Today I took my first swim at Lytle Beach. The warm air and dazzling water diamonds beneath the spring blue sky were a gift to my eyes, and a relief to my body. Even in a full wetsuit I felt the chill today , but the sunshine delivered a bit of warmth to the early spring sea, and swimming through the shallows over eel grass and sand flats I could almost imagine summer again. It was so very long ago, but suddenly signs of summer are appearing in and out of the water.
Bright yellow daffodils bloomed happily next to the parking lot, while birds chirped and hopped about in the adjacent gardens.
I was all set, had packed everything, excited to try this new beach…but I forgot my swim float. Carefully weighing my options and eyeing the shallow beach, I opted to throw a bright green swim cap over my black hood to add visibility and swim in the shallows. No swim float meant taking extra precautions, and I was glad to have my neon green cap on to alert anyone about that I was not a seal in distress. Just a lone swimmer.
Peering up and down the wide beach, I decided to head south. I crossed over the dry sand studded with shell fragments, then over the wet rocks littered with seaweed and lastly the muddy sand flats where flocks of seagulls and ducks fished along the shore and in the shallows.
Out in the sparking water past a red channel marker, a ferry passed by on its way to Bremerton through Rich Passage.
I waded in over a bed of eel grass, the sunlight turning the waving fronds a bright neon green, while shards of sunlight kissed the rocks and sand below with golden light.
This new swim spot already was surprising me with new delights and pulling me into the moment—the place I so desperately needed to be.
Large Dungeness crabs peeked out among the beds of eel grass and the outgoing tide lifted large feathered fronds of brown seaweed up towards the surface, angling towards my churning body like underwater arms reaching out to brush softly on my fingertips. These long fronds reminded me of the tall underwater plants found in fresh lakes that used to spook me as a child. To this day I still dislike lake swimming because of those creepy plants, and was surprised to find them in the saltwater. I guess I have a lot more to learn about the Salish Sea, and what lives and grows there!
I know kelp forests abound, but somehow these shallow water seaweeds surprised and alarmed me. Nevertheless, I overcame my fear and continued on. These plants aren’t out to get me or pull me under, and once I reassured myself I was okay, I was able to look forward to passing by more of them along my route.
Seeing the occasional crab was both reassuring and familiar, reminding me that summer will come, and the circle of life continues on. The water is still much too cold for our beloved jellyfish, but in time they too will reappear.
I was delighted to also pass over vibrant orange anemones with feathery fingers, tucked here and there along the sea floor. I reached a line of pilings a half mile south of the parking lot, where a flock of cormorants perched, drying their wet wings. As I approached the pilings below them, they took flight, scattering like seeds. The current pulled me south, and with some effort I headed north again back to the start. A ferry passed by, rocking me and sending the eel grass and long seaweed fronds swaying, liquid dancers rocking in perfect synchronicity.
For a moment I felt of the water, rocked along with the seaweed below me. In perfect harmony. Floating free and easy.
Nearly back my eye caught the unmistakable shape of a star. One lone orange starfish sat on the sea floor. I dove down to gently stroke its soft back. A thank you and wish for more of its family to thrive and grow here again.
Back at Lytle I found myself in very shallow water, the inner heat from my exertion and the sun-warmed water a soul soothing blessing, radiating warmth and calm inwards and outwards from my being.
I rose up onto my feet into sunlight and warm air. A father and son played in the mudflats, the boy stomping about in bright rubber boots. Up the beach another father and daughter stood upon a makeshift seesaw log, keeping in perfect balance, neither side touching the sand below.
The moment was perfect. Perfect balance. Light and beauty and people peacefully taking in the day.
And everywhere around me, layers and layers of life, with all of its shadows of loss and difficulty and strife, stacked in and between layers and layers of love and hope and friendship.
But the turn of life is slow. The unfolding, the discovery, the wisdom, the epiphanies and the acceptance. Acceptance is the slowest of all.
A few days ago I swam in the late afternoon sunlight at Fletcher’s Landing. Liz met me, all smiles and carrying her own fatigue with her. My bag was heavy too.
As we walked to the water’s edge an eagle cried from the tree tops nearby, signaling something—warning or battle cry? A birdlike call for a dinner date? These cries of the eagle never cease to amaze me, pull me into the moment, make me marvel at the magnificence of nature.
The water was like glass, the Olympic Mountains beamed brightly under the mid-March sun and the only company we had were a few birds. Tossing our fatigue aside, we zipped up our suits and waded in to the glassy water. There was not a puff of wind, the only movement the incoming tide.
South we swam, gasping at the spike of cold cutting our faces, but we rose up rosy. Our cheeks glowing pink, blood from our inner depths rising to the surface reminding us that our hearts beat strong, our bodies know how to keep us breathing. Afloat. Energy came to us like a sudden gift, and onward we swam.
We are so fragile. All of us. And so strong in the ways that matter, too.
Our thoughts and inner dreams as fragile and changeable as the surface of the water. One tiny pebble, one raindrop, one wisp of wind has the strength to break the surface. Sunbeams and cloud shadows and rainbows, twigs and herons and pilings and ships and sailboats transform the colors on the surface.
The water reflects everything. Absorbs everything. Dazzles everything. Makes cheeks turn rosy and offers calm to everyone lucky or crazy enough to get in.
As the sun touched down on the horizon, melting like a hot pat of butter, burning the tree tops, we turned northwards for the return to the landing. My view right flickered to the sideways beach, high tide, my eyes marking the familiar colors of the houses, the bulkheads and stairways. On every other stroke my view opened to the setting sun, the flash of still water, a glimpse of the bumpy distant hills growing dark below the fading light.
Days later I find myself thinking about the fading light, the momentary flashes of the world seen sideways, swimming in the Salish Sea.
I recall the heron I captured on camera, after our swim, on my drive to pick up my youngest son at his friend’s house. Wading through the shallows, fishing after the sun had set, long legged and sure footed, his body another reflection on the still water.
What a gift it is to notice the reflections upon the water, to see your own reflection in the water, and let it change you, and remind you that you are apart of the whole.
I’ve been hiding out a bit lately. Figuratively and literally.
More out of the water than in the water, as the last two weeks have included a lot of treading water. On land.
And hesitating. Like that feeling right before you put your foot into the cold water, preparing for a swim, just before, because you know it’s going to be a jolt and you’re not sure you can bear it. You recall that it felt good in the past, but everything keeps changing so fast that you recoil in fear, unsure if the water will hold you up or pull you under. If you step forward you will have to feel. And you already are flooded with feelings. You aren’t sure you can handle more feeling right now.
You want to trust the water. It hasn’t let you down yet. But life does. People get old too fast, people get sick too young, and leave your head spinning.
And with all this spinning, sometimes the weight you carry on land is enough to make you sink like a stone. Or rise and surge forward like the crest of a wave, all bubbles and glittering watery diamonds, a million bubbles singing joy.
The crest is like when your baby boy, all smiles and sparkling blue eyes suddenly turns eighteen. Overnight. You just nursed him then swaddled him and sang him the Lion-sleeps-tonight song, and he woke the next morning having sprouted six feet overnight, now clutching car keys and a map to the moon, wearing that same wide grin that makes your heart burst.
He’s headed to outer space. But you don’t get to go with him. He is preparing to fly solo around the sun. Your job is to stand by for his return and feed him his favorite foods, help with the refueling, be available if he needs a wingnut or a silent cup of tea and a mom that will listen when the flight through the stars gets dicey.
Then there are the sink-like-a-stone moments when you just can’t wake up from the reality that is yours now—that moment over and over again that is time going by and your parents getting old. Fast. Really fast and you aren’t sure what your job is exactly anymore and you are so tired that you are already cold just thinking about a swim and you don’t want any more cold. You just want to be swaddled. Nursed back to your own babyhood. In the time before.
You just want the water. Womb time. You don’t swim to prove anything. You don’t swim to break a record or even get stronger. You swim because it helps you feel the cold but rise above it. You are reminded that you are bigger than the cold and the dark of depression.
You want to swim because you faintly recall that the last time you went you did feel better afterwards. And you saw fuzzy pale orange and white anemones. Like the first flowers of spring under the water—and you’d never seen those before.
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Today I stepped into the water at the landing. It took every ounce of will to take that step back in. I didn’t bother with a wetsuit. The late afternoon March sun shone brightly and sweetly down on the water, my skin, and the seagulls scattered along the beach. An eagle startled from a nearby tree as I approached the beach, the perch not more than a few car lengths away from me.
I stood for a long time up to my knees, cinching in my float buoy over my red suit, staring at the distant mountains. Perfect mountains, etched in a hazy blue, beneath a perfect sky.
I splashed my face, I dove. And then I swam like hell, as the freezing water felt like shards of metal on my skin. I kept my face down, staring at the bottom, pulling stroke after stroke until my lungs demanded I breathe. I caught my breath and repeated my rapid swim-no-breath approach, blowing out a slow string of bubbles, my entire being focused on forward motion. Swim fast enough to not feel.
I made it as far as the swim float to the south. My skin was on fire. But I was awake, I had made it back in and I could come back again. I gazed around. A few ducks floated on the water, a few kayakers drifted near the mouth of the bay, and the sun sank in a golden buttery orb of light behind the blue mountains.
I know I can’t slow time, can’t change the tides, can’t stop my babies from leaving. Can’t stop my parents from leaving.
We all leave. But I think we all come back too. Somehow. On the crest of a wave, glimmering like diamonds over the water.
Birds of the sea. They are everywhere— above the water, on the water, under the water, near the water. Just outside our door and out on the bay.
Some days lone herons let out haunting croaks that rattle across the bay at night, echoing loudly over the green waters and reaching clear to our house, tucked in the trees out of view. Flocks of geese pass over our house on the way to the bay sometimes, their boisterous calls distinct and persistent, sounding their direction, their right to fly south or north or whichever direction they must go. On special days, when the world is quiet, and they fly low I can hear the flutter of their wings like the hush hush of a mother to her sleepy child.
There are many other birds here too. Crows pop in and about freely, wise to the ways of humans and always eager to find tasty morsels on the beach, in the road—cracker crumbs left by little humans with chubby fingers. Kingfishers live around the bay, masterful divers, they spear the water with their bodies like arrows expertly catching fish. Smaller birds live along the spit, yelling wildly should any creature come too close to their beach nests. And Cormorants, large black diving birds stop by too sometimes, to perch atop the pilings to dry their wide wings after their cold water dives.
At night, barred owls will sometimes hoot right outside our windows, followed by replies coming from neighbors trees and rooftops. If I’m in bed and awake, I will leap up to slide open the window and tune in to the owl radio hour. It’s magical every time. The stories always heart warming.
On the bay there are also ducks, of course. Little duos and trios, near shore, always bobbing with seemingly perfect ease upon the waves, taking turns diving and keeping watch for each other or so it seems. Large flocks of ducks congregate out farther in the channel some days, their numbers so large they appear like dark clouds fallen from the sky. Visiting birds from far off places arrive in winter, reminding us of the rhythms of the seasons, the eternal churn of change.
And then there are the eagles and songbirds. Several resident eagles live on the bay, king of all the birds, they perch high up at the tops of huge cedar and fir trees, commanding the sky and water and all of life that carries on below. Their unmistakable cries never fail to reach my ears and turn my head skywards, my eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of their magnificence. And far below, tucked in the shadows of these towering trees, hidden from the eagles’ gaze, among thousands of bushes and small trees and leafy hideouts sing the songbirds, fluttering and sorting their lives, and their twiggy nests, hatching eggs and blessing us with music.
On this last day of February, I started the day with a walk to the beach with my dog. Songbirds fluttered in the bushes along the road, the spring light glowing through the morning like a song. At the landing, we found seagulls. Dozens of them.
I felt like an intruder as we stood still while these commonly seen sea birds soared and fluttered around us in every direction, tumbling like pages of discarded homework upon the light breeze. The beach feast must have been tremendous, as every bird in view seemed to take a turn plucking clams from the low tide, then flying quickly upward and around in great circles to pick the right spot to drop their catch, letting the rocks do the hard work for them—unlocking breakfast.
As we stood there watching, I realized that I have never paused that long to watch seagulls. Really study them for any length of time. Ever. Something about the spring glow, the softness in the air and the energy around us, and the striking number of gulls stopped me in my tracks. Seagull after seagull flew by along the water or just over our heads, their beaks partway open, holding tightly to their round treasures as they prepared to let go and watch the shells crack open revealing the gooey contents within.
The feast continued, the birds seemingly nonplussed by our arrival. We walk towards the spit, where more gulls and a few crows lit upon the beach, or flapped by low over the water. I stooped to look at a shell, when suddenly the air was rattling with a chorus of seagull cries and the familiar caw of agitated crows.
Suddenly they all took flight en masse, filling the sky in blacks and whites like dominoes, abandoning their feast and taking to the air, all beaks pointing west out of the bay.
I looked up for a reason. Yes, an eagle. The king of the bay flew high overhead, successfully scattering the smaller birds of the bay, in a sudden flash of feathers and a chorus of squawking warnings.
Just as soon as I saw him, this great bird disappeared far off to the west, as the dining birds around us settled back in to finish what they had begun.
On the walk home I listened quietly to the birds singing in the bush, the promise of spring ringing in their songs, and I listened too, to the soft patter of my dog’s feet squishing through the soft mud lining the street.
To hear is a miracle. To really listen is a gift we can give ourselves, and others, every day.
On land, sounds flow freely into our ears, for better or worse, but in the water most sounds disappear or come in muted rumbles. It is relatively quiet in the water, and sometimes I can hear no sounds at all. Some senses are heightened there, others dampened.
In the afternoon I gathered my swim kit and set out for Blakely Harbor to meet my newest swim buddy, Liz. I predicted that the water would be calmer there than Fletcher Landing, and told Liz I was wanting a still water swim.
The sun broke through as we stepped into the quiet water, and few birds showed themselves, save a handful of ducks enjoying the calm waters of the bay. Our main escort was a silver headed seal, much to my delight. This would be a good swim.
We swam west, along the shore and under the footbridge, our glistening faces cold and happy, my spirit soaring as we explored this new place together. The cold water woke me up from my multi-day brain slumber and heavy mood, again the water worked it’s magic and again I felt like I had returned home. And I felt bright.
Blackened pilings lined the beach around the harbor. At low tide dozens of stumps are visible from the old sawmill, once one of the largest in the world, milling lumber here to send by tall ship to far off lands around the globe. There was once an entire town and Japanese American village here too, on the hill, a melting pot of people and cultures from over a dozen countries.
As we floated along I wondered about those people, the lives lived in this place, and as I stopped to eye our seal friend I wondered about her ancestors. Perhaps they swam with and kept watch over the many faces that laughed and cried and sang and spoke around this harbor when the sawmill was here and farther back still when the First Peoples were here, harvesting and foraging and building lives and memories.
I guess new memories are still made here, in this harbor. Some enjoy this view daily from waterfront homes, or from their home in the water, or watercraft large and small, others from the tops of cedar trees, others from the shore in the company of old friends and young dogs and every one else in between. Young people, my teenage sons among them, have filled the harbor with their voices and art, adding their spray paint marks to the one lone shell of a building which stands like a rainbow-colored beacon along the shore. A public art palette of graffiti, with layers and layers of old paint. Huge red letters on the east side facing the bay read, “RBG”, marking in bold lettering the life of a bold, smart woman.
Our silky swim companion stayed with us as we made our way around the bay, the only company we had. We would pause and find her peering at us from a safe distance, floating lazily in her liquid world. She would sink under and we would swim a bit, only to stop again to find she had blown past us by a long shot, while our chests heaved and our cheeks grew rosy, reflecting the work we had to do to stay afloat. Her path seemed haphazard and unpredictable, at least to us, but she was always there. She always reappeared if we were patient and took the time to look around.
As we swam under the footbridge, the current picked up and swept us in to the middle of the back bay. Our return trip required considerable effort, fighting the tide, but the wind stayed light and the water calm.
As we approached the shore, I caught a glimpse of the seal swimming below me. She appeared low and to my left, not more than a few feet away—like a pale yellow torpedo, speckled in grey dots. There, then gone.
We kept swimming, while my heart soared and our water friend surfaced to offer one more goodbye—or perhaps make sure we didn’t overstay our welcome. Liz exited the water and I turned to hover near the seal. I watched water glistening in the sun on her dark silver and black speckled head. She was a cars length away, at most, and after a sideways glance she turned away, showing me the back of her head.
Perhaps she was done with me. Or found me boring. Or maybe she turned away because she felt safe. I was not a threat. She was not a threat. And I felt safe too.
And all was quiet. And cold. And peaceful among the ghosts of this harbor, save for a few songbirds chittering in the brush along the empty beach.
The sea is a great equalizer. But things aren’t equal.
I met up with a stranger yesterday to take a swim at Blakely Harbor. Having never met this woman before, I had a hurdle to overcome that I hadn’t anticipated when I put out a call for company earlier in the day on a FB group.
I was angry. Boiling over with anger as I arrived at the beach, gathered my swim kit and pulled myself to calm preparing to meet up with a complete stranger. I suppose I could have backed out, but that felt awkward and I knew I could make small talk and get into the water, and, hopefully sort it out there.
I constantly have to check myself as I write, knowing full well that exposing my heart and life can be dangerous. Many folks who read these stories know me, to some degree more or much less, and to others I am but a stranger.
This morning I woke to reflect on yesterday’s swim, trying to make sense of what happened in and out of Blakely Harbor.
I am happy to report that the kind woman I met was easy to meet in the place I found myself. Had I been alone in that moment, with my anger, I may not have succeeded in finding the peace I needed to find. And the understanding beneath the anger.
As we prepared for the water, standing barefoot on broken shells and grey sand, I learned that she is a mother too, of at least one son. Like me she raised a boy, hers much older than my own two sons. She shared with me that his partner has fallen under the spell of open water swimming, and she said this pleased her immensely.
I have yet to meet an open water swimmer not thrilled to bring others over to the sea-side, and share this magical world with them.
I said that I myself had received “cool mom” points, open water swimming through winter. She said she doesn’t swim for points, but for the joy it brings. I do too, but the truth remains that most every parent I know wants their kids to like them, be in some way inspired by them.
We stepped into the still water as the clouds rolled in, blocking out the sun in spurts. Tiny waves lapped the shore over crystal clear water. She, nearly twenty years my senior, wore nothing but booties, swimsuit and cap while I fussed one final time adjusting my full selkie suit and thermal cap.
She told me she used to wear a wetsuit, but no more, having once upon a time been pleased to discover the wonders of a wetsuit which allowed her to swim in the cold sea. But now she managed without, swimming twice weekly throughout the year. I envied her the hassle-free effort of hopping in to the cold water with just a swim suit.
Our swim plan was East, out and around the nearby dock and along the beach. She told me she doesn’t care for swimming with seals, and pointed out that a few of these curious mammals like to circle the middle of the bay. Today we were to avoid them. I filed this information away, promising myself to return and take a swim towards these majestic sea friends next time.
Already the sea had washed away my rage and left some wisdom behind. I had been angry about the selfishness of people, the lack of ability for the most vulnerable to get the care they need, the ongoing struggle to help my mother in law, whom lives with MS, to get a vaccine while others work the system and carelessly cut in line, leaving those most in need without.
And this isn’t just a local problem or our country’s problem. This is a global problem. Those with the means, the resources get help first while those most vulnerable go last. Or never.
I realized that we all need to care much more about all of humanity. The choices and daily decisions we make will and do directly impact those immediately around us, as well as those strangers whom we may never meet. And we need to care about and love the strangers.
Swimming in the Salish Sea has heightened exponentially my love and concern for the life that resides there, as well as greatly expanding my awareness of my direct and indirect impact on the natural world around me.
Through this journey I have also come to love and care for the strangers whom I have only known through seaside photos or reading snippets of their stories online, recounting their toils hacking through frozen lakes, floating down rivers in bobble hats halfway across the planet, or fearlessly crossing channels and miles of ocean, fueled only by the power of their arms and legs and minds. They too, have found peace and healing and relief from suffering. And joy—lots and lots of unbridled joy.
I guess what I came to realize yesterday is that the open water, be it sea, river, lake or ocean, is a place where we get in and get wet and everyone is welcome. In the water we become the water, floating and swimming forward, crossing paths with all manner of critters—and people. But not everyone has the privilege or ability or means to get in the water, let alone learn to swim.
If I do nothing, I will never take swimming for granted. I won’t take the sea for granted. And I will try to show up and be a kind stranger, and remember that we all arrive with hurdles, carrying our own demons on our backs.
We have to take care of each other. And keep swimming, if we are lucky enough to reach the water’s edge.
After yesterday’s swim, my swim buddy said goodbye for her walk home. I stayed at the beach as the sun burned the clouds away. Sunlight sparkled in patches around the quiet harbor, as ducks floated and dove about.
I closed my eyes and felt my body ease under the sun’s warmth, burning away the residual cold from my swim, deep in my core. I thought of my therapist whom recently suggested that I perhaps could think of how anger is ultimately about wishing things were different. Some things I do wish with all of my being were different.
But not this moment, when I opened my eyes and looked out across the bay where two seals appeared, lazily turning in slow circles beneath the blue sky, floating in a sea of golden diamonds.
One wild windy, shockingly beautiful February day, a swim and a beach walk with whipped ears and white caps and a shimmering sun sparkled sea and flying sea mist and this refrain,
“I’m so happy! I’m so happy!”
Amazing the difference a day can make. On those glorious days when everything aligns and you hover over the ground, bliss-filled and hope-full you forget that it won’t last just as on the dark days when all seems twisted and wrought with tension and grief you forget that even those times won’t last.
Everything changes. We can look to the water for the bliss and we can look to the water for the dark. We can try and hold the waves and wind and freeze time and make the sunshine stay. It will not.
Life is an endless churning sea—calm and stormy and full of endless beauty, and endless challenges.
Swimming in the sea has taught me how to face some challenges head on. Sometimes it works to dive headlong into the wind whipped waves not knowing where exactly I’ll catch my next breath, with only myself to trust and blame if I come up with a mouthful of salty sea water. I have only the strength of my body and my will to lean on. Testing my strength in the water, pushing through the discomfort and releasing fear has empowered me in a way that nothing else has.
Every time I step into the water, I embark on a new adventure. It is thrilling.
I have my past experiences and growing knowledge as a guide. I try to protect myself with my best judgement and let the next moment arrive to find out what I will need to do. I may break through the surface breathless with joy or breathless with fear. It’s up to me. And the sea is indifferent. There is no judgement from the sea, only myself.
Yesterday, I dove headlong into the biggest waves yet as an open water swimmer. I wasn’t alone. And I was very glad to not be alone. Not so much out of fear of being alone, but out of the joy found sharing this exquisite day with another.
Liz, my son’s teacher, joined me for her second Salish Sea swim. Her first swim was under a freezing rain. Her second swim was under a brilliant sunny sky and in 3-foot waves, capped in white, with a blustery southern wind strong enough to blow my dog’s floppy ears high into the air and cause seagulls to flap in place in the sky, unable to make forward progress.
Liz and I were ecstatic. I had thought we might change our plan, and take a swim from the head of the bay, out of the hurling wind, feeling unsure myself of whether the water would be too much for us to manage. In the morning I rose and walked to the still head of the bay, and found brackish water, solid brown and ugly to a swimmer’s eye. The water was less than inviting.
When Liz arrived we deliberated, and leaning on each other’s adventuresome spirits decided to try the landing, face the wind and hopefully clearer seas. She is an experienced swimmer, and told me about her time teaching and competing in lake swims and triathlons. Yes, we would be fine.
At the landing the towering fir and cedar trees danced and waved wildly, and in the distance the seas rolled and spewed waves onto the beach, crashing in foamy white one upon the other in rapid succession.
We looked at each other. And frantically chatted and sorted our gear, both of us growing more giddy by the second.
“Should we be doing this?” Liz asked.
“I think so…….yes! We can always get out.”
In we went.
The thrill of anticipation was matched only by the thrill of the waves, and the delight in finding the wind and water feeling warmer than our previous swim together.
I told Liz about my skin swim of the night before, and could hardly believe it had only been one day. It felt like a lifetime ago, on another planet.
We hopped in up to our waists and like the girl I once was I jumped up and down in the wild sea, the water splashing me full on in the face while my hands clapped the water and I whooped like a banshee.
The waves and wind decided our course for us, and after a few more gear adjustments we began our swim north, the waves and wind pushing us forward with tremendous ease. We swam and body surfed towards the mouth of the bay, the water near shore fuzzy green and growing brown as we went.
We swam close around the steep spit, littered with piles of clam shells and found still water waiting. It was calm here. We paused from time to time, looked around.
“I’m so happy,” Liz said with a huge grin.
This was a good swim. I smiled back and we talked of seals and summer and more swim adventures and how much we both love to swim.
Back outside the bay, the swim float broke free and Liz chased it down. Breathless we both laughed in relief, and my biggest fear that a neighbor might see the free floating buoy and think we were lost to the deep.
Far from it. We were found. I didn’t want the swim to end and slowly chopped southward outside the spit while Liz kept watch along the shore, opting to exit and enjoy the beach.
Back on land we drank homemade chai and smiled a lot. We had made it and it was good.
Later on, as the day darkened I took my dog to the beach. The wind was colder and great gusts blew loudly through the trees.
Again I was struck by the forces around me. My dog and I walked the beach, and found smells and shells.
Deep blue sky, dark land. Inked grey clouds hover above wobbly legs and bare skin tip toeing over sharp barnacles.
You are here to face the steady wind. And yourself. The air is cold. The shaggy, jagged beach is empty.
Two are breathing, one vast and formless, and the other one solid, of flesh and silver hairs and beating heart, wrapped in a tired swimsuit.
Get in and get cold. Use the glowing buoy as a crutch, a beacon. Steady now. You are alone here. Push the float down, rock the waves, don’t fall.
Ease forward, stub toes on submerged rocks and crustaceous critters waiting for the tide ride.
It’s been a long, painful walk to here. Tonight. Today.
You need this. Soup sputters on the stove at home, waiting. You will be warm again. After.
This is temporary. Like everything.
There is no warmth here. Just black water and wind and goose flesh.
Arrive knee deep, stop. No, go deeper.
Plunge the hands through the watery wall. Hold them there, tight fisted. Clutch your resolve. What you hold has no form, no label, no name. And the water won’t part for you, only envelope you in it’s salty spell and give you what it has to offer. Nothing more, nothing less.
Match the wind’s voice with your own whispers. Breathe hard and force out the day. The cold isn’t going anywhere, at least you can count on that in this moment.
Talk to the ice flows curling inward through your skin to the bone. Tell them, shout to them, the truth, your truth.
“I am stronger than this. I was made for this.”
A force keeps you there. Beckons you under. You dive. There is no view, all is dark.
Goodbye thoughts. There is only room to feel here.
Back up above the waves you see the scattered glow of far off lights in the distance. Life keeps going. Behind you onshore no one is home. It’s best this way. They wouldn’t understand this madness.
There is no fear here.
Only wind and water. Swim to the pilings, with head up as a tingling grows along your arms like witches nails carving patterns through the layers. Skin like cedar bark, carved of saltwater and soaked in melted snow.
No birds atop these pilings. A quick loop around and back to shore. The brown black shoreline seems to move away as you pull closer.
No panic. You’ve got this game figured out. Crawl to shore lightly like a crocodile over harsh rocks. It’s too hard to stand.
Now stand. The wind pushes you towards the warmth waiting. Feet ache, jabbed by invisible frozen barbs and the absence of blood.
But this is temporary too.
And you are awake. You didn’t realize that you were asleep all day until you came here. Did this.
Alone and in the dark was what you knew you needed. You trusted the water would let you in and let you leave.
Nothing is lost. Your thoughts have been rearranged and soaked and scattered by the time you find your shoes.
And when you return home you will be awake to taste hot soup, while droplets of saltwater still cling to your cheeks.
No reservations. Well, there are some reservations—stinging jellyfish, frozen faces, feet, hands, poor water quality, and fear of hypothermia (especially this time of year). But there are no “Reservations” needed to secure a time or lane or day.
And space. There is plenty of that. And there is always room for one more.
Today, that one more was my son’s teacher, Liz. I met this exuberant and fearless woman at the landing near our house, and initiated her into the art of open water swimming in the Salish Sea.
Last night I received an unexpected text from Liz with a photo of a pristine beach an hours drive north from here, the water sparkling with diamonds under a sunny sky and in the distance a small group of swimmers, their heads just visible above the surface.
The message read, “….four women swimming together and I was mesmerized. It was so beautiful and clear and I wanted to be with them. So then I thought of you and I am hoping you will still be my teacher.”
Everything about this message made me smile.
“I’m going tomorrow.” Come.
My day had not been a good one, and suddenly I felt better. I was needed, called to do something that I love to do (swim in cold water), have a swim buddy (it had been a lonely day) and have an adventure with someone I have always admired (she is so good with middle school kids in the ways that matter) AND I would be guaranteed to make my goal again to swim every week through the coldest months of the year.
This was exactly what I needed.
In the morning before work I carefully laid out my gear, packed my bag, prepped the cocoa to bring along and sent one more text to Liz.
“Bring goggles and swim cap too!”
I wanted this to go well. My son jokingly said he expected me to get him a higher grade out of the deal, taking his teacher swimming. What would I get out of this swim? Not grades. A friend.
I sincerely worried that Liz would be warm enough, and considering that she was making a go at this for the first time —in February—with piles of snow still melting along the roadways—heightened my sense of responsibility to get it right.
And I wanted her to love it, get hooked, share in this delightful and challenging outdoor challenge that has given me so very much.
A steady rain fell as we parked our cars along the road in muddy tracks, the sky a heavy grey mass. Our smiles lit up the road as we donned our caps and booties, our rapid speech reflecting the thrill we both felt anticipating the shock of water soon to arrive.
The words from Liz, during our flurry of texting the night before, floated through my head: “I read a few of your blog entries and I am equally excited and terrified.”
I was equally excited and terrified in my own way. I had hoped to encourage, not scare her, by sharing my blog.
But we had made it this far. Surely, the excitement had beaten down the terror.
No expectations.
As we walked to the water we agreed that the goal was to just get in, float a bit, and swim a bit if it felt right. We both came with our strengths—Liz has been swimming laps at the local pool, and I’ve been in the open water for months. I reasoned that her better swim shape would match my acclimatized body in the cold water. At least, this was what I reckoned would make us a good match.
As we passed the rock wall a large brown chipmunk appeared, dashing in and around the wet boulders. His presence gave me pause, and I laughed aloud, surprised to see this most unexpected fur ball here, at the beach. He dashed in and out in a game of peekaboo, as I wondered about his beachside mission. Had he been here all along and just never shown himself before?
My superstitious mind decided that he was a good omen. We had ourselves a petite, twitchy-tailed lifeguard to observe our crazy human shenanigans. I couldn’t have dreamt of a more perfect creature to appear. We matched his high energy and curiosity, talking rapidly about getting in, our plan and our hopes for the day.
We stepped in to the quiet water, small waves lapping our wetsuits and spent time splashing and chatting, the snow- cold water turning our exposed skin bright pink within minutes.
We swam south towards the float where last autumn I watched a handful of Liz’s students leap off like lemmings. I had introduced a group of students to open water swimming over three Friday afternoons, and now I was here, with a chance to teach their teacher.
Liz never stopped smiling. We got cold, but not too cold. We turned northward at the float, and passed the landing to enjoy a bit more time swimming in the frosty saltwater. Twenty minutes later we were done.
We dressed at our cars, poured hot drinks and returned to the beach to walk the spit. The beach was a flutter with bright white seagulls, soaring and crying and dropping their lunches to crack open upon the exposed rocks. I showed Liz the still bay and we eyed the clam beds, exposed by a rare low tide this time of year.
On the way back I reached down for a dark grey moon snail shell, mostly whole, sitting upright on the beach.
I was ecstatic. So was Liz. Like me she has loved swimming all her life, but had been hesitant to try the open water.
And now she has done it. And I have just one more swim to do in February. Or maybe more. This coldest month will soon be over.
As we said goodbye, I told Liz that most every swim I’ve done this month I’ve had somebody with me. I don’t know if I would have made it through late January and most of February without people with me—my husband Josh at the waterfall, my neighbor Dave in the ice, my friend Mckayla in Port Madison and today Liz, in the freezing rain.
What have I learned? Warmth and safety come in pairs.
Funny how things line up sometimes, and nudge a person into one decision or another, like an offering from the future pulling you forward towards something you had only dreamed about. And just like that, you are living your life imagined.
I dreamt of swimming in snow all winter long. My dream came true yesterday.
I knew that if I swam with snow forecasted this week, and took to the open water, I could safely assert that I’d made it in the water weekly through the coldest time of the year. And if I could swim in and with the snow, I could swim anytime, anywhere. The toughest conditions would be behind me. And most importantly, the experience was guaranteed to be new and exciting, and very possibly magical.
Mother Nature delivered. Yesterday we woke to almost a foot of snow, the satisfying first—and possibly only—snowfall of winter.
We don’t get much magical white frozen fluff next to the Salish Sea—some years none at all—so when it does arrive everyone goes bonkers. It is pure magic. Few people here know how to drive properly in snow (myself included), so many folks stay home, bundle up and head outside to find the neighbors whom they usually only see when the sun is shining and it’s gloriously warm. Extreme temperatures bring people outdoors here.
With the first snowfall of winter here in Western Washington, Mother Nature offered up a silent frozen white wonderland for kids and adults alike, and a unique challenge to us open water swimmers—
The thrill of just imagining sea swimming among trees wrapped in frosty white, with whispers of frozen water floating down from the sky in crystal shapes was enough to make me giddy upon waking to a brilliant blanket of snow.
Mid day, after helping deliver (my husband, Josh, drove—an Idaho man with snow driving skills) our teenage sons to various prime sledding spots around the island, we happened upon my neighbor Dave’s wife. On instinct I found myself blurting out that I was thinking of a swim and wondered if Dave might be planning to take a dip. She said she thought he might, and kindly offered to let him know I was interested.
Already I was setting myself up to live a dream I had. There was no going back.
Awhile later I received this text,
“I going to try a swim in the back bay, around 3, maybe.”
Followed by a second message,
“If I can muster up the courage.”
This sealed the deal. To swim we both needed to lean on each other’s courage. I replied immediately.
“Ok. I’m in. Just my swim suit for a very short dip. Over in a few”.
I didn’t have time to end the text with a period—time was of the essence. Normally I write texts like a letter —in full sentences. I know, I’m old. Further proof to my kids that I’m definitely old.
Stating my plan pulled me further down the path towards my dream—or some might argue insanity. Either way I was antsy with anticipation.
I figured my wetsuit would just slow down my prep time, possibly undermine my resolve and I knew my swim would be very brief. I recalled my waterfall swim from a few weeks ago and knew the freezing water would be bracing and exhilarating.
And I was confident that I could do it again. Especially since we would be getting in at the head of the bay, at the mouth of the salmon stream, where the water is mostly fresh water. For those who are not aware, fresh water is colder than saltwater in winter. By a lot. Dave and I had picked the coldest water for our swim. Okay, insanity. Yes.
And I wanted to feel that feeling again. This was the day.
With my red suit on under my clothes, and my thermal cap and goggles in hand, I headed to Dave’s.
He opened the door completely ready—swim cap on, dry robe zipped, can of Crisco (to prevent swim rash) and sporting flip flops. I stared at his feet in amazement.
I knew this was a special swim, as he also carried extra gear—a tripod and iPhone. He would be documenting this one.
We walked the well worn road and trail through the fluffy white, Dave’s flip flops kicking up flecks of snow while my boots stomped oblong circles, creating fresh tracks. Footprints that would soon disappear in place and memory, melting down into the soil to return to the sea.
We arrived at the snowy bank, and looked out over the bay. At first glance I felt disappointment as I thought I was looking at an extremely low tide and silvery brown tide flats. No. The tide was very high. We were peering out over a frozen bay of slushy ice. The frozen surface was a swirling still palette in shades of grey and dirty white.
Dave set up the tripod and set the camera rolling, and we hurriedly disrobed down to our swim suits. I balanced awkwardly and barefoot atop my wet boots, my toes quickly going numb, very unhappy with my latest decision to pull them from their cozy wool chambers.
Dave reminded me to watch my step, only moments later to lose his footing on the slick bank and land hard in the snow on his back.
Ouch. I had done that very thing not too long ago, even without the slick snow.
With our senses heightened, and our breath coming out in tiny clouds of steam, I took the lead and cautiously climbed down the frozen roots to the snowy beach, wrapping my arms tightly around the trunk of a tree to avoid falling.
Dave lowered himself slowly after me, as I stood waiting onshore, putting off the inevitable.
We stepped in together, through a thick layer of frozen slush, my feet and legs barely feeling the cold as they numbed up. My mind was quickly distracted by the scratchy feel of the ice on my skin, like tiny thorns rubbing in rings at the waterline. We stepped further in, breaking through the thick layer of slush, reaching down with our hands to push apart the frozen surface, creating hundreds of tiny islands and exposing the water below.
I reached down to splash my face, pulling up ice water from the bay, the water an ominous deep dark brown.
For a moment I felt afraid. I knew the ice was slushy and would easily give way, but looking out over the bay I questioned my desire to dive under. What if the ice didn’t give way for me to surface again? I kept my fear to myself.
“I need to get my heart rate down,” Dave said. Perhaps he was a bit nervous too.
I breathed deep again. We waited. Neither of us speaking, holding space between our thoughts to make room for what lay before us. Both of us needing this silence to prepare—this, the most important lesson I have learned to succeed in open water swimming. Silence.
Moments passed like weeks and in a blink Dave dove under. I watched him disappear beneath the ice, his body leaving a pool of islands in his wake.
I waited. Where did he go? I held my breath. After what felt like an eternity, he broke back up through the surface, several yards out.
I exhaled. Emboldened by his courage, and a dose of peer pressure and envy that he was at the other side of the initial plunge, I steadied myself. Now it was my turn.
I pulled down my goggles, readjusted my cap and raising my hands above my head, I dove.
All was dark. The ice scraped like a dry scrub brush along my skin, as I imagined tiny cuts forming.
There was nothing to do but feel it all. I swam under for a moment, then surfaced to look around, slowly breaking apart the slushy ice around me, feeling the water in a new way. No cuts had formed, just my imagination. My lower body hovered in the familiar soft liquid while my upper body and shoulders rubbed the frozen water.
Between heavy breaths I chanted, “Wow. Wow…….wow.” My breath working to right the wrong, fight off the cold.
“Look at that bird!” I gasped.
A songbird, no bigger than my fist hopped lightly over the frozen bay ice while we floated, our bodies holding heat deep within while we worked to slow our breath. One breath at a time, as tiny snowflakes kissed the sky, landing silently around us.
“This is definitely a challenge,” Dave smiled.
“Whoa. Ha! We did it! I think I’m good,”
“Alright,” Dave replied.
I swam to shore. Through breathless pants I asked, “Are you going to swim?”
Without hesitation, Dave said he was going to try swimming to the other side and back.
“Oh wow. Now I want to join you,” I replied.
My resolve to exit faded and I headed to deeper water as Dave broke free for the other side, swimming freestyle with a fierce speed, his arms breaking through the ice, leaving a trail of water in his path.
I stayed in the deep, my head above water, swimming in small circles, gazing about, feeling the slush give way under my hands while my shoulders took the brunt of the harsh scratching ice.
Somehow it was okay. And felt good. Dave reached the far side of the bay and let out a cough.
“You okay?” I called, my voice echoing over the bay.
“Yeah. I keep breathing ice,” he called back.
I felt content with my choice not to cross. This was enough for me, but I was happy for Dave, knowing he aspires to complete an ice mile someday. This was good practice.
After one more circle around, I headed to shore as Dave crossed back over, swimming swiftly and evenly. I have no doubt he has what it takes to complete an ice mile. And I hope I can be there to cheer him on. I’ll stand by with his sweet wife and kids, with the cocoa and blankets ready.
“Good job, Dave!” I called through frozen lips.
“That felt good,” he replied.
This morning I called my dad. I wished him a happy Valentine’s Day and told him I love him. He was waiting to get his second covid shot at the assisted living facility where he lives.
I realized today that our hearts are like the sea.
Both must hold everything good and strong and beautiful and both must also hold pain, all of it, under the strain of howling winds and lightening from above with waves twisting and churning and crashing over shadows of loss. Our hearts and the sea must take in all of it, every drop, and keep beating, for to live and age requires growth. Our hearts must just keep expanding with every passing day. There’s nothing else to do.
Shipwrecks and dreams are cast away, to sink and be forgotten until uncovered by a low low tide when a curious child stumbles upon the chipped remains, plucking what was from the wet sand to bring home a new treasure and weave a new story from something long forgotten. The faintest memories are heaved aboard over the transom in a crusty crab pot, heavy with seaweed glistening and wet. Picked over, studied, and kept if large enough to keep.
Lifetimes are written across the pulsing hearts of each one of us, cast adrift in quiet seas and riding roaring rivers and settling down to rest in stone cold lakes.
Where there is salt, a thousand million new stories are written every day across the sand and rocks below the surface, the tiny footprints of hermit crabs and sand dollar tracks carving pathways that no human may ever see. And in the space above, winged creatures soar carving invisible notes on air currents and swimming creatures of endless shapes and colors and sizes blow and burst about leaving tales to catch on white tipped waves and moon jelly backs.
So many stories untold. In the rivers, twigs dance and shimmy in place, wedged tight between smooth rocks, as melted snow rides the twisting path to the sea. Lakes rest in wait for the fish to return, like the rivers, waiting for the stories to arrive, the work to begin again.
Like the ocean floor, we carry thousands of stories, traces and tracks and hushed longings and desires in our hearts. Some dreams and stories make it to the surface, rising up like bubbles, there and gone as soon as we exhale. Inhale above the water, and we take in the now, this instant, this moment never to be as it is right now. Ever again. That is a beautiful thing.
All is fleeting.
Today I blew bubbles into Port Madison bay, memories came and burst at the speed of each breath, my mind flashing backwards and forwards as I swam alone over an acre of purple sand dollars, appearing below me like a black cloud fallen from the sky above.
I swam north along the empty beach scattered with crushed shells and brown twiggy trees and shrubs, past the spinning swing spot where years ago we sailed on old tires around and around an upright log, while the waves rolled in and seaweed islands formed around our sun baked legs.
As I swam, my friend Mckayla danced her cold water dance in the shallows by the public dock. Her cold water dip in skins, bedecked in a fuzzy hat encircled by pins, black suit and a smile as wide as the moon.
The still water turned my hands to ice, but memories carried me forward, and friendship over hot cocoa and sweet rolls awaited my return.
At our old dock I turned left and swam the length of the dock, between the pilings obscured by thick green water. Just above me these planks held my feet, the feet of my father, sister, brother, mother a million times. The stories have settled down to the bottom, some left forgotten, others remembered in parts, like broken shells, suggestions of the whole visible but lost.
And that’s okay. As I swam south to meet my friend onshore, crows gathered and seagulls arrived to help us write a new story. We wrapped our cold bodies up in layers of wool and cotton and contentment, perched on a log to sip “crow-coa“, as Mckayla so creatively quipped. We reminisced about our younger days in this bay, the names of old neighbor friends rolling off her tongue and sighs hovering between us like balloons. Suspended and cheerful.
Out on the bay, a seal nose appeared then disappeared silently as a few ducks floated by while a lone river otter of healthy size pattered around on the dock. His arched back shown deep brown against the backdrop of silver water.
A black crow perched on the nearby “cable crossing” sign, and we laughed and looked about and shivered a bit as we spun a new memory together.
Mary Swims 