Mary Swims

Today I added a Salish Sea swim under my belt, or in my case hat—a new feather: February.

Hoping for companionship and someone else to motivate me to step into the chilly head of Fletcher Bay, I reached out to my neighbor, Dave.

He apologized but had just completed a swim at the north end of the island. Though momentarily disappointed, this was quickly replaced by inspiration—and determination—if Dave could do it today, so could I.

Getting in was entirely up to me. And I was down to the wire so to speak. I had made a pact with myself months ago to get in and swim at least once a week, all the way through the year. Just because.

My open water swimming began last April. If I could make it weekly through February, I reasoned that based on the current Pacific Northwest weather patterns—and my friend, Dave—I will have succeeded in swimming through the coldest months of the year—unless the world gets even crazier and we get hit with a spring blizzard.

Oh boy. Hope I didn’t just jinx us all.

My husband and son giggled today as I loudly talked myself into a swim, over my first cup of coffee, near noon. The pandemic has really wreaked havoc on my sleep schedule—and rational thought. That or peri-menopause. Last Sunday after my first winter waterfall swim I had floated the idea of “getting in every day for the month of February”, as a fundraiser for the local food bank. Well, that didn’t happen.

As I headed out the door in my seal suit, Anders reminded me again of my February fundraising idea.

“Yeah, that didn’t work out. I think August might be the better month for daily swims for a good cause,” I replied.

“Okay, Mom. Have a good swim and text me when you get out.”

“Will do,” I said.

I strolled along the ivy lined path to the muddy banks, grateful to know I have my family looking out for me. Keeping track of the time. Experience and time have instilled confidence in me that I can keep myself safe in the water, and with that has come trust from my family that I’ll pay attention and get out when I need to—and keep myself safe.

After a long morning of conversation and togetherness, I felt my mind ease as I looked about at the naked trees along the trail and down to the green still waters waiting for me.

I was expecting extreme cold, as the fresh water from the salmon stream flows heavily into the bay this time of year. And being fresh water, in winter, this end of the bay is significantly colder than at the landing outside the bay.

I tried to focus on just getting in, and reminded myself that I had just six days ago taken a plunge in ice water much colder than this would be. Without a wetsuit. As I wrestled my mind, I set an attainable goal—get in and float for a bit. If it felt unbearable, I could just swim breaststroke a bit and get out. I had nothing to prove. Or so I thought.

My heart beat quickened as I stashed my bags at the top of the bank, pulled on my cap, took a fast step and slipped hard on my bum partway down the bank. The roots caught me and the jolt was hard enough to take my breath away.

I was uninjured except for being muddy and breathless from the jolt it gave me. I leaned into the fir tree beside me, pulling in air, steadying myself and waiting to decide what to do.

Like most things, I just needed time to sort myself out.

“Take it slow,” I scolded myself and righting myself I carefully stepped down the muddy roots onto the slick muddy beach.

The tide was going out and quickly, and as soon as I floated in, hugging my orange buoy I found myself rounding the first bend, cast adrift, as the familiar wetness seeped into my suit, whispering to me, “now, now, now.”

All was still in the bay, and before I knew it my hands accepted what was, but my face needed extra time adapting. The old “ice cream headache” came fast and strong.

Setting my feet down I found silty soft mud below me, like hidden clouds caressing my feet, and lowering my face in to blow bubbles I was pleased to see the bottom. Sticks and submerged roots hovered like brown shadows along the bay floor. My face and head were ready—and I had a map today.

I tried a few strokes, feeling tentative and though I hadn’t been for a long swim in over a week and a half, I was delighted to find my tight shoulders relax. And I felt good.

I would swim some distance today.

The still bay called me forward, and the sun peeked out, lighting up tiny ripples on the surface and lending a bright glow to the green water around me. My tongue tasted fresh water, followed by progressively saltier water as I made my way to the mouth of the bay.

Most delightful was the temperature of the water. Mid way to the spit, I paused to catch my breath, and the water almost felt warm. The temperature change was dramatic and welcome, as was the familiar cry of a resident eagle and crow, and a third call of a sea gull. The quiet bay was full of music and there was a place for me there.

My hands touched water into the infinite. I floated in and of the water. What a gift to be alive. And here.

The fast moving current carried me quickly to the spit, over the very shellfish beds where in summer my son and I scraped the gooey mud with trowels to pluck Manila clams and lug them home to steam and drench in butter.

I thought ahead to summer and all that the warmth brings. Most of all I daydreamed forward to the togetherness of summer, and the ease of seeing more friends and family outside. Just the thought of summer lifted my spirits.

At the spit I crawled onto the steep bank, as smooth rocks and shells cascaded down in mini avalanches at my feet into the outgoing tide. The current required me to walk around the spit into the bay before I could muster enough power to swim against the current back to the head of the bay.

I began to tire and made a mental map of the various exits I could use along the way, if I ran out of steam. Like a frog on lily pads my eyes hopped from one dock or boat to the next, coaxing me onward. Before I knew it I was in the home stretch, and feeling strong and determined to complete my journey.

As I considered hopping out several hundred yards early, I reasoned that I could manage one more push. I swam much longer distances in summer and again I reasoned that the walk back with an early exit would be colder.

Head down I focused on the muddy floor, dappled with an occasional oyster shell, and found myself in two feet of water and back at my starting place before I knew it.

I don’t know where we are all headed, but I do know that the sea has the power to hold and heal all of us. We all deserve to feel weightless and held, reminded that we are all connected to each other.

My first dip in the pre-Salish Sea.

Since all water runs downhill, I find myself able to justify including this swim here, within the folds of this blog where float my many musings on open water swimming. Though technically not the Salish Sea, I figure eventually this water will make its way to the ocean, and merge with the saltwater…. and, well, you get the point.

And besides, we found a giant waterfall today, and I’m so tickled I just feel this story belongs here. Today’s cold water reminded me of the power of cold water to not only rejuvenate, but enliven unlike anything else in the universe. It erased my grief and worry and cluttered thoughts like I imagine a skilled Buddha experiencing a weeklong silent meditation —something I’ve never done but am sure would be equally transformative. And leave me equally calm if I could stay quiet long enough.

But my plunge only lasted about five holy minutes. And shook me so profoundly in a good way that I sit here tonight contemplating daily dips without my wetsuit and long swims through winter with my wetsuit, to make the most of all the water has to give.

We found this mighty waterfall on the Olympic Peninsula, among the very mountains I have spotted from afar during my swims in the Salish Sea.

Today started with a long, rainy drive north and west in the company of my husband and a days worth of plans to head to Sol Duc to hike, outfitted with some snacks, jasmine tea, an emergency kit and our reliably late start of a full two hours after our intended departure time.

On a lark I instinctively grabbed my little green quick-dry towel, on the very remote chance that I might find myself in need of a swim. Just the act of packing the thing felt like some sort of good luck charm, and a slightly subtle way of cueing Josh into this watery possibility.

“I’m bringing this just in case,” I said sheepishly, whipping it quickly into my backpack.

“Of course you are,” he said barely skipping a beat.

Out the door and on the road we crossed the little Agate Pass Bridge and drove through a steady rain to Hood Canal. Halfway across the canal bridge we spotted a lone porpoise surface like a fleeting thought and disappear into the raggedy grey water. The low hills and distant mountains were socked in clouds, shedding rain and slowly chipping away our feeling that a day hike was a good idea in this soggy world.

“Maybe it will clear up,” I said hopefully with little hope.

“Or we can just take a long drive,” Josh replied.

Either way we would make it a good day.

Despite the rain, our long drive gave us what we needed most—time to talk and a day away from home looking out different windows and remembering how big the world is. Our two sons opted out of today’s adventure, happy to have a parent-free house for a day, and so our adult day away from home proved beneficial to everyone.

As we made our way downhill towards Lake Crescent, the stillness of the water, untouched and absent of all visible life was breathtaking. Low clouds hung around the steep mountains circling the lake, and small waterfalls gushed beside the lakeside road, hemmed in by lush ferns and gnarled trees dripping with moss. Again we were reminded of the cost of all that lush green that is the Pacific Northwest—the price is a very wet, long winter with lots and lots of rain.

To our disappointment the road to Sol Duc was closed, but with an adequate map and the determination to have an adventure, we continued west to scout out other trails. After exhausting the nearest options, we decided to drive to Salt Creek, a wonderful park on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, with sea stacks and tide pools—and lots of salt water.

I could feel my body warming up already in anticipation of a salty plunge.

Along the route Josh glimpsed a wall of white water through the trees, and we stopped to investigate. A short muddy trail led us to a magnificent waterfall, at least 80 feet across pouring down into a deep pool.

Our day trip was looking up and after a quiet visit we hopped back in the truck. I looked back wistfully, and thought of the many dippers I’ve seen through a UK online group, and wondered what a dip there would be like.

My thought tucked away, we drove happily on, with waterfall mist still clinging to our faces.

A mile or two on we discovered the road ahead was closed. Again our plans were dashed.

Sometimes plans have to change and sometimes that can be a real drag, but sometimes it can be a gift. Today’s surprise changes were a gift.

As we turned around to retrace our steps, I announced that I wanted to take a swim in the waterfall.

Minutes later we were back in the half moon gravel lot, digging through our bags. I grabbed my little towel and equally small foam seat mat to stand on after the plunge. My feet suffer the most after every swim, and this little pad always helps stave off the cold from the ground.

A young couple beat us down to the water’s edge, and wishing to give them a moment alone—and have the place to ourselves, we waited up top until they passed by.

At the water’s edge, among slick brown boulders I stripped down to my underwear, and with the cold water dippers of the world on my mind, I stepped tentatively into the foaming water, still donning my trusty wool hat. I would keep my head out this time and give this type of icy swim a try.

The water was so cold I carried my thoughts to my breath, ecstatic to be heading towards the mammoth wall of white water before me and fighting the urge to move quickly.

Slow. This needed to be slow. I needed to enjoy this moment and go in as I know how, with intention and openness.

At waist deep I bent forward, paused, then lowered myself in. The rush of cold was extreme and beautiful and I swam breaststroke slowly into the great splashes of water, bouncing up around me. The waterfall was roaring down before me and the water around me danced and jumped vertically like mad white puppies vying for treats.

I laughed out loud and opened my mouth in a wide grin of triumph just in time to get a wave of icy cold right in my face. The taste of the water surprised me—no salt—as my mind caught up with this new environment.

I turned towards shore where Josh stood at the ready, capturing my January frolic on camera.

After a short circle around the pool I headed to the shore. My clothes lay piled on a nurse log, heavy with raggedy moss, wet ferns and a huckleberry tree.

I stepped out repeating myself over and over, “That was amazing! I feel amazing! That was so amazing!”

Other words failed me as I beamed ear to ear, ecstatic with the burst of energy and life force coursing through my blood.

I felt electric.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Josh smiled back, and helped me dress quickly, happy for me and with me.

We returned to the truck and found a hike after all, to Marymeer Falls, as the rain continued to fall. We stood by the second large waterfall of the day, just listening. At the river we stood below giant cedar and fir and spruce trees, again just watching and listening.

The rain kept falling.

The river kept whispering.

The trees stood witnessing.

We were home.

As I watched the suspended waves of the river spit and bubble, I whispered a wish,

“See you soon.”

I considered giving up winter open water swimming today.

The only thing keeping me from throwing in the towel was the jovial companionship of my friend, Dave, and my own inner voice reminding me over and over again that swimming would help. Probably. It always does.

I always feel better after I swim. It had been several days since my last cold trip, and to keep up winter swimming I promised myself to take a plunge in once or twice a week.

As we began our journey south, a large fuzzy log caught my eye, and I climbed it as it sank quickly below me, no match for my weight. As I pushed off of it, I lost sight of it and realized that it might rise back up below me and give me a knock. Fortunately my cold brain wasn’t factoring in the current and when I looked back after a strong pull away from the place we had met, the aged log rose lazily to the surface like a sleeping whale. Non plussed and carefree, and a safe several yards behind me. For a moment this playful trip transported me back to summer and frolicking on floating logs with my boys when they were little. And farther back still to my own early years rolling logs in the water with friends, testing our balance and daring upon these benign sea creatures. For a moment I felt summer and I smiled.

I usually feel better once I have a couple hundred yards under my belt, once my body surrenders to my hearts desire, and its had time to reacquaint itself once again with the icy charm found only in the sea.

But today, I couldn’t stop fighting.

Large, awkward waves jockeyed about, vying for my attention and testing the limits of my patience. I couldn’t find a rhythm. I couldn’t sight, follow a line or see the bottom, stopping frequently to try finding my bearings in a grey blue blanket of chop.

As we made our way along the shore I knew I had enough breath, but was still breathless, likely caused by the inner tension of trying to follow a line, battle the rough waves and avoid a multitude of logs and large sticks floating every which way, just near enough to shore to require frequent site checks. I felt hassled, even annoyed and quickly realized there was no choice but try and adjust or turn back.

To keep my bearings I told Dave that I needed to swim closer to shore where I could at least track my progress by counting the shells, watching the rocks go by. The water was very murky and I was in less than four feet of water before I could see the bottom. Sighting the bottom worked well to quickly reassure me that I was making progress and the shells provided a familiar road map, like little mile posts spurring me on. Seeing the earth below me eased my tension. The beach was steps away if I needed it.

The shells helped but the swim was not blissful. Mindful swimming just wasn’t in the cards today. All of my sloshing about could not alter what was—no amount of huffing or splashing or cursing could change what was. The water was rough and cold and I was in it. All I could do was keep swimming.

I wished today to just be a log, immune to the cold, unattached, adrift and empty of all thoughts.

Surrendering to the waves was impossible, and with relief we reached the house at a 1/4 mile, and turned north for the swim home. With the waves at our back, my battle with the waves dissipated and I relaxed a bit as the waves rocked me northward. The cold stayed close, buzzing like a pesky mosquito in my mind, and to distract myself I began spinning on all of the warm things I could have chosen to do —instead of swimming in January in the Salish Sea. I dreamt of roasting marshmallows over a fire , baking in a sauna, eating hot chicken noodle soup and cuddling on the couch with my dog and some hot cocoa, under a massive pile of blankets.

Dave and I seemed to be the only life out there today, the cold kept most inside. As I stepped back onshore, I scanned quickly about to locate Dave. For a moment his orange buoy was nowhere to be seen and my heart skipped a beat. And then I saw him, taking the long way back after a visit to the pilings set offshore a few hundred yards. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Dry and dressed, blessed in double socks and the quiet contentment of another swim behind me, Dave handed me a hot mug of apple spice tea. As he poured his cup, the shake of his hand sent tea sloshing over the rim.

“Are you okay, Dave?” I asked, his quiver impossible not to notice.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he quickly replied.

He’s used to this. Skin swimming in winter and the post swim shakes. The shakes don’t look fun to me, but I believe him that he’s fine—and know he’s used to it. I’m plenty cold in a full wetsuit.

As we stood sipping tea, stomping blood back into our feet, my gaze fell on the endless folds of water we’d just exited and farther out low grey clouds parting just enough to give a peekaboo view of mountains to the west heaped in snow.

This is winter swimming. As we walked back to our houses, we mused on why we enjoy this most chilly of pursuits.

“There is something about it that just pulls me back again and again,” I said to Dave.

Maybe enjoying it requires not trying to figure out or name exactly what it is that drives people to swim in cold water.

Maybe that is the magic. I plan to keep swimming, despite the cold and waves.

And I’ll look forward to spring and summer, when the water begins warming up a little.

I think February will be the real test—the coldest month to come.

I’m not quitting. But I’d be lying if I said that I’m looking forward to the water getting colder still.

Brrr….wish me luck.

A few days ago I enjoyed the company of a few young children to the beach for a fresh air break during a late afternoon art program where I teach on occasion.

The cool winter sun was perfect, drawing out the incredible colors all around us, lifting our spirits and our voices to match the lightness we all felt together.

Exploring the beach with three elementary aged children involved a fair amount of treasure hunting, rock throwing, leafy fort investigating and, my favorite, critter seeking. We walked beneath the ferry dock where dozens of clams sent up miniature fountains of saltwater, catching us on the back of the legs and on our muddy shoes.

We looked for hermit crabs and sea glass while I described a moon-snail to the girl present who had never heard of them before, and explained that if she found any clam shells with a perfect hole in the top then we’d be certain moon snails lived nearby.

And I told her about my moon snail shell collection and my chilly swims in the Salish Sea.

Beneath the ferry dock I spotted a glistening white and pink spotted mass near a piling, and together with the children we determined it was a sea cucumber. Barely moving, we tentatively touched it’s wet jello-like body with our finger tips, and decided it was best to leave it be and not try and move it into the water.

A visit to the beach, any beach, is always an adventure, and this one didn’t disappoint. As we headed back to the art school a blue heron set down in the shallows nearby. Like a force stronger than himself, the youngest boy walked slowly towards this great bird. I knew it would take flight in time, as it stood stock still eyeing us unblinking, like a feathered statue.

I recognized myself in this boy, captivated by a creature of the sea and the air, wishing to touch it, be near it, feel its feathers, ride on its back and fly low over the water.

The blue heron is a mighty bird, quite common where we live, but eternally beautiful with giant wings and a croaking cry that is unmistakable and haunting.

On the other end of town, a few blocks from this beach, is a rookery—a heron colony—with dozens of twiggy nests perched high in the maple trees. In past years I would visit in springtime, to listen for the cry of hatchlings, and watch for the parents to return with food for their young. I don’t know if the nests are used anymore, as last spring they appeared abandoned, possibly wiped out by eagles or other birds of prey.

Counting the nests is still possible, especially in winter when the trees are bare. Perhaps in springtime this year they will return, or perhaps they have set up a new colony elsewhere.

Today I returned to the beach, a different one, under sunny skies , but this time alone, in my swimsuit and wetsuit, eager to shock my system into gear after several days of very low energy. Sloth like, from head to toe.

Streaks of pink and purple clouds edged the sky far to the north and south, and the southerly wind sent me north into the still bay along with the fluttery waves.

The water is getting colder still. I don’t carry a thermometer, but judging from my hands that continued to ache as I swam into the bay and the cold throb that made me cut my swim short, I’d reckon it was 44 or 45 degrees. The beauty kept me going today, and if it wasn’t for the sunlight turning the water to gold, I doubt I would have made it in or stayed in as long as I did.

I’m so glad I went. I doubled back to do an extra lap along the spit, as my hands finally surrendered to the cold and I wanted one more ride with the wind at my back. For the final leg south I had to focus all my thoughts on my breathing as splashed over the bouncy waves, sometimes only breathing to one side as the waves tossed me about making dual sided breathing difficult at times. Between the wind and cold water, I had less air than normal, and swam close to shore so I could stand to rest or exit if need be.

But once I reached the landing the second time, I took to the deep waters, reveling in the richness of all that water. I hovered, peering about, wishing to be a seal.

In my element. For a magical moment or two.

When I took to the beach, the crispness of the swim set in, and I felt more awake than I’ve felt in days.

The Salish Sea casts many a spell. The pull of the water remains undeniable and the gifts she offers, in kind and time, in wing and icy sting, in shallow and deep, in clarity and solitude are beyond measure.

I wish for everyone to feel the peace and clarity that I find in the open water.

Salty. This slowly emerged as my nickname, between me and my sis, over time and happenings. It quite suits me now—and did even before I took up open water swimming.

Years ago my sister ran into an old acquaintance from high school. As they chatted, my name came up in the conversation. My sister later reported to me that this woman said she liked me, thought I was “salty”, a rather unconventional and creative term of endearment. As this woman is herself an artist, I was amused by this unique reading on my personality and have come to fully embrace my “saltiness” over the years—and even more so this year—my first year of open water swimming in the Salish Sea.

I love the dried salt on my skin. Ever since I was little I would put off showering or bathing after swimming in the saltwater for as long as possible, not wanting to rinse away the fine dry dusty kiss of salt on my skin. There is no feeling quite like it. It’s water that leaves a mark, reminding you that you’ve been somewhere. Somewhere special.

My dog always knows when I’ve been swimming, bringing his soft tongue over to help lift the fine dust from my arms.

And now I have a sign—Get Salty. A dear friend gifted me with this sticker recently, and yesterday it found its place on our truck. Though not a huge fan of bumper stickers, I felt this one had a rightful place in the back window—another reminder to me to keep going back, get salty in my favorite wet refuge.

It might be fitting for me to add “stay salty”, as I work to embrace my salty character—coated in barnacles, draped in seaweed and adrift in my own sea of discovery and storms full of pirates and sea monsters and lost treasure in search of maps through unchartered waters.

After mounting the sticker on the truck I returned inside, away from the cold grey world, still pushing away the idea of a swim. The water is getting colder, even snowflakes in the weather forecast for the coming days. A swim sounded less than comfortable.

But as often happens, once I begin remembering why I swim, I find a way to pull myself together and make preparations.

Minutes later I was out the door, suited up and on my way to the landing. My mind feels more fuzzy lately with all that has changed for our country, vast leadership changes offering a swell of hope and light that we had forgotten was possible.

Whiplash is the only word I can pull up to describe how I feel right now. We have been jolted so many times, shaken, woken, rearranged, gas lit for so long by he who shall not be named, that I feel overwhelmed by the chance that we might actually make it through this as better beings in the end.

Damaged but okay.

Yesterday as I stepped in to the calm water, a strong tide pulled me south. I forcefully waved my bare hands about as the harsh sting set in, my mind fighting the cold, beating it down. I looked about, no sign of my seal friend, just the presence of a few lone gulls touching down along the shore, in search of a meal.

I swam fast, pulling along through the fuzzy green water, my eyes counting the white clam shells below me, helping me know that I was moving forward, covering ground. I turned around after a 1/4 mile, having firmly set my mind to limit my time in the water and not get too cold. The trip back was slow, the strong current combined with a steady wind forcing my lungs to work harder breathing through each stroke.

Swimming in the cold water forces one to feel everything and be okay with it all. Accept all of it—the lift of the waves, the ache of frozen cheeks, the burn of icy hands and the indescribable joy of floating. Yesterday swimming felt like flying, I felt apart of and above it all—apart of something so much bigger than me, and at the same time liberated from all of the thousands of thoughts and feelings weighing me down. The swim allowed me to get space from all of my thoughts, like looking down at myself from space.

I went to the water and washed my mind, my heart, my fears.

And after my swim I let the salt stay on my skin. Traces of where I’d been, who I am, reminding me that I’m okay.

I’m salty.

Swimming in sunshine, summer or winter, is astonishingly beautiful above and below the water.

The sun came out today. And it was indeed beautiful everywhere.

The hum of life filled the neighborhood, as my neighbor and I strolled to the landing clutching our neon orange swim buoys, a thermos of hot chocolate carefully tucked in my bag beside my maroon bathrobe and swim gear.

We passed happy dogs and their owners along the way, arriving to the beach to find a young a family exploring the beach, a rainbow of smiles among them. Everything seemed so peaceful.

Seagulls filled the blue sky, soaring confidently over the beach, releasing their catch onto the rocks below to force the tight shells open, then dropping down to devour the salty morsels within.

The bright sun was low in the winter sky, turning the water into diamonds, afloat on light waves from the south, and a steady breeze tickled my cheeks as I lowered my hands into the icy water.

The water isn’t getting any warmer, by the way.

I’m afraid it doesn’t feel any warmer than the first time I took a cold water swim. What has changed is my mindset. Even though the cold hurts, even though my hands scream a bit as they rebel from the temperature change when I first get in, I am somehow calmed by the knowledge that I survived this last time. My body will acclimate. All of the real work is in my head. I am stronger than this.

There is no greater test of patience than the cold water wait.

The real challenge isn’t the actual swimming. The biggest challenge for me is the first five minutes as I subject myself to a not very hospitable world and keep my eyes looking out towards the horizon, spinning if need be in all four directions, studying the colors, the front row water view, while my blood cools and moves inward preserving all the heat in my core.

But the reward of overcoming the physical challenge of cold water swimming is always close at hand. Once I start, the water takes hold and I am set free, sailing suspended in liquid life.

And this is in a full wet suit.

My swim buddy, Dave, a die hard skin swimmer year round has found his winter stride, and is swimming most days. Even now. In January. And me, head to toe in neoprene except my hands and face can only muster up courage once or twice a week at best this time of year.

It’s not a contest. But I do envy him the freedom he has going without a wetsuit year round. I will wait for the warmer months to leave my selkie suit behind. He has less to carry, and can change more quickly. On the flip side he must work through the less than pleasant jolt of “afterdrop”, with unavoidable shivering as his body works hard to rewarm and pump the blood back to wherever it needs to go.

The magic of water is of course that anything goes. There are no rules on how to be in the water, besides the obvious of not sinking. Winter swimming does put some constraints on the length and manner of swimming by the simple fact that it’s just too cold. With or without a wetsuit. No one wants hypothermia.

Today as we carved slowly through a mile of green choppy water, aglow with fuzzy beams of sunlight, Dave circled back several times to not leave me in the dust and to keep his body moving in order to prevent turning into a man-shaped iceberg.

I tired on our last half mile, swimming north against the tide with choppy waves rocking us up and down, throwing saltwater in our faces.

I knew that to finish this swim I needed to shift my mindset. I had mistakenly peeked behind me several times to find myself dismally close to the beach house I thought I’d long ago left behind. To finish would require me to focus on what was right in front of me, or directly below me, with every stroke. Looking behind me slowed me down, leaving me feeling as downcast as a shriveled up balloon.

As expected this time of year, other than the seagulls circling about above us and some wintering ducks riding the waves nearby, all was quiet. When we paused midway, Dave told me we had a visitor. The resident seal was following us, but I never saw her myself.

Instead, I saw one crab on the way back, just as I worked to put all of my focus on each stroke. A few strokes later I spotted a large white mass on the rocks below. Curiosity won despite my fatigue and desire to finish, and I dove down. It took two drives and unclipping my buoy to confirm what I had found.

A moon snail. A massive moon snail.

How it got it’s name is a mystery to me, but what I do know is that this creature was a ghostly white not unlike the moon and looked like it came from another planet. Possibly the moon. I suppose one could argue that both of these statements could be used to describe many creatures on planet Earth. It’s certainly an apt name for this one.

The moon snail deserves more description, especially for those whom are not familiar with or have yet to see one. First off, most of a moon snail is the body, not the shell, when they are alive and plump with water. This moon snail was the size of a bunch of bananas, a sold white slippery mass, completely flat on the bottom. It’s shell looked like a cap, tucked oddly but securely atop its firm gelatin-like mass of a body.

This salt water animal can hide its entire body within its shell simply by expelling water. A lot of water.

And the snail is not pretty by traditional standards. Before I knew what it was I was looking at below me I was honestly a little freaked out. Once I dove down and realized what it was my nervousness subsided. But as often happens in the water, I was drawn towards the unknown and the very human experience of insatiable curiosity and the need to discover new things.

With no travel possible these days, again I found my adventure close to home—in the Salish Sea.

All of these months of swimming along this shore, and other beaches around the island, and I’d never spotted a moon snail before. For months I’ve plucked moon snail shells and mostly broken remnants from the beaches and waterways, aware that the living ones were living safely tucked in the sandy bottom, laying their grey speckled nests here and there, the sight of which reminds one of a discarded tire. Hermit crabs will claim discarded shells for their own homes too sometimes. And evidence of the moon snails are everywhere upon the beaches—their hall mark calling card is the tiny holes they drill into the top of clam shells—always by the hinge for some reason—in order to suck out the gooey goodness inside.

I couldn’t believe my luck and delight with this sighting.

I called to Dave to let him know why I had stopped.

With one last look, I continued on. A few minutes later, another one appeared, much smaller than the first.

And then another.

And another.

The fourth and final moon snail showed her amazing self as I reached the landing.

One moon snail would have been enough. Seeing four today felt like winning the lottery. My months of collecting fragments of moon shells led to this moment today.

I don’t know what or if these sightings are a sign or symbol of good things to come, but I think I’ll hedge my bets and take them as a sign that at the very least, life goes on, and beauty may be found everywhere—it is deep and not always visible to our eyes.

Beauty is what we notice, what we choose to see.

Hood Canal. Unspoiled. I think.

Yesterday we woke to sunshine.

And reports of a massive spill of untreated sewage and drain water in Seattle—11 million gallons—into Puget Sound. Concerned friends sent me texts to alert me, while swim groups online buzzed with reports of the spill and debated when and where the water would be safe to swim again. Some ventured out for short swims anyway, heads above water, hedging their bets that the benefits were worth the risks.

One day prior to all of this, after seeing first hand the muddy waters surging into the bay from the massive rains this past week, and the blessed forecast for sun, I had already set my sights on a swim adventure off island. I hopped on Google Earth to study the shoreline of Hood Canal, the nearest saltwater I could get to that surely would be clearer. Then yesterday’s terrible news cemented the plan.

I texted my friend and music partner to invite him to accompany me to Shine Tidelands on Hood Canal, knowing we both would surely benefit from a trip off island—he could enjoy the beach, and me the water—and we could talk life and music, and have a break from the hardness of now.

Without hesitation Larry agreed to come along and thoughtfully offered to bring hot coffee and chocolate biscotti to enjoy afterwards.

The dismal news of the sewage disaster hung heavy in my heart as we crossed the Agate Pass Bridge, over a glistening expanse of still water below. I was a mix of relief and quiet guilt, knowing that I was headed far away from the polluted water to swim, while the full time residents of the sound stayed behind swimming and breathing in putrid water created by me and my humankind, and feeling very lucky to be able to drive to cleaner waters.

It is finally sinking in to my 47-year old brain how much I have taken for granted, and how much more I have to learn.

Living most of my life in the Pacific Northwest, there has been much to take for granted. The majestic mountains, pristine lakes and saltwater bays, clear skies, towering trees, and people in love with it all. And many people, thankfully, open to and working for change and equality and LGBTQ rights, and access for all.

But last summer, this beautiful place was choked by wildfire smoke while whole towns burned to the ground along the West Coast and people and animals died. And the sewage spills of yesterday, also caused by humans directly and indirectly, as we continue causing climate change , leading to outrageous storms and strange weather patterns.

This is a lot to absorb.

My blog has been centered on open water swimming but I realize that I cannot write about this watery pursuit of mine without addressing humans impact on the open water, life around the water and pausing to talk about access to water.

Not only who can access these beautiful bays and beaches—the means to live near them or travel to them, but who has access to the resources to even learn to swim. This topic deserves its own post, which I hope to try and address next time.

I wish to end this post by speaking of Hood Canal. End with a little lightness and hope, something we all so desperately need.

I was spoiled yesterday, by a pristine swim alone through clean water, under blue skies dappled with bands of white clouds. The bay was shallow, and as I swam along gazing at the sandy bottom, speckled with beds of oysters, I dreamt of summer swimming here. Shallow bays mean warmer waters—in summer. Shallow bays in winter….are freezing. As much as the sun lit up my heart and eyes with light, even giving a bit of warmth to my back as I swam along, the water stayed frigid.

I had set my mind on swimming a full mile, even mapped it out ahead of time. I recognize today that it was directly linked to my intense need to feel in control—of something. Anything. Feel powerful and capable, as our country heaves through another terrifying week. And most of all, a swim long enough to help me let go, for just a moment, of all thought, all worry, all doubt. To just be breath and flesh.

The water and my body allowed me that gift.

Completing my goal, I heaved heavily to shore, my face numb. Larry stood waiting in his red and black checked coat, smiling, a handmade fly carefully stitched to his cap.

“My face is numb,” I said.

He reached his hands out to cup my cheeks, offering some warmth.

“That was a big, swim,” he said.

“Yes,” I mumbled through a stiff smile.

He asked what I saw out there. I told him I saw some oyster beds here and there, and a bed of purple sand dollars.

The bay was rich in sand dollars and oysters.

After bundling head to toe, hot mugs of coffee in hand, we strode back to the water’s edge to nibble on our biscotti.

I was aglow in contentment with my quiet swim. I told Larry that I always return to the shore after changing, to reflect on my swim and give thanks for making it back safely.

And yesterday I also gave thanks for friendship. And a moment to let the light in with another human who gets up every day helping make things better here for all of us. Just by showing up.

I swam home today.

I literally swam all the way to my childhood home today. Dock to dock in freezing pouring rain.

I had put this swim off for a very long time.

I feared the grief that might overwhelm me, returning to swim here, having endured too much loss from one neighborhood. The ghosts of my childhood live here still, the old house now sheltering complete strangers, untouchable, few neighbors from my childhood remain and recent years of too much pain associated with this place shine brightly like a fleshy open wound, staring me down and burning me every time I drive past this frog and down to the water.

Down the hill and around the corner from this frog and this ladybug is the home my parents brought me to at 9 months old, along with my older sister and brother. A return to the island where my father grew up—Berkeley, California, in 1974 was not where we were to spend our early days.

Being less than a year old when we moved to this neighborhood, the old house here is the earliest home I can remember.

The first saltwater I ever tasted or swam in was here, in Port Madison, where blackberries dripped from thorny vines all along the curved stretch of beach, a rainbow of pebbles and shells up top, then a vast expanse of barnacled rocks, and finally grey sand down low and an edging when the tide was lowest of ballast from the old sailing ships that once harbored here, bringing timber to the mill. In spring and summer we spent hours and hours at this beach, running through the tide flats with our dog, seaweed and salt flying every which way, building sand castles for tiny crabs and constructing forts and boats of driftwood and washed up styrofoam riddled with tube worms , weaving tall grass and harvesting clay and geoducks—the latter with little success. We leaped off of docks and searched for old glass bottles in the layers of thick salt-soaked sawdust, deep brown and dense the color and texture of coffee pucks leftover from espresso. We danced over purple expanses of sand dollars and caught flounders with drop lines and squealed at the sight of the ominous red jellyfish. We learned to row a boat and sail and water ski here.

And, no, I had no idea how magical and special a place it was to live back then—it was just home—it was all I knew.

Once we happened upon a dog carcass washed up with the high tide, earless and hairless and white. We tried to bury it, but the ground was too rocky, and it floated out again as it had come in, leaving only its sad memory behind.

A few times we floated messages out in bottles—dreaming of pirates and treasure—and one time my sister found a message in a bottle from a girl way up north in Canada.

Once when I was in high school a grey whale visited the bay, and we almost paddled right over it as it made its way north, the only exit.

It’s no accident that today of all days I decided to swim here. I was in such a dark mood, hanging in suspense like the black clouds oozing rain relentlessly all day long, feeling adrift and uneasy about the whole world, I figured I might as well pull off my only bandaid.

If I was bleeding already, what did I have to lose but time?

As I drove across the island, suited up and resolute in my decision, I steeled myself to take on the cold, uninviting weather. In my mind I checked a few boxes:

1. No wind. Good. The wind had died down which was promising—perhaps the water would be calm, and the air less cold.

2. Familiar beach. Safe. I knew the beach and the water like the back of my hand.

3. Steady rain. It was pouring rain, which almost guaranteed I’d have the entire place to myself—the only way I wanted it or could bear to experience it.

4. Mint tea. I had a thermos of tea, two pairs of socks, two towels and tons of warm clothes to put on after.

I parked at the public dock, grabbed my light, turned it on and throwing it in my buoy, strode quickly to the beach. Rain drops fell steadily on the still water, where a few small pieces of driftwood floated on the high tide. I stood next to the dock and stared north, to the next dock sitting 1/4 mile away, a road to nowhere now that I go. This was the dock, our dock, we shared with the neighbors next door. I lived 18 years in that house, my parents over 40 years.

The rain cast everything in dull shades of grey, and even our old house looked lost and forlorn. But the beach shells shown bright white, and my heart beat picked up as I anticipated the cold plunge to come and as I scanned the curve of beach that I had walked so many many times, I suddenly felt okay. Even happy. I had made it. Goodbye band aid.

I stepped into the water and looked about in all directions. Everything and nothing looked the same. Across the from the public dock an old red house still stands boarded up just as it had been years ago, standing sad and lonely before the most exquisite stretch of sandy beach in the entire bay. As kids we’d sneak ashore to revel on the nice sand and swim off the steep shoreline.

After a few splashes of water on my face, I dove under. I took a few strokes and popped up to ease the inevitable brain freeze that always comes at first. A lone crow cawed, pulling my attention away from the pain. A few deep breaths later and I was under way again, the water fairly clear to my delight and I swam through the shallows north over the rocks and sand.

It all looked familiar. I was home. My delight surprised me as I moved swiftly north towards our old dock, unafraid and happy to feel so free and peaceful.

I never plan nor want to walk the old hallways of our old house, but I realized today I don’t need to. The place was gutted anyway—it wouldn’t feel or look like home anymore.

Everything I need is in the water.

As I swam along the beach, I thought of my sons who played on this beach with their pre school friends, and skipped rocks from shore with their Grampa.

My gaze and focus caught on a school of tiny fish close to shore, and I felt joy in knowing I had company. The quietest kind.

I recalled swimming as a girl to the beach from the end of the dock at high tide and feeling so pleased with the great distance I had traveled. I remembered learning to windsurf with my dad and watching him build the bulkhead and mow the lawn thousands of times. And I looked at the flower boxes atop the bulkhead and remembered the thousands of sweet peas mom grew there every summer—enough to fill an entire florist shop. Just in the yard above was where I had said, “I do” to my kilt clad groom, a mere 22 years ago, beneath a driftwood arbor.

When I reached the old dock in front of the old house, I paused to look up. I recognized it all, but it was like looking through a hazy screen. The outlines looked the same, but the center was gone. The heart is gone. And I have changed.

The water held me afloat as I passed under the last few docks leading to the mouth of the bay. A flock of seagulls took flight from the last dock, scattering like shells into the dark sky.

I floated still a few moments, catching my breath, the rain drops setting down like quiet notes of a song across the water.

When I reached the old dock on my return, I was winded from the exertion of swimming against the tide. As I floated beneath the dock, I reached up to touch a creosote piling. I remember dad always warning us to not lean against the creosote—impossible to get out of clothing.

Tears burst from my eyes. I cried for peace and relief. I was tired but determined to swim back to the public dock. I had to finish this journey.

I had hoped to spot the old cement ring beneath the dock—as a child, every time the tide was out I’d check the contents—a miniature tide pool, a little ring of little lives.

Back home tonight my shoulders were sore washing out my suits—still are. After dinner I stepped into the kitchen and baked a lemon huckleberry cake. It tasted like summer, and my family was happy.

The rain falls steadily outside the windows. Everyone sleeps. And I’m still salty.

Some things need to be washed away. But not the salt. Never the salt. Or the good memories.

The salt and good memories are worth holding onto.

Keep the light on. The orange swim buoy glows bright at one end, a giant floating flashlight, tucked under an arm to exit the water.

It gets dark quickly, and there may be rocks to tumble over, and there will certainly be mud. Plenty of mud.

The mud will stick to you, coat your booties and splatter your legs. The water will collect and feel much colder in your booties once on land, quickly freezing your feet as the blood slowly returns, hastening your trip to the truck to peal off the cold.

The pebbles may conceal sharp shards of shells, maybe glass. Plastic. A rusty nail. You will stumble over a large rock, feeling like a three-legged saltwater swamp monster learning to walk for the first time.

The earth will push back up on you once you reach the shore. The floating dream will be over. Your weight and density will drive the bottom of your feet into the jagged rocks. Your own weight will surprise you, and you will long to return to the icy water. You will miss the softness instantly, and remember why you swim—-even now—in winter. But the view of golden water and golden sky and vast indigo blue edged by soft low grey clouds will silence those thoughts and leave you spellbound and still.

Meanwhile the seagulls will continue their evening cries, soaring over you, having dove close over you minutes prior while you swam through shallow water, smiling as if for the first time with the delight of swimming through perfectly still water. The ease of the swim pouring energy into a weary mind, a sluggish middle aged body.

The lone seal will stay at home in the water, eyeing your clumsy ways in and out of the water and in between. She may not have minded your visit, perhaps it was a slow night for dining on fish, and the still water like glass reflecting purple grey clouds was a sight worth sharing—even with an awkward human.

Perhaps the seal wonders about you—

The human stays quiet and still, and only whispers one soft sound, “hello” —whatever that means. It sounds safe, like water. Swimming close by feels okay.

But where does she think she is going?

What is she swimming away from? Or towards?

Keep the light on once onshore, so you may find the stashed keys and unlock the truck and get dry.

Hurry. Peel the wet suits off, whip the maroon robe on. Quick two pairs of socks. Ah, that’s it. Don’t forget the hat.

Keep the light on, but stay hidden. No one is here.

Return to the water’s edge for one last look, see the fog has rolled in to the North—Salish Sea and sky are now one. The boundary has dissolved.

And don’t forget your seal friend visited you again. You mistook a buoy for her, and then you mistook her for a buoy. She swam easily past you, a dark shadow hidden in the twilight. You wished for night vision and a body of blubber and fins and a map of her world, but she can’t give that to you.

So you will settle for peace on the water at dusk, water smooth as glass, fuzzy vision under a grey winter sky and gratitude beyond measure for the power of nature to heal and protect a heart that breaks open again.

Only a breaking heart can let the light in. So let your heart break and keep the light on. You’ll need it.

The day started here with a walk.

And the day ended here. Watching the final count.

And tomorrow I will rise, pass by these signs as I have many a time, clinging to hope for peace and a better day, and a swim like no other.

Hard to pull words from an ocean of shock and disbelief. I told my husband that today reminded me of 9/11.

Nothing will ever be the same again. And in some ways I hope that it never will be the same again.