound, swimming laps in the pool felt strangely foreign and familiar all at once, and I was relieved when I realized that like so many things in life, I don’t have to choose. I can do both. And there are delights to be found in both of these watery holes. One is just much, much bigger.

The lap swim hours at the pool continue to be very limited due to staffing shortages, leaving the window for these swims much more constraining than working around the tides and my part time work schedules. Again I find myself endlessly thankful for the wide open lanes and 24/7 access to the Salish Sea, not to mention the price.

There are no lifeguards out there, only millions of creatures bubbling and crawling and diving and spouting, drifting and breaching, burrowing and reproducing.

At the pool the creatures around me were all the same, human, just like me. All of those months and months swimming in the sea have changed the way I think about my relationship to other beings.

It’s funny how it took me going out (usually alone), to swim in the sea before I came to appreciate how much alike we humans really are. And how much miss I’ve missed my pool companions too.

After my swim I soaked for a few minutes in the jacuzzi, striking up an easy conversation with a kind middle aged woman. She was very intrigued with my open water swimming habit, and I extended an invitation to try it with me sometime. Perhaps she will.

I looked about the giant space, where people of all shapes and sizes milled about in clear liquid finding their bodies and themselves, their own rhythms and borders, flesh rippling water, water holding flesh.

The beauty at the pool was not the same beauty of rocks and clouds and waves reflecting light and distant mountains and salty creatures that collide in the open water of the Salish Sea.

But there was a beauty and hope I felt for humanity at the pool, where strangers made friends with strangers, old ladies stood naked in the showers telling stories, sharing sorrows and joys, utterly at home in their wrinkled skin and sagging breasts, strong and powerful, their spirits lifted by water, their watery camaraderie reminding me that we humans really need each other. More than ever. And there is so much love between us.

As I left the pool today I asked the lifeguard on duty about the limited hours. “Yeah, we need more lifeguards,” she explained.

I thought about all of my time out there with no lifeguard, my confidence and good luck, swimming alone. I felt sadness for all of the people who can’t swim now as the hours are just too short, and all the people looking for swim lessons who can’t find a class because there is also a shortage of teachers.

On my way out the door I impulsively asked for an application.

I don’t know yet if this is the right path for me, but as I think about swimming and all that it has given me, I wonder if this might be the right next step.

Outside the bay sits an empty chair, just like at the pool after hours.

I don’t know yet if either has my name on it, but either way, I’ll keep swimming past those chairs and keep sharing what I’ve learned, and showing my love, however I can.

“Oh the leaves on the trees they all bow down to you—branches and ranch hands are bowin’ too—and i’ve taken off my straw hat for you—singin’ here comes the sun again”

From ”Here comes the Sun Again” by M. Ward

Songs on water. I guess it’s really no surprise to me that tonight after my first swim in ten long days, a song—a happy song—popped into my head as thoughts like maple spinners whirled to the edges of my mind looking for a place to land on the puddle that is this essay.

I am happy.

I feel truly happy tonight. And this song and my swim and playing music are all converging right here, with me upon my blue couch, flanked on one side by our dear mutt who lays peacefully near me on his bed, his fuzzy belly rising and falling like soft waves while my guitar hangs warm to my left, notes still hanging in the air. And I know both are waiting as patient as the water for more strokes.

Best of all, my beautiful youngest son just gave me a kiss and hug goodnight, his smile wide and sweet, telling me that he didn’t mind if I played a few more songs as he settles in to sleep.

Sleep. No wonder we do so much healing in our sleep. That magical time when breathing finds a steady rhythm, and our bodies fall into the background. In the bay today, half way done, as my hands and feet began to ache a bit from the chill I started to lose my rhythm breathing. So I turned my attention to the dull, muted sound of my feet pounding through the water. I was the instrument, I had rhythm, I had my (heart)beat and I had space like the air around a song to travel through the bay, back to the beginning. I could make it home if I focused on my inner rhythm.

Today as I finally “ripped off the bandaid” as they say, and returned to the cold water, I was reminded of the boldness and blind leap one has to make to open up and sing for others. Like swimming there is a required blind faith one must put in themselves to manage the whole lot, stay afloat, avoid danger, stay calm, face the audience and try and have fun in the process. Both can feel like a lot of pressure if not handled properly.

Performances and cold water swims can both start rough, turn rough or end rough and sometimes do as there is real work in getting everything to match up—voices and chords and a relaxed body and a confident posture, an open chest, the instruments tuned and a willingness to be vulnerable. Exposing oneself to the elements, or sharing one’s heart through a song takes courage and a letting go that is unique, and usually leaves me wanting for more.

Getting back in the bay today was a little like those first performances seven year ago, as I lowered down the roots into the still green water and the rush of cold took my breath away leaving just nerves and a tight throat. I have worked hard to wrestle these things into submission with lots of practice and lots of time. And today my wetsuit helped too.

At worst, with the initial launch– into cold water or on to a stage– the mind goes blank, you can’t remember your name, the time or who is making you do this thing, you doubt yourself, fear you will fail, fall down or lose your clothing, and all the while you know deep down that the place you find yourself in is entirely your own fault.

At best, you find your rhythm, put your focus outward, let go of your fragile ego and some need to “prove” something, notice the beauty around you and the gift you’ve been given to sing (or swim) and remember that when it comes down to the swim or the performance, the beings around you whether human or just a passing seal, just want you to succeed.

I’m not done practicing.

As I walked the muddy road down to the bay, my neighbor drove by and rolled down his window to tell me “I just don’t know how you do it! That water must be so cold!”

I was relieved with this last opportunity to stall—I’d been practicing the art now for ten solid days straight–practically a pro and terrified that I had lost my nerve to return to the bay ever. A fellow swim friend of mine, after reading my last post, even half-joked about an “open water swim intervention”, offering to bring his wetsuit and help coax me back in, as he clearly understood the loss I was feeling and my frustration with trying to get back in as the fall temperatures continue to drop. I appreciated the thought but was glad that I was able to intervene on my own behalf. I couldn’t stall any longer.

As I waved goodbye to my neighbor, he kindly called out, “Be careful. Don’t drown!” I thanked him and continued on my way.

He wanted me to make it to the end of the song. He wanted me to make it back safely.

My dear friend and music partner, Larry, once told me that the job of the performer is “to serve the song.” My worst fear of all on stage is not finishing a song. I’d rather have my voice crack or sing the same verse four times over then cut a song short.

My swim today was like a song. I knew the route, had the lyrics of the bay snugly tucked in my head, allowed myself to feel a little vulnerable but also prepared myself as much as I could, just like practicing for a performance. I swam the circumference of the bay as dusk came, passing by golden leaves and twigs upon the still water, and with chilled fingers turning white I grabbed ahold of the exposed roots and the frayed rope dangling down the muddy bank, delighted that I had made it the end. I had served the song, and saved myself.

I have found a comfortable place within myself to sing and swim, love and be loved.

And that makes me very happy.

There my feet, and there an arc of red wool sweater waiting for a ferry

Hovering above the sea grows one tiny fern, boldly clinging to life on a ridge of concrete

The silent scream is saltwater, crystal clear it polishes every single rock, the palette deafening in its beauty

I am taunted to return as I stall day after day

It has been a dry week for my suits, my goggles, my cap

It is getting cold now and every day I catch one or many glimpses of the sea

My will to swim is turning brown like the leaves, brittle, curled up like a baby’s fist, all instinct, reacting to the jarring surprise of cold air

Record lows this week recorded outside and subsequently inside myself

I love and hate fall time

The cold air makes my shoulders hunch inward and as I look to the water I wonder what more I wish or need to find out there

I dread the darkness

I feel like I have imposed this strange sentence upon myself as I embark in another winter of open water swimming

As the air turns damp and raw and harsh the thought of a swim out there feels almost out of reach—self-inflicted pain

How we torture and punish ourselves endlessly over these trivial matters

And for what?

Another day along with a million more excuses to stall my return—and yet—

Does my swimming change anything?

No, not really.

But I know there is beauty out there and thanksgiving

I know that the chill will shoot life into my veins, leave me breathless but ecstatic—dull the depression pushing upward—perhaps that is enough—and if I can share that watery treasure in the shine of my eyes or by drops of peace that appear upon my goose pimpled skin all the better

The leaves are dying and the darkness is coming and the water is waiting

So tomorrow I go

But perhaps I will bring a friend along—

Perhaps only in spirit, but still she will come

Alone I am not, for my selkie is always with me

If only I could pour all of my thoughts out of my head like a river, and watch them melt away into the sea

But they get caught in eddies and lodge under roots and get trapped beneath boulders

My thoughts get tangled in old fishing line and barbed hooks carelessly discarded

Some thoughts get trapped in abandoned crab pots, hung to rot with flakey fish parts and ribbons of seaweed, or nestled in a tuna can punctured and bleeding

To write of the sea is to try and write a story to describe a single wave—

As soon as a complete shape takes form the wave is absorbed and swallowed by another

All flows together—

No thought or action or swim is ever really over—

If to live is to be a river, headed for the sea than I shall be a wave—

I shall meld and bend and surge and divide and splash and grow and fall, flow, fly to my home the sea

And there I shall grow salty and I shall grow barnacles upon my back, I shall collect sand fleas and starfish, I shall keep going

For a wave I shall ride and a wave I shall be

And in fall time and winter I shall remember to reflect the sky, even in the darkest days—

For the sea always reflects the sky

And the salmon have returned to the bay

————————————————————

Today I looked through glass with my aunt and uncle at the still green water where one seal glided silently along

Unhurried, effortlessly afloat, sure of herself

Pulling silence and three smiles across clear glass—liquid within liquid

The bay was hers alone

Her body a wave

A wave flanked by ripples

And ordered

Doing the work that only a seal can do

And I was glad

Take your time

It took time, plenty of time in fact, to wedge my body into my neoprene selkie suit the other day.

I had hemmed and hawed over whether or not to pull out my wetsuit and matching cap that have been hanging dry now since last April in our laundry closet.

There is nothing fast or elegant or graceful about donning a wetsuit, and besides being incredibly awkward to squeeze into, also has the affect of leaving me feeling even lumpier and more awkward than I already feel out of the water. The trade off is the fact that the suit helps me spend more time in the one place that I never feel lumpy or awkward—just free and whole and happy in the body I live in.

The terms “blubber suit” and “blubber butt” skirted across my mind as my hands pinched and stretched and tugged the wetsuit over hills and bumps of flesh that I swear weren’t there last spring.

Oh well, so much for being streamlined.

Zipped tightly into my suit I glanced in the mirror, and confirmed that “seal mama” aptly describes my torpedo shape. All that neoprene magically smoothed out at least a few lumps even if my size didn’t change. But by god I’d be warm, I told myself.

As I swung my arms forward and back in a futile attempt to loosen the unnatural pull on my shoulders, encased in all that rubber, I felt oddly comforted and hopeful that I would enjoy this first swim of October.

The sun was shining, I was a walking heater , I still had an hour and a half before work, and the fall day was relatively calm.

It had been quite a week. Highs and lows dashed us hither and yon, too numerous to count. Just another full week on the big blue planet of mayhem and music. With my suit zipped on tight, the water was destined to be tolerable if not downright pleasant, even with night time temperatures dropping into the low 40’s.

The highs of the week included seeing our eldest walk in the door one night, barely one month moved out, and back for a brief visit.

“Seeing you is like medicine. Truly,” I told him. He walked in and my heart felt whole again. Two sons and they hold my entire heart together.

“Aww. Thanks, mama,” he replied.

We’ve all been needing this type of medicine lately—time together—the best medicine for the heart.

The next day when our sons took off together for “brother time” medicine, I looked out at the sunny skies and knew I needed some of my own solo medicine—a swim in the sea.

Any doubts that I had prior to my swim about whether or not the wetsuit was necessary were washed away as soon as I step awkwardly into the salty brine.

All trace of warm water is now gone.

Well, the Salish Sea never was actually warm per se, except for the one freakish week when the heat wave turned the bay into hot soup and cooked millions of clams and mussels and oysters alive in their shells.

Adding excitement to the day, just prior to dashing to the landing I slipped hard and fast on our kitchen floor, slamming my already very damaged big toe into the linoleum. Tears shot out of my eyes as the pain spun around my foot and once the shock wore off I reminded myself that cold water waited—my toe needed a cold soak fast, so I figured I might as well give it a go and take my body along for the ride. And besides, I had spent too much time wedging into the wetsuit to not use it for its sole purpose—insulating me from frigid water.

At the landing, two pairs of plump seagulls picked lazily at the rocks along the shore, and beyond their fluffy white bodies the October sun’s rays dazzled the indigo blue water with brilliant diamonds.

A slight breeze rippled the waves and floating out upon the quiet sea was a lone heron perched upon a raft.

My feet loved the immediate cold, and with my blubbery seal layer for insulation, the acclimatization was quite easy. My hands needed a little swishing time, my face needed a few good splashes and my back braced as cold water seeped in along my back zipper. A gentle breeze fluffed the water’s surface, lessening the chance of any thermal layer on top.

Diving under I turned southward and found the extra buoyancy and warmth of the wetsuit to be a wondrous surprise. I had forgotten the joys of swimming in neoprene. My happy place in the sea would continue to be accessible and pleasurable, with my “selkie suit”, even in the bracing cold ahead.

Relief and joy set in as I swam through the haze of green water, catching glimpses of shell and seaweed beneath the waves.

One bright orange sea star caught my eye, and uncoupling my float I dove for it only to find myself too buoyant to reach the bottom.

I popped up to the surface, exploding with a puff of held air and was reminded again that here, I am but a visitor. My job is to look and take the time to wonder, not possess or disturb all that I see.

Awhile later I spotted a whole moon snail shell, and overtaken by curiosity, again I unclipped and swam hard down to brush it briefly with my finger tips.

The shell didn’t budge. I burst back up through the surface and peered back down to look at the shell. It wasn’t a shell—it was an entire moon snail. Let it be. I peered down again and wondered of it’s age, wondered of it’s size, wondered if it was finding enough food down there, wondered if it was aware winter is coming.

The swim and the cold cradle of water around me warmed slowly with each stroke. My arms cut through the water, a slow steady rhythm flashing arcs of water and light, wave and sea, land and cloud before my eyes. And below the hazy green brown fuzz of sea water, and flashes of golden light revealed brown and grey and black rocks and shell. Wispy red seaweed and flat green seaweed hovered just above the seabed, bright and clear as the sun.

In time I felt no cold, again becoming one with the sea. Two bodies blending into one. Solid and liquid trading places, my body displacing and displaced. Separate but connected. To feel a part of the whole and so small and insignificant, temporary and eternal. In time and out of time.

I returned to the landing and swam west to the pilings where a lone cormorant perched atop one of the pilings. His webbed feet knocked the bright red sign gingerly about as he readjusted his position, keeping a wary watch over my arrival.

“Take your time,” the sign read. Turning a circle in the deep water, I watched the water’s sparkle, I felt my my mind relax and I looked up at the blue sky above me.

I thought of our neighbor, Fred, who just a few days prior to this swim died suddenly in his sleep. This seemed like as good a place and time as any to bid him farewell.

He always had time for a chat in the road. Of all of our neighbors he was by far one of the friendliest, always accompanied by his dog, Layla, he kept a pocket full of dog treats which he doled out with sweet abandon to any and every dog to pass by—including mine.

As I floated into shore, I peered below the water line, and gazed at the rainbow of colors and the shapes of the rocks in the shallows. A few tiny crabs shuffled quickly under the rocks, startled by my shadow.

Fred loved to hear of my swims, and said hello with an easy and genuine warmth that was truly special. He also swam in the bay on occasion or watched his grandchildren splash and swim about off his dock in summertime. He marveled at my longer distance swims past his home, even in winter, and he always made time to listen and talk dogs and children. He and his wife were very involved in helping care for their grandchildren and he would feign annoyance about his “house full of kids”, while underneath the words was a proud and happy Grampa clearly pleased with this reality.

On the short drive home I slowed down as I passed by his house. My heart fluttered as I caught myself realizing that those casual conversations with Fred are no more.

He is gone. But his presence fills this place. He, like the sea, helped me understand what it means to “take your time”.

I shall try to live a little more like he did, and take my time—stop to visit with my neighbors and friends, unhurried, fully present and good natured. And I’ll keep a pocket of dog treats at the ready.

We all might consider taking our time—none of us can know when our time will run out.

We often miss the details

A paw on a leaf upon some misshapen pebbles and crushed shell, color upon color

The flutter and flash of cedar leaves dried and orange-red falling fast upon the ground like rain—summer’s October carpet rolled out just as the wet winds blow in, turning the sea wild as we ourselves turn inward towards home, a hearth, warm toast

Neighbors retreat from the boats and the bay, while summer tourists dissolve and float away like seaweed, bright-colored floats upon the outgoing tide

Beaches abandoned, the sea heaves a sigh of relief—fall and winter will give her a few months respite from the cacophony of sounds, and the happy mayhem stirred up and poured out by humans upon her shores and in her quiet bays

She the sea reigns supreme, growing steadily colder she will dare us to enter as her winter storms and roaring winds and crashing waves will sculpt the beaches anew, swallow and spit out all that doesn’t belong or needs rearranging

A few days ago she spit me out

I lasted five minutes, after entering against my own best judgment

A small cold loop in the shallows, tight lungs, I was breathing to feel, breathing not to feel, while cloud capped mountains in the distance sat idle and patient waiting and waiting for snow and rain

Cold. Cold sea water pierced through soft flesh and something rare and raw was released

Stumbling to shore I knew my selkie days had returned

Perhaps I have been softened too much by the heat of summer, or perhaps it was just one singular off day

Either way, I trust the sea will make room for me again this winter, skin to sea or neoprene to sea

No matter

Swimming is the point

The afterglow and after drop of winter swimming are par for the course

Like the rain and the wind and the tides

The mighty cold of the sea will once again rattle my cages and set me free

And I will try to pay attention to the details

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Mary

Morning time.

My first swim of fall, and we struck out at 9am in the morning.

It felt good and right to shake the summer routine of afternoon swims and welcome autumn in the bay on a glorious sunny morning. Not to say it wasn’t a struggle. Dave, too, prefers the afternoon himself and is not a fan of early morning exercise. Especially outside, in cold water.

But morning was also the only time I could fit it in to a very busy Saturday and after several days out of the water, with a forecast for 74, I was desperate to get in. I invited my neighbor to join me and was glad to have Dave’s company on what I anticipated would be a challenging entry.

Accountability would get me in the water first thing in the morning, and a little healthy peer pressure would get me out for a decent swim. Dave often swims a couple miles on his own, and I knew his presence would help motivate me to cover some ground. I really wanted to see the bay in the morning light as the sun rose up through the trees, and swim as the bay woke up.

I knew it would be cold—even Dave, a year-round skin swimmer—dressed differently, donning a swim cap to fight the chill. I bundled up over my swim suit in fleece pants, warm robe, and wool socks for the short walk to the bay, and all this after slurping the hottest coffee and hot water I could bear. And it helped—I knew that starting warm, as warm as I could before the plunge would help me manage the cold. The goal always is to conserve as much body heat as you can before and after a cold water swim.

With night time temperatures dropping to 50, and clear skies at night, I knew the water would be chilly. I had decided against the wetsuit. I’m not ready to pull on that rubbery layer just yet. Staying curious I figured the sun was out and this might be the last day of summer weather (forecast was for 74), so why not keep skin swimming as long as I can bear.

It’s hard to believe that an entire year has gone by since I first braved the open waters of fall and winter.

I wonder how I will keep myself getting in, as now I know what open water swimming through winter in the Salish Sea feels like.

I wonder what ways I will explore the months ahead, challenge myself, perhaps more skin swims or perhaps I will find my wetsuit the best choice. Curiosity about swimming in the sea keeps me coming back, and has become a critical motivation for continuing on. No one is demanding that I do this, and there is no motivation but my own inner fire to keep me diving under.

Equally surprising to me yesterday was how quickly I acclimated to the saltwater of this quiet bay that feels as familiar as my house now.

Oh, it wasn’t perfect, nothing is, and I sucked in air sharply upon entry, verbalizing the experience with Dave, who waited patiently in the deep water as I lingered waist deep, waiting for my body to give up its fight against the cold.

The tide was high at the muddy entrance, and the water coated with a fine layer of brown sediment, swirling in thick bands atop the pea green water. The sun shone brightly in the back of the bay, but had only recently appeared and the top layer of water had a surprising chill.

As we struck out around the bend into the early morning shade, a blank vision of green filled my view and I realized how the seasons have turned in the sea, with the top layer now colder than the water below. With each stroke my arms broke through an invisible band of icy water and down into a slightly warmer band. I let myself notice the cold, then turned my attention elsewhere, peering up to gauge Dave’s whereabouts and pick my route forward.

With each breathe on my left side I caught the glimpse of the morning sun rays slicing through the evergreens. Bands of light fell in my path and we made quick progress to the mouth of the bay, where small waves rocked back and forth beyond the spit.

The water was void of debris, save two lone yellow jellyfish below in the fuzzy water, that Dave and I had spotted independently. At one point my leg brushed by something that I was sure could only have been the bell of a large jellyfish, but the sensation was gone so fast I still am not sure what it was. Perhaps a head of kelp, but either way I was relieved that no stinging sensations arrived on my skin and I was glad that I had worn my swim shirt to mitigate any close encounters such as this.

We decided to circle the bay, do the mile swim and as my body cooled ever so slightly I went through my mental checklist of exit options as we cut through the still water.

Swimming’s magical rhythm took over in time and I felt like I was along for a ride with someone else at the helm. My mind danced through wandering thoughts as I passed maple leaves suspended in the water, and autumn colors of reds, oranges and yellows flashed in and out of view along the shore.

No humans were out on the bay on this quiet morning. No seals or river otters or crabs showed themselves to us in the bay.

This time of year is when everything is flipped upside down. We retreat, hide, close in, hole up, seal doors and windows, stoke fires, bundle up and batten down our external and internal hatches.

I marvel at how open water swimming endures through the seasons, how vastly the swims shall change and challenge me through the coming months.

Adjustments, adaptations and creative arrangements must be made in and out of the water as summer surrenders to fall and fall opens itself bare to winter.

As I prepare for the months ahead, I imagine swimming along, drawing up water from below, instead of trying to stay high in the water to reach the warmth.

I shall let myself sink in, and hold onto the warmth deep inside.

And be grateful for my friends—in and out of the water.

A few nights ago I drove to the road end at midnight to say goodbye to a friend.

At band practice I learned that my former coworker, Kym, had just died. Unexpectedly, too early, barely 60.

I hadn’t seen Kym in over a year, and it’s been almost three years since we worked together, taking care of people living with dementia at a local assisted living community.

A few days before I left my job there, Kym presented me with a colored pencil drawing of a butterfly, carefully rendered. And the word, “breathe”. She was aware at the time that breathing was something I was struggling to do, every day. She had drawn the one word that might help, a reminder, a balm to help me through a very dark spring. With a simple gesture, a thoughtful drawing she had presented me with the most eloquent and life affirming word. Never shy to speak her mind or her opinion, sometimes loudly with a laugh to shake the walls, she knew in that moment that a quiet gesture was what I needed most. It meant the world to me, and now it is too late to tell her.

I had spent several months trying to breathe, cope, as my family skidded and swerved through a monumental family crisis. Neither Kym nor my other coworkers at the time had any idea just how much of a crisis I was in, and leaving my post as the Life Enrichment director was just one of many casualties from that terrible time.

I took a big breath when I heard the news of Kym’s death, stepped outside to let it sink in, called my husband, then cried. I needed to say it out loud to him, and tell him that I wished for one more visit with Kym and the chance to thank her for her kindness.

Once home I did what I often do when feeling a lot of emotion—I bake. My sweet husband kept me company via FaceTime, sequestered at the other end of the house fighting off his breakthrough case of Covid. My phone propped up against a bunch of bananas, Josh kept me company as I ground up graham crackers and melted chocolate, filling the void I felt with sugar and noise, clattering measuring cups and activity. I wanted to fend off this unexpected death with the sounds of life– try and make sense of it all through the simple act of making Nanaimo Bars.

Once done, I tucked them away to chill, said goodnight to our youngest and my husband, and headed to the beach.

The sky was aglow from a full harvest moon, and the water awash in a solid blue black. The distant hills lay in black bands, where scattered lights from houses and cars shown like jewels through the darkness.

All was quiet at the beach, with only the awkward sound of my shoes slipping and echoing out upon the water. The crunch and grind of stones and sand and shells beneath my feet was deafening in the inky night, and despite my efforts to walk quietly, I felt like an intruder to this still beach. I wished for the feet of an otter, or cat, able to leap silently over places such as this. Better yet, I wished to move as I may in the water—glide through the invisible layers, float effortlessly and expand into infinity without making a sound.

At the waters’ edge I paused to survey the view.

“Good bye, Kym,” I whispered to the water.

I hope she is flying now “with the angels”, as she’d say, that she met at our workplace. Whenever someone died, she would always smile for them—she believed they were finally free to fly. She said she didn’t have time to be sad, there were so many goodbyes she had done throughout her life, and here, at work. I realize now this was how she coped with so much loss. And she understood that death is a gateway to something bigger than all of us, unknowable but not something to fear.

After my goodbye I squatted down to dip my hands in the cold water. As I lifted the sea water to my cheeks, and then to my forehead (a habit I started last year on days when I don’t swim) little lights flickered brightly where my hands had been.

Phosphorescence.

Kym would have celebrated this moment, marveled with me, and laughed her gravelly full belly laugh at the sight of such wondrous sparkles. Tiny shimmering lights lit up the water, and I lifted the light to my cheeks upon the bright wet wave of a splash.

I stood again, and turned to look at the bright moon high in the sky. All around me the faintest whispers lifted up from the beach. I stood stock still listening to the sounds of clams and crabs burbling and blowing bubbles out all across the wet beach. The beach was giving a quiet symphony, steady and incessant, not unlike the patter of rain.

I didn’t cry any more tears that night. I collected a few shells, brought them home, gave them a wash, and set them on my kitchen windowsill—my mini altar to the Salish Sea. A remembrance to Kym.

I tiptoed out into the damp grass with one shell—a moonsnail—that I had found. Through a window carved by waves and rocks and sand, studded with barnacles, I peered at the moon.

Kym peered back, through the moonlight and shadow bound together within this spiral home, in a place with infinite space to breathe.