I want for nothing in the sea, only my shadow demands to come along tethered to me under the sun, visible only at the edges
There is freedom within my shadow, just as there is freedom swimming in the sea
Swimming under an autumn sun, the sea pushes back now a little more, and the cold is creeping in, but I swim on fast, wrapped in down coats and dazzling sequined jewels, my body itself trailing behind and flowing like a grand ball gown
I have no need for clothes, for the sea is my watery wardrobe
All materials fall away leaving me cast in liquid untethered to anything but the air above, the sky
I reach and stretch, pulling my arms through clear gold, I feel rich like a queen, my gems scattered around me on the sea floor, broken bright white, dark grey round, lacey green wisps curl and I command nothing, and no one here calls my name
Here I make peace with the world
The sea is my confident, my guardian, my trusted friend
My royal court of clams and crustaceans, and my guards the slick headed seals, who drift unseen through my kingdom of waves know that I bow to them, for they rule this kingdom of wind and wave and sand and stone
I ask only for their blessings and forgiveness
I wish them well on their journeys to distant lands, hope they can find safe harbor before winter arrives, find enough food and pass down their stories and songs through the generations
I promise them I shall swim quietly along, and but flash by like a spark, take nothing but visions and hope with me when I crawl to shore dripping puddles and peace around my naked feet
I only ask that they swim and fly and dig and scuttle and drift with intention, show themselves in all their salty glory once in awhile so that we humans may marvel at their exquisiteness, honor their right to live and flourish, and bow to their being
When I stepped into the cold water a few days ago, in pouring rain, under a sky of grey, I wasn’t thinking about seals.
I was thinking about my fully vaccinated husband home sick with Covid.
I was thinking about the exhaustion we experienced —piles of fear and fatigue and relief, the dizzying domino effect and required contact tracing to alert anyone and everyone we were around this past week that Covid made it inside our house. And more calls and texts to reassure concerned family and friends that our youngest and I were negative, and my husband had mild symptoms and we were sure we would all be okay.
I was thinking about how to let it all go for a moment and how the sea might help me center myself again and recharge a weary mind. No mask required, no social distancing needed, just my vaccinated self in a blue suit, goggles, cap and swim buoy.
As I packed up to go to the landing, my husband suggested that now I could write about “swimming through Covid”. We’ve all been swimming through Covid for what seems like forever, but this week it got personal in a real way. And even though it’s a mild case, and he can isolate at our house it was very unnerving.
In my effort to make light of the heaviness we all felt, as we turned the recently vacated bedroom into an isolation chamber for Josh, I joked that our eldest moved out so my husband could move in.
We are making it work, with a vacuum sealed bedroom and trips up and down our tiny hallway several times a day, leaving trays outside the door for “Inmate 204”. It was our youngest sons’ idea, pulling humor out of a not-humorous-at-all situation. Ten days living as if we are in different cities, having “virtual dinners” with each other as we sit mere steps away from each other behind hermetically sealed doors.
At most, a nuisance, but still lonely. Over and over again the “what could have been”and the “what might have been” thoughts lapped the shores of our minds, as we pushed away those crashing thoughts of what might have been if it happened last year when there no vaccines yet available, and we knew so much less.
And now, in this moment we count our blessings, knowing that we are so very, very lucky to be vaccinated while so many people around the world do not have access to this first line of defense.
My afternoon chores complete, I drove to the landing through a steady rain and arrived to rivers of muddy water running down and down into the sea. The small beach was vacant, as only a fool would go out in such weather. Yeah, I know.
As my body curled over like a piece of kelp, slippery and head heavy beside the car, I clumsily gathered my float and cap and goggles, needlessly but instinctually trying to keep the rain off me, even though I was minutes away from full body submersion.
It has been so very long since we had real rain here, any rain, that even I, a lifelong resident of this place was struggling to remember the feel of rain—what to do with it, what to let in, what to let roll off.
My mind wandered to how rainy weather can completely alter a place, blend every vibrant color to one shade of grey, turn light to shadow, and rip the bright light away and bury me in dark moods in the winter under a weight unlike any other.
But on this day I felt tired but secretly thrilled to throw myself out in it, draw it in drop by fresh drop and then add the salty sea.
I was born in late summer, south of here in sunny California. I love the warmth of summer, the bright skies. I still don’t like the darkness. As I braced against the rain and watched large drops fall upon the grey water, I felt the weight of winter suspended before me, but I also felt the circle. Every drop from the sky was coming down into rivers, over roots, landing heavily on green leaves tinged with red, sinking into parched soil, touching everything and mixing on its journey to the sea. I was standing in the circle.
I was like the rain, dripping down hill. I too, was headed for the sea. Unstoppable. Someday I too will evaporate and float up to the sky, turn to cloud and rain down and down into the sea.
I feel my summer energy slowly seeping out of me, as the days grow shorter and the grey sets in. I find myself frantically building a list inside my head of all the tricks I have to cope with winter. I’ll sew and knit and bake cookies and make soup and build fires and play guitar and light candles and swim in the Salish Sea like my life depends on it. I’ll eat more and bundle up in wooly layers after my swims, pull out my selkie suit in the coming weeks and be grateful for the invention of neoprene.
When I reached the landing I hurriedly tossed my fuzzy maroon bathrobe aside, ditched my slippers and tried to duck around the rain drops trying to stay dry seconds before I submerged my entire body. Rain habits die hard. I laughed at myself and immediately felt a lightness ease in.
As I clipped on my orange float and waded in deeper, inch by inch into the clear water, all I could think about was the absence of summer’s warmth upon the water. I wasn’t sure I could rally for this, and who was I to think I was so tough? And what was I trying to prove to myself or anyone skin swimming on the coldest day since last March?
I had no answers, but knew as I stood in the shallows that I couldn’t go back. The cold felt good.
I steeled myself, waste-deep, staring out across the shimmering wet plain of raindrops on water, circles overlapping circles. Tiny single droplets leapt straight up out of each radiating circle perfectly skyward, there and gone, a million voices none repeated.
I let in the mystery and let in the rain and remembered again why I was here. Something here was waiting for me, and I didn’t know what gift I would find, but I knew this was where I belonged, even as my skin grew pimpled and my hands recoiled against the chill.
My eyes scanned the water, watching the endless circles and then I saw him. A seal. His dark head appeared in a blink. Less than 20 feet away, a lone seal cruised lazily past, studying me across the meadow of rain drop flowers. Our gazes locked, and he drifted by gingerly, watching me.
My mind went blank. I stared back and a smile bloomed across my face as I forgot everything. The sensation of cold and the blur of the past week vanished. All I could think about was the seal. He had come for me.
Unlike me he was in no hurry, not ducking raindrops or even remotely fazed by the water from above or below. He was one with his element. How I longed to be of the water so completely like this seal.
And at the sight of this one beautiful creature, a single sleek black body in a sea of grey, I felt release.
Suddenly he dove below, sinking silently into his liquid green world. I felt drawn in. Summoned.
I stood watching for him to resurface. Moments later he reappeared, took one look my way, then I took his picture and he was gone. I tucked my phone away, adjusted my goggles, sucked in my breathe and went looking for him.
As I crossed into his world, my eyes were met by the sight of bright white clam shells and dark rocks. Flecks of summer seaweed, pulled apart by the choppy waves scattered around my churning arms and maple leaves dappled the surface. I dove deeper and looked skyward, trying to see the world through his eyes.
The endless underwater world is almost entirely out of my reach, but still I felt elated to just skirt the edges of the sea, imagine for just a moment that I could swim like a seal.
Every single time I swim in the sea something washes away and something in me grows stronger. By the time I finished my swim in the pouring rain, alone, quiet, with chilled skin and my warm heart beating hard and fast, I felt bigger. Closer to myself.
And at the same time I felt a wonderful smallness, in a good way. The sea has a way of bringing equilibrium to me unlike anything else.
And for this, I am glad. And I know my husband will be okay.
We play music here sometimes, perched carefully upon a float fastened to a bulkhead or set at the end of a long dock, upon the Salish Sea. Real estate is always limited for us three and all our gear, but the view is worth every moment.
There are three of us—a trio—Songbird we call ourselves.
Last summer there were several gigs, on different bays around the island. During one windy performance upon the waters I typically swim, a large gust came through blowing lead sheets into the water. We madly dashed about like startled seagulls, belly laughing with relief that only paper went overboard.
Sound travels far across the water, and our music went I don’t know where, but far enough to leave us feeling full and light and lucky every time, and bringing in listeners out of the shadows, out of their houses, out of their heads. For a moment, maybe two. Songbird Sirens we were.
This summer we set up stage a few times upon small floats, including our most recent one in Eagle Harbor.
A boy had a birthday, there was chocolate cake and boats paddling by, cool-as-cucumber teenagers, and a few humming outboards carrying curious people by in life vests and sunglasses.
Autumn waited in the wispy clouds, just out of sight, hovering like the seal that appeared from time to time to look upon us humans plucking strings, raising our voices in song.
A rainbow of kayaks, full with smiling friends, banded together at the end of the float while we pushed out song after song, leaning into lyrics and melodies as familiar as the sight of seaweed and wind upon the water.
I marveled at how very lucky we all were to be so near the water, upon the water, with the water, making music. A few children splashed in the water behind us while we played, cavorting like young ducks, quacking and calling. If it hadn’t been for my guitar and the setlist, I would have joined them in a hot minute. The water was perfect.
I lost a few lyrics, chords even, as I gazed in wonder out over the harbor, my eyes catching the slick head of a seal. Our job was to sing, perform, entertain —and we did as best we could. This dock gig was to celebrate life and friends and music upon the Salish Sea.
Every performance is unique, is guaranteed to bring a surprise, a challenge, reminding us three and all who listen that music, like life, is achingly beautiful and exquisite because of the imperfections. I write this as I recall my voice cracking in a brief second, when the water looked the most inviting—an escape from myself. My fragile self embarrassed to expose a vocal imperfection. How silly.
It was all I could do to not lose myself entirely, especially at the reappearing sight of the seal —and hold back from pulling off my green dress and just diving in. But the show had to go on. Our music carried across the harbor, to distant docks where people appeared, leaning in and listening.
I hoped our music was pleasing—to the onlookers, the passers by, to the seal.
I hoped that the light in the sky and the sound of music and happy children and the sight of the seal, and each other, stopped them all in their tracks for a moment.
Gave them a reason and excuse to pause.
It all gave me a reason to pause.
There is great beauty in this world, and when we catch a taste of it upon our tongues or in our ears, upon our skin or in our nose or shining bright into our eyes we can pause. If we remember to, if we are awake and able, we aught to.
I hope we pause.
I often forget to myself. I think the happiest people are the ones who remember to pause. Every day. Every hour. I am certain my happiest moments are all set in that space and time when I do pause, take notice, listen and feel for the beautiful.
All is fleeting, but beauty may always be found. Somewhere.
The concert ended and the clouds shifted.
We three smiled. Our floating audience clapped and smiled. It felt good.
A seal heard Songbird. She broke the surface of the water a few times, to listen perhaps, to wonder or maybe, just maybe she was there to summon me back home.
“We must let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the one that is waiting for us.” —Joseph Campbell
Our eldest moved out today to a new town, with new housemates, and new adventures waiting, new challenges to overcome.
No school plans yet, no job yet, just a few boxes of clothes and art supplies, skateboards and dreams all packed helter skelter waiting to be newly arranged, managed and pulled on and tried on and tested to see what might work and feel best.
The fun part was piling his belongings along with his sweet hearts’ into a big box truck, borrowed from D’s fathers’ employer —a local winery. Little brother came along, too, for all of the right reasons.
All four of us, including our dog have a lot to pack and unpack through this next chapter. Our dog was so upset with the turmoil and strange changes in the house that he puked up his entire dinner tonight. Who knew that dogs stress eat too?
The move itself was seamless, with no traffic jams, beautiful ferry rides both ways beneath a wispy white cloud-studded sky, with golden sunshine highlighting waves upon the water. Thick stands of seaweed and twigs rode the blue waves while seagulls soared and danced on air currents pushed up by the ferry. And riding on the wind, as always, was the rich, briny smell of the sea.
There was no time for a swim today, and after a nine-hour day helping our son move north, I found myself after dinner tonight standing still in our eldest’s now vacated room. It was so very quiet—and still a little messy. I paused and sighed and then I began tidying and cleaning.
Like a crab I scuttled back and forth across the floor, wiping up dust bunnies and bits of paper, pencils and dirty coins, folding clothing left behind for little brother to pick through, and all the while organizing my thoughts and trying to make sense of this new chapter and accept that my first born has left the nest.
I cried tears already, a few times over the past week, in anticipation of missing him, bewildered by how fast the time has gone, aching with the physical distance coming, the absence of his daily hugs.
Today, however, felt like a celebration. Our son was so very happy and excited, so eager to get started on doing all of those things that those in the adult ranks get to and have to do. What more could a parent want?
People have often asked me if he “has plans for school”. Yes. He is starting today—the school of life as a young adult, learning all of the things that go with that. And maybe he will pursue higher education down the road too. But not now, he is listening to his own wisdom, his own heartbeat.
And I am so very proud of him.
I knew this day would come just as surely as I know that the sea will be cold every single time I step in. I knew today would be challenging and leave me feeling raw and chilled to my core, just like the shock of cold that set in and slowly dissipated dozens of times as I swam through the deepest darkest days of winter last year in the Salish Sea. But like warm chai post-swim, my youngest warmed me to my core, took away the chill, with his loving presence and serene nature as he helped his big brother take flight.
Yesterday I dashed to the landing to “just take a dip”, with little time before our farewell dinner at D’s mom’s house, but found myself headed due west away from shore even though I knew time was short.
A lone seagull perched upon a small float, and as I approached he ever so slightly shifted his body, turned and took flight, leaving me alone in the sea. Like my eldest, he too, needed to take to the sky, and I needed to stay in the water below and just let him go. Eyes up, heart open. Quiet.
Today as we sailed upon the ferry westward towards home, I scanned the blue water to the north where the water meets the sky and where my son now at this moment is building his first nest. One lone seagull flew close by and low along the ferry deck, and I thought of my son.
I left him grinning from ear to ear with his young love, as the wine truck engine came to life and the young couple did donuts around us in the empty church parking lot from their well -loved van, waving us goodbye. And giggling.
A crazy relief and fear gripped me as I saw the children still alive and well within them, shrouded with an adult mantel.
“They can do this. They will be okay. I will be okay,” echoed through my body like a prayer.
Birds and water.
Before we hugged and said our final goodbyes, I noticed a line of birds perched in a row upon a wire above the quiet alley.
When our eldest was in preschool we would spend the daily drive listening to a program called Bird Note on the radio. A. loved it so much we would purposely arrive late to preschool just so we could hear the endless sounds and stories of birds from around the world. Together we learned of their calls, their habits, their vast migration routes, their incredible speed and agility and their critical role in our own survival.
How perfect that seagulls caught my eye swimming yesterday and upon the water today, and when we said goodbye. How lovely it was to see a flock of geese soaring overhead as we left our neighborhood today.
A. is my bird son. And he has taken flight.
Like a seagull I hope he will try one perch then another, then another keeping an eye out for eagles and other birds of prey. Taking flight when he needs to, and staying put when he needs to.
I hope he will spend time solo, riding upon floats out at sea, looking for food, listening for the call of other gulls, resting, breathing. Remembering that just being is enough. He is enough right now.
I hope he will dive like a cormorant into the deep, then resurface, always full bellied and wet, flapping to a nearby boat or piling to spread his wide wings and dry off. Feel the sun, feel the wind, love the rain.
I hope he will remember to sit still at night like the owl, and wide eyed call out into the night when he needs a friend, or help, his voice echoing through the cedar trees, bouncing off the moonlight to reach a kind ear hidden in the forest.
I hope he will beat his wings fast and hard like a hummingbird and sip sweet nectar slowly even as life is whipping through him at a breakneck pace.
And I hope he will travel far north and south, like the wild geese, following his own inner clock, his own heart beat, and take solace in the rhythm of the changing seasons.
And I hope he will return home from time to time, whenever he needs to check on his first nest. The one we built together—his dad, his brother and me. The very nest he was born in, uttered his first cries in, drank his first milk in, danced and played in.
I hope he will bring his feathered friends along too, sometimes, so a chorus of bird songs can fill the air. I will sing too.
And I will keep singing even when he flies away again, because I know his heart will be full of songs and stories, and his belly will be full for I shall feed him. Always.
P.S. I am excited to let you in on a little secret! I am creating a Patreon site. Stay tuned for details.
I crossed an acre of seaweed and sand to reach the shore yesterday.
I had forgotten how long it can take to reach the water on a tide like this.
I travelled alone, mid day, hours earlier than usual, with work waiting at the other side and a craving so strong to have a watery adventure that no tide, no matter how low could stop me.
Tip toeing around piles and shimmering wet strips of seaweed, appearing like jumbled scarves and heaps of forgotten laundry piles on wet sand, I navigated to the water’s edge with warm sunshine on my back. A lone blue heron fished from the shallows while seagulls pecked at the piles of seaweed, unhurried and glassy- eyed.
The sandy shallows were crowded with clusters of hearty seaweed and eel grass, punctuated every so often by red rock crabs as big as my feet. I continued on to deeper water, as flounder and sculpins darted hastily away from my fleshy shadow, perfectly camouflaged to match the grey sand beneath their smooth bodies. Momentary wisps of sand stirred up by their whipping frenzy of motion kept my eyes darting back and forth, searching snd seeking for more. The sight if so much life around me, wild life, made me smile. I felt hope.
This beach, at the south end of the island, was my dad’s stomping ground long ago. The Bremerton ferry passes by daily through Rich Passage, and where yesterday I got to see for myself the riches of this place—below the water’s surface.
The water held a strong cold punch, but the sunshine and shallow beach made the temperature tolerable as I lifted off and pulled southward over the stands and drifts of seaweed.
With my head above water I carefully swam along the shore, orientating myself to this brand new place in the water, feeling the thrill and slight anxiety of swimming in a new place. Alone.
I ticked off my safety list—fully inflated orange swim buoy? Check. Keeping to shallow water for quick exit if needed? Check. iPhone in event of real trouble, including run in with magnificent sea creature needing to be photographed? Check. Swim shirt fully zipped in event of run in with Lion’s Mane jellyfish? Check.
A solid row of beach houses sat silent along the shore, and I glanced over feeling utterly blessed to have my view from in the water. Nearby a flock of jet black cormorants perched in a ring around the gunnel of an inflatable boat, like candles on a cake. My approach gave them fright and they took off in haphazard unison, their heavy bellies skimming over the water, likely loaded down with tiny fish.
Once my nerves settled and the chill wore off I put my face down into the cool water again and settled in to take in the view below.
On my return trip I swam through murky water, just able to make out the curved bodies of hundreds of fish darting in schools among the seaweed. A glowing pink orb caught my eye, and once I ascertained that it was not a stinging jellyfish but a pink anemone I swam closer to take a look. My eyes darted from one to the next and with silent glee my heart swelled at the sight of these lovely creatures, that I have so rarely viewed during my swims.
The low tide held gifts I needed to see today. It took courage to step outside my comfort zone and swim this new place, alone, and at low tide.
As I walked up the beach over the seaweed flats and up to the fluffy warm sand, I realized how much I was needing to change my routine, push myself out into new waters, and marveled again at how much life there is to see above and below the waves.
As I caught my breathe upon a log, sinking my cold feet into the warm dry sand I looked back over the flats. A cloud of black dots swirled together in the blue sky, the shape undulating and twisting low over the beach. I pulled on my glasses just in time to witness a whizzing ball of sandpipers set down upon the seaweed.
My swim was over, but their feast was just beginning. What a fine day for all of us. I almost forgot everything for a moment.
Bliss. I think that is what I found at low tide, where the Salish Sea revealed a bit more of her glorious beauty to me, and I met her where I could—in the shallows.
There is so much to see between a single breath between the waves, and only one breath before the entire view changes. That is life in the sea. That is life. Period.
Today I swam south with the tide, pushed by the wind, carried away in a salty seaweed soup.
Bright seaweed in shades of green and red, white and brown grazed my fingers, caught on my goggles, swirled through my legs, pulling my attention back into now. This watery journey, this sacred space I love to visit, usually alone, where my singular job is to stay afloat and see all that I can see above and beneath the endless waves.
Large maple leaves appeared every so often as I worked my way south through the fuzzy, warm water, hinting at autumn’s arrival, and winter’s distant, dark approach.
The high tide submerged the beach entirely, where trees still laden with leaves—some scorched from the intense heat wave—sat still in brilliant green, or edged in burnt brown.
Unsure how far I would go, I pulled myself along, my legs beating a steady rhythm behind me as gusts of wind blew my orange float against my back, tapping on my shoulders like an anxious child vying for attention.
As I left the last houses behind me, the wind died down and the seaweed soup dissipated, leaving me in a quiet sea of green water. A few seagulls soared overhead, and I imagined my body a boat far out at sea. The gulls would lead me back to safety—my beady-eyed guardians. In the distance I spotted the bright white triangle of a sailboat, and smelled the salt. The smell reminded me that I was already home.
A few days ago I met up with a stranger to swim in the sea with her. Like me, she grew up here. Like me, she loves the open water and also has many childhood memories of splashing in these rich waters. She had found my blog and wished to swim in the sea with me, as her swims as an adult have been mostly in a lake near her home. She was tentative to swim in the salty brine alone, and had asked me to “show a newbie” how to get started. I was happy to pay it forward, sharing what I’ve learned, just as my neighbor Dave did for me last year.
Love of water brought us together. Her quiet, gentle demeanor calmed me and I sensed a grace within her that I often long to nurture within myself.
In the water is where I feel the most graceful, the place I know will nurture me and support me without a word. Submerged in liquid I find my edges, feel the power within my body, know that I too have an inner strength and that I can make it alone.
As we shared a swim together we talked of life, of motherhood, of swimming’s magic qualities that keep us coming back.
She followed my lead and donned a cap and goggles, to swim freestyle with me and practice dual side breathing. Like today, the water was soft and free of jellyfish.
I was grateful for the chance to meet another swimmer, share some stories, get wet.
And today, I was equally happy to have a date with myself. I had no one to talk to, no one to wait for and keep pace with, no one to influence where I might end up.
The incoming tide, wind and warm water egged me on and in time I found myself several hundred yards away from one of my father’s oldest friend’s houses.
I beached myself, plopped upon the warm sand and lay my feet into a thick blanket of fresh seaweed hugging the shore. As I sat staring out across the serene expanse of water, the surface a quilt of folded glass reflecting the clear sky above, I felt full.
I remembered this beach, remembered arriving here by boat as a child, my dad’s hair blown back by the bouncing boat ride, the brown of his cheeks. Both of us smiling, so happy upon the water. As I reached back into old memories I watched them pass in and out of view, shining and sparkling like sunlight on the waves.
My swim was over for the day. As I mounted the stairs and arrived breathless at the house, I was that little girl again. I stood still, water collecting in a small puddle at my feet, waiting for the door to open.
Through the glass, Carol approached, opened the door and welcomed me in for a cookie, a drink of water and some fresh figs topped with goat cheese. She dashed about ready to prop my wet self up with sustenance. It was as if they had been expecting me.
Sandy brought out a towel, and we stood us three upon their deck to gaze out at the brilliant waves of blue. We reminisced about those endless summer days of long ago.
Sandy drive me back to my car, and we talked of the things we care about the most—the people we love. Our children growing older, his grandchildren and my parents, my beautiful sister.
It was a good swim. And in half a blink it was over and done, drifting back into the recesses of my mind to hover like seaweed with a thousand million sweet memories. Like the sea, too vast to contain, too swift to count, too raw to ever fully understand.
I’ll pull out my selkie suit, scramble down muddy bank
Through ice and mud and green water I’ll find, myself once again with a quieter mind
I’ll swim to remember, I’ll swim to forget
Invisible dreamer, salted and wet
No one shall call me, no one shall dare
As I swim among seals, held captive in care
————————————————————-
September returned today and children here, including my youngest son, went back to school. The early fall sun shone warm and soft upon the water, hanging in a sky of brilliant cloudless blue, as it always seems to do on the first day of school. Big yellow busses bumbled around the island as kids clustered about kicking gravel, waiting to board, their colorful backpacks stuffed to the brim with pencils and lunches and extra masks.
It all looked so normal, except for the masks, and the house was quiet for the first time in a year and a half.
The bay was quiet too, with no children in sight, as brave teachers flung windows wide open and welcomed fresh eyes and hidden smiles into well ventilated classrooms across the island.
Summer is over, and with it a tentative hope has arrived with the tide that maybe we will have a bit of normalcy again. The term “in person school” wasn’t even a thing before Covid-19. How much our world has changed.
Next week I’ll return to teaching art, but this week and today gifted me with time to swim under autumn’s sunny skies. We have been blessed with smoke-free skies, unlike last year, and we are very lucky to live in a place where most of the residents follow science and are vaccinated if able.
Still, unease floats in my mind, and every parent holds optimism in a slippery grasp, as time will tell whether Covid-19 can be kept at bay and our children stay healthy and in classrooms where they so desperately need (and deserve) to be.
Late in the afternoon I grabbed my float and edged into the water at the head of the bay at high tide. Tiny mosquitos zoomed low over the water, a cool mixture of salt and fresh water where the salmon stream spills out over the muddy bay.
Even under sunny skies, the water temperature is noticeably cooler, as night temperatures have dropped, taking the warm water away. As soft mud oozed between my toes and I stood still, letting the cold seep in, I recalled swimming in the bay during the extreme heat wave in late June. The water was as warm as tea and I remembered scooping up cooler water from below to try and cool off as I swam.
Today, the water felt just as it should feel this time of year—fresh and cool, hinting at winter and the intense chill it will bring. Another little taste of normalcy. I felt relief.
I took a quick dive under into my watery world, to force the cool against my skin, then a moment above to pull on my cap and goggles and get under way. A wall of clear green filled my view below the water, and a sparkling blanket of tiny diamonds stirred up by a gentle breeze shimmered upon the surface a few hundred yards ahead. I glanced up and low across the water right before me, smooth as glass, broken only by my strokes. Like a glass artist, my body moved clear liquid, bringing momentary shapes and ripples to life only to melt back to nothingness moments later. Absorbed. Absent. No trace remaining.
The clear water was calming, visibility being the best friend to any open water swimmer, especially in saltwater. I could rest assured that I would have time to duck or glide safely around any stinging jellyfish, and maybe be able to spot some other sea life below me—a seal would be nice. Or perhaps a crab, a school of minnows or some starfish, like the few Liz and I spotted a few days ago.
“A birthday star for you,” she had exclaimed, as we marveled at the sight of a 5-legged beauty on my forty eighth birthday.
As I carried on through the back bay, I prepared myself mentally to see a seal. I felt strong and powerful, pulling hard through the water, ready to meet a seal again.
Several weeks ago I had a very close encounter with a resident seal, and the experience thrilled and startled me. Like an unexpected gift, she appeared directly below me, gliding forward beneath me, her body a fuzzy mass of grey white.
I had been on the brink of tears, a private grief had risen up while I swam alone, in the middle of the bay. Like my quiet grief, out of nowhere, this seal also appeared. The surprise jolted me back into the present moment.
I paused and scanned the surface for her, tears suspended on my cheeks, and found her beside me a dozen feet to my left, effortlessly escorting me along. She went below, and I turned, sensed motion and found her right behind me. As I glanced a flash of eyes and white, my unbridled fear of being touched by her or bitten by her took over and I kicked wildly hoping to frighten her away. She disappeared in a flash , and my fear was replaced with guilt that I was trespassing in her world, and let myself be overcome with irrational fear scaring her unnecessarily.
She did not show herself again that day. Nor did I see her today.
I swam clear out to the landing and swam hard and fast all the way back to the muddy bank.
And I wished for the seal to appear.
And I wished for fearlessness.
And I wished for more starfish and crabs.
And I fantasized swimming all the way around the island—one mile at a time—the place I have called home for almost my entire life.
Perhaps I will swim around the island. Eventually.
In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes focused on the water around me, watch for more seals and tuck my hope for brighter days in a moon snail shell —for safe keeping.
As the crabbing season is short in our marine zone, just over a month long and only allowed Sundays and Mondays, I made the most of the first open weekend to drop pots both days, my shiny new crabbing license in hand. We pulled up pots crawling with decent size rock crabs, (no Dungeness) and spent hours after cooking, cleaning, picking and eating our harvest. Good meat, but a lot of work!
The crab was worth the effort, but after a busy weekend pulling pots I was ready for a leisurely row with my dog and maybe a short swim.
Rocky and I rowed the bay, and oogled this beauty from the safety of the aluminum boat. This white and yellow jellyfish, though a close cousin to the Lion’s Mane, being equal in size and mystery, supposedly does not carry as powerful a punch to unsuspecting swimmers that cross its stringy tentacles.
Though I appreciate this information, I was in no mood to test this theory, having been on the receiving end of a mighty Lion’s Mane once this summer. If these white masses can deliver a sting even remotely close to its cousin, I will steer clear at all costs.
But from the boat, it was indeed beautiful. It hovered a bit like a strange accident, a creature with no well defined edges, beginning or end, almost like a partly finished project by Mother Nature—almost as if she just got tired trying to sort the mess out. Still, she was lovely in that unpolished, hairy way. Suspended in lime green water, riding the outgoing tide.
We slowly drifted apart on the quiet bay and I sat silent with my furry companion, transfixed and rudderless, watching two feathers float along the green surface, dancing and spinning like tiny clouds.
We eventually reached the spit, beached the boat and my happy dog leapt out to follow his nose. A buffet of smells greeted him as he zigzagged nearby, his white-tipped tail wagging wildly.
With the boat safely beached, I tucked my shorts and phone on the seat and stepped into the water. A quick dive under and refreshed as ever, I reached up to my face. No glasses. No glasses in the boat.
After a fruitless and slightly frantic 10 minute search in the water, the tide pulling water past my bare feet, taking my glasses with it, I accepted my losses. The glasses by now were probably nestled among the clams or in the clutches of a startled crab.
As we hopped back into the boat a moon snail shell caught my eye.
The Salish Sea and I made an unscheduled trade—my glasses (that I typically wear all the time, except when swimming) for this fantastic viewing of a massive yellow jellyfish and a moon snail shell to add to my collection.
It was a pretty good trade.
I can replace my glasses, and until then I thankfully have a spare pair to stumble around in. I’m certain I’m at least a good year overdue for an eye exam anyway.
I guess I do kind of lose myself when I swim in the sea—and it’s worth it.
I enjoyed you from afar today. You hovered, your smooth bell open like a summer flower, petals stretching soft and wide into the green water around you.
I saw your underbelly as you rotated slowly just below the surface. From here, in this boat, your tentacles could not reach me. I strained my eyes to see into the green water around you to discover just how far you could send your mighty sting. Your fluffy underbelly a tangle of wavy red ribbons, a bowl of spaghetti.
You were beautiful. I’m sorry for demonizing you. Your mighty sting hurt me once, and I forgot to see and tell of your beauty.
We must look past your sting and see you for what you are—a flower drifting on the currents.
You do not hurry, you do not hate, you do not fear, or envy or judge. You pulse like a giant broken heart, red blood strands trailing behind you like a thousand veins.
I watched you today, studied you, followed you slowly upon my boat. I was careful to not touch your body with my oars. I took your picture. I marveled at your size. I gauged how deep your kind can swim, how close to the surface you can rise.
If I can know you, understand you, see you for what you are, I won’t have to fear you. This water is yours after all.
You still might very well sting me again someday, if I carelessly cross your path. You drifting, me churning as usual. Your swim looks effortless, mine….not so much.
You kept my mind on you today. I watched you and forgot to worry about the world for a moment. You reminded me to return to the present.
You reminded me that all life is fragile and beautiful.
You reminded me to slow down and get quiet. Quiet my thoughts, my racing heart.
Your body pulsed slowly, opening and closing to its own rhythm like a beating heart.
And you were alone out there, or so it seemed.
Do you also prefer to swim alone?
Will the water be able to support your life and mine through the coming tides of time, as the Earth heats up and the water gasps?
Will you survive through the winter or wither and die like a blood red flower of the sea?
What will sustain us both but this shady green sea of life?
And will you make room for me when I return?
You will?
Fantastic. I don’t take up much space. Just a little. And I promise to give you a wide berth.
Mary Swims 