Mary Swims

I knew this would get harder in wintertime—I just underestimated how hard by a long shot. By many long shots, actually.

The weight of the Northwest winters in the before (COVID) times were bleak enough to make one not want to get out of bed, let alone swim in icy water.

And I wasn’t open water swimming in winters past—

And there wasn’t a global pandemic in winters past.

My youngest son is to thank for getting me to swim today—my first actual swim of 2021. My mood was as dark as the seaweed swirling below me, and after a gentle nudge from my son that “maybe a swim” would help, and after a couple hours avoiding the idea, I gave in.

He was right. The swim did help.

In fact my mood lightened as soon as I pulled my black plastic dog poop bag over my foot to ease the task of pulling on my snug wetsuit.

In my defense, I was anticipating dirty water from the endless rain of late and fretting about sewage spills, and weighing the risk/benefit ratio. In neighboring King County there were several warnings, and just the other side of the island an entire harbor is listed as “no contact” due to sewage overflow.

This is enough sad news alone to give one pause to open water swimming—and cause heartache. And the other night my husband and I watched a nature documentary with David Attenborough narrating the plight of the melting polar ice caps. We sat motionless watching as enormous walruses went cascading down to their deaths, forced to climb up to unnatural heights to find space to be ashore, as their former icy islands have shrunk by 40%. Rarely do I watch t.v., and even more rarely do I cry watching a show. Tears rolled down my face. And the next afternoon, my husband mentioned the walruses again. A lump grew in my throat.

I am afraid that I didn’t think as much about the Salish Sea and all of the other waterways of the world as I do now. One can’t spend time in a place like this and not fall in love. And loving it means thinking a lot about how to save it. Writing and sharing my stories is one small way I hope to bring awareness to our dependence on this place and the huge responsibility we have to making changes—even small ones to lesson our impact and preserve the infinite life within.

The beauty out there is the wildness. The blustery wind and the choppy waves and the honest cold. And the millions of lives living just out of view below the surface or miles down where no light ever goes.

As swimmers, we ride the surface, skimming barely over the vast world beneath us. There is no softening the sensation of the cold for the bare parts exposed directly to the water.

This afternoon I stood chest deep and splashed wildly about to wet my face and acclimate my hands, as both refused to plunge in the normal way. I turned northward, and spotted my eldest son on the beach. I splashed toward him and he got out his phone for a picture.

I waved goodbye, and in time my frigid hands adjusted, my face flushed with the exertion and my body eased. The water was murky, but the inner lift I felt bouncing along over the waves was well worth it. Once home there was a shower waiting. I could wash away the salt, but the experience would stay and it was a good one. My body rocked about, at ease again, floating in saltwater. I got a sudden strong whiff of salt—the smell of summer—and for a split second I was transported to the summer, and was reminded of the light and the warmth that will return in time.

The sky grew dark as I arrived back at the landing, and clutching my glowing swim buoy I floated for a moment. To the south I spotted the small float where just yesterday I watched a family of river otters tumble about as large waves rocked them up and down.

And I thought again of the walruses. They don’t have enough space to cavort and rest and mate, like the otters and me.

On the flip side they have an impressive amount of blubber to keep them warm. I wonder if they ever get really cold and tire of the dark days of winter.

I suspect they are just fighting to survive.

I’ve been wanting to make this for a long time—a spiral of mostly moon snail shells and fragments, curling outwards and inwards upon our dining room table.

I finished lining them up, one by one, around 10pm tonight, and by 10:05pm surrendered to my inner water sprite, whipped on my red swimsuit and bathrobe, and after alerting my family I headed for the landing.

I had plucked the whole and broken shells from the salty waterways and beaches around the island, during swims and walks over the course of the past nine months.

As the months wore on my collection grew as did my fascination with their shapes, and my desire to find more. Over time I discovered that the search was itself a sort of meditation, the broken fragments a sort of physical manifestation of the partial thoughts and chaotic feelings and fragmented sadness that took me by surprise this past year. I piled the shells on window sills, and in our little fountain outside the front door, and on our coffee table and by our bed. Little altars to the Salish Sea and swimming and the Earth and constant visual reminders to myself to remember the water. Remember the seals and the clams and oysters and herons and sand dollars, remember the orcas and rock crabs and muscles and jellyfish and flounders. Remember they are there all the time. Swimming and crawling and drifting and bubbling and leaping and living one breath at a time just as we are. They too, want to survive. Must work to survive. Need the waters to be clean to survive.

Like open water swimming, collecting the shells became a concrete way for me to attach to the moment before me, and in searching for shells —or moving through water—my feelings of connection to the earth deepened this past year.

As time passed on, I grew more adept at spotting the moon snail fragments on the beach. Each time I found one felt like a gift, a new chance to make a wish, hold in my hand something solid that I could understand.

I had spent much of the day telling myself that a polar plunge or swim on the first day of 2021 wasn’t mandatory, I didn’t need to swim. But at 10pm after carefully arranging and sorting my collection of treasures from 2020, in the company of a few lively sand fleas, the pull to feel the cold water overpowered common sense.

My husband humored me when I told him I needed to go to the water tonight, in the dark and wind, alone. He smiled and reminded me to bring my headlamp—and suggested I not lose it like the last one.

“Ok, thanks! I’ll try,” I said.

“Be careful and have fun,” he replied with a grin.

The words “why not?” bounced through my head as I drove through our quiet neighborhood. What better way to invite the new year in and shed the old than a late night plunge?

As I drove to the landing, I felt giddy with a sense of freedom and confident in my ability to handle myself in the water—even at night, even in winter—alone.

My dip was just that, and tightly clutching my key with my swim light shining in my hand, I tiptoed over the rough rocks to the low tide mark and stepped in.

The wind felt warm, and the waves cold and I reached up to the sky and then dove under. After two more quick dives under, and a short paddle I was back on the beach, my head squeezed by a sudden brain freeze.

The wind warmed me quickly, though my toes were less than pleased. I sat on the beach wrapped tightly in my fuzzy robe, while the waves crashed onshore, and all felt right for a moment.

I had done what I needed to do. And the water made room for me. Again.

A toast to the Salish Sea, and the many friends made in and out of the water.

It only seemed right to close out the last day of the year, this year, with a swim with Dave, my open water swimming mentor, friend and neighbor.

The water was choppy and a strong southerly wind battered us about for our 1/2 mile swim along the beach south of Fletcher’s Landing. I swallowed record amounts of water, as I was tossed about in thick green water, keeping my eye on Dave’s bright orange buoy as we bounced along.

He made faster time than me and I zigzagged awkwardly along behind him, trying to keep up. Several times I paused to catch my breath amongst the high waves to find Dave circling back to stay nearby me, checking in, making sure I was okay.

I don’t think I would have made it out of the gate today, had Dave not been there to keep me moving forward, out into the cold, into the deep, of the Salish Sea. This last afternoon of 2020 was grey and cold, and the water looked unfriendly and harsh—a bit like the year we’ve just had.

I fought the urge to turn back with the first step into the water, as Dave finished getting ready. But this had been my idea—I had invited him, and I knew that I couldn’t back out. I knew I would be glad I went, and I’d even brought hot cocoa along for us to enjoy afterwards. And I was the one covered head to toe in neoprene, save my hands and face, while Dave dove in with nothing but his speedo, cap and goggles—and a bit of Crisco to prevent skin rash. I had no excuse.

As we took to the water and let the cold sink in, I said I thought I could make it to the beach house today, but not further. Dave kindly agreed and said it is important to know your limits and not to push it, especially in this cold water. On his own he likely would have gone twice as far I am sure, but was happy to keep me company and take a shorter swim. I was grateful.

Back on land over our hot cocoa, we watched the sky darken and out in the waves a seal appeared. For just a moment, I held my breath and watched her move northward through the waves. The last seal sighting of 2020.

As the entire world looks back on this year, trying to piece together and process so very much, I wonder what is worth holding onto. There is so much that we can’t forget, should not forget, that is dark and cold and cruel, but there is also so much that is good and true and expansive that we must also not forget.

My resolution is to keep holding on to the best of what feeds me, challenges me and helps me feel free, and give back in new ways. I plan to play more music, learn more songs and make more art too.

In the end, the freedom I find in the open water is the same freedom I crave on land. To feel connected to the world directly around me, moving steadily forward with even breath, pausing to see the treasures under my nose, unafraid to venture out alone, and ready to make new friends wherever and whenever they appear. Everyone I meet teaches me something.

This feels like a good plan for 2021.

Thank you for being here.

Love, Mary

Marrowstone Island.

We made it there and back again today—the boys relived their younger days running around the bunkers and reminiscing about the annual family school retreats to Fort Flagler while I swam in Mystery Bay and combed the beaches for shells and watched the clouds change colors in the sky while our dog ran amok following his wet nose.

The park near the boat launch was mostly empty, and after parting ways with the boys whom had requested “alone time” to pal around, I parked the truck and was halfway suited up when it dawned on me that I had no one to zip up my wetsuit.

With a quick glance around I located a group of picnickers and got the help from a nice woman bundled head to toe. The wind was cold, blowing south across the expansive park, a treeless open space with overnighting RV’s here and there and water on three sides.

At the humble boat launch I looked northwest at the curving spit stretching out a half mile or so, edged by calm clear water. Dressing outside pre-swim was a new experience for me, and I fought off a decent chill before hitting the water. The goal is always to preserve as much body heat as possible before and after swimming, and in this new place already feeling chilled I knew I needed to use caution, get moving quickly and be mindful of my time in the water and how I was feeling.

I stepped clumsily over hidden boulders beneath the surface as I prepared to swim, dipping my face several times, and breathing out long into this new watery landscape. The novelty of swimming in a new place, an hour from home was thrilling and my excitement with taking on this winter challenge and the anticipation of seeing new under water delights distracted me from the cold.

Face down and underway I sailed in close along the shore, passing a few strangers, glad to have a few eyes following my progress just in case I had any trouble. No trouble came my way, just a steady swim over a sandy bottom, speckled with an occasional clam shell.

As I reached the point, the waves rose up and a strong current began pulling me away from shore. I lifted my head just in time to receive a large wave hard into my face, an instant reminder that I was but a speck and of no consequence to the massive forces of nature. I was but a small twig bouncing around, with little strength compared to the world around me.

My mind quickly clicked in to high gear and I took strong breast strokes towards the shore as I caught my breath from the last big wave. A few strong pulls later I found my footing and walked back against the strong current, one with the force equal to a good sized river. I had to lean forward to make my way, as my feet slipped in the soft sand and tiny pebbles below me.

I tried a few strokes against the current, but the water was too strong and I wondered if I might be forced to walk the distance back along the beach.

I kept pushing hard and finally the current eased up, allowing me to take the water again the way I love most—arm over arm freestyle, alternating my breath right and left, blowing steadily out, motion and weightlessness and a quiet mind.

The sandy bottom was etched in wave patterns, highlighted by brown sediment that had settled into each valley, creating an even pattern across the floor. Large brown shoe prints meandered here and there along the patterned bay floor, and I wondered whom those prints belonged to. I was surprised to find the footprints still intact, several feet below the water. A good reminder to tread lightly. We all leave a mark don’t we?

When I reached the boat ramp I dashed to the truck, hands bright red, feet growing colder with every step.

My mutt greeted me, a welcome friend to see after my first plunge in this new place. Two pairs of wool socks, the truck’s heater blasting and two mugs of steaming cocoa later and I felt terrific and ready for a walk.

Purple and grey clouds dazzled the western sky, trimmed in pink, as my dog and I retraced my route out along the curved spit. To the south the water was still, and to the right on the north facing side of the beach large waves sloshed about pushed by a strong wind.

Rocky decided to defficate on the beach, and with one measly plastic bag—with holes no less—for me to use to clean up the mess, I was forced to cup the carefully wrapped gift in my hands as we made our way to the nearest garbage can. The upshot was that I laughed out loud as I realized that my hands were happy, being gently warmed—by dog shit. It’s rather amazing what happens when you discover hidden gifts in unexpected places.

After a short drive to the lighthouse on the other side of the park, we stepped onto the beach while a flock of seagulls scampered about. My curiosity with their unusual behavior was explained seconds later as we stepped up over beach logs to find a humpback whale carcass rotting on the beach. A nearby sign instructed to not disturb the carcass or take the baleen.

The creature was once massive, now a shrinking shell of its once living self. I texted the boys to share this discovery and fetched them from the top of the hill to come see the humpback before the darkness fell.

We ended our day sitting nearby on a log, the boys sipping cocoa and smiling ear to ear from a day well spent, while the pungent smell of decomposing whale flesh wafted by.

On the drive home we stopped at the old general store in Nordland, a favorite of ours from Fort Flagler visits—and photograph the now shuttered store and “ice” hut across the street. We were saddened to see it had closed, but a warmth shown bright from Christmas lights and ornaments hanging from the old rafters, and a brilliant Christmas tree stood all aglow across the street.

Tonight as I rinsed out my wetsuit in our bathtub, I thought about my son and his good friend giggling in the truck, my swim today, and the whale. I was glad for the many gifts of today and the lightness.

As I hung my suit to dry, I smiled even bigger as I considered that I swam in the same waters as that whale. I hope her end wasn’t premature, that her life was well spent.

Today was a good day. There have been enough bad ones lately, and I wish for the world oceans full of singing whales and beaches and old bunkers overrun with happy children giggling with their friends.

That’s me on the right, eye to tail with the salmon. My big sis had the tough job of balancing dad’s catch for the photo. And I had my Pom Pom shoes to keep clean apparently, with killer overalls to boot.

Spunky. That is one of my dad’s favorite words. And mice—most children, including my own, are still referred to as “the mice”. Tomorrow I’m taking my younger “mouse” and his friend on an adventure to a nearby island, as we are hungry for a change of scenery, but staying close to home as advised due to COVID.

The boys want to explore bunkers—I want to swim. In preparation I searched the local open waters swim group on Facebook, and stumbled upon the first post I ever wrote about open water swimming.

It referenced Marrowstone—the island we are visiting tomorrow, and much to my surprise I was reminded by this post that the first day I went for an official open water swim of any distance—1/2 mile, as opposed to my 47 years of splashing and frolicking about in the Salish Sea—was last April. April 19th, one day before my dad’s birthday.

I have included the story of my dad here, with a photo from the store we will visit again tomorrow on our adventure. And then I’ll take a swim.

I’ve got to stay spunky like the mice, just like dad taught me.

From April 20, 2020–

My dad turned 77 today.
I love my dad.
I saw him through glass today.
We used our phones to talk through the solid wall of glass.

Dad said, “I’m not sure which one of us is the monkey behind the glass.” I told him I wasn’t sure either.

There are no words to express how painful this sort of distance is….and I know we are lucky by many standards, in many, many ways. And it still is hard as shit. Second year in a row of not being able to hug my dad and celebrate this amazingly complicated, loving and sweet father of mine. To say we’ve had some challenges in the past few years is an understatement.

Today we held our phones to our ears, with our faces less than 4 feet apart, separated by the library window of the facility where he now lives.

I miss so much about who he was and am also grateful for some of the softness that I see in him now. Amidst the current new reality I find more and more things to be grateful for each day….and feel loss over and over and over again. The gratitude and loss share the same basket.

This photo was from a father’s day card I made for him years ago. This captures the essence of what I hold in my heart. Dad’s endless spunk and energy captured here–a spontaneous bike ride on Marrowstone Island with my sister–he taught us to adventure–along with his moments of quiet contented, heart-filled joy– just being with us.

I think dad was always his best on the water. Sailing or putting around in whatever boat was at hand. I remember him telling me once that being alone on the sailboat was where he found real peace. To this day I find the greatest peace on the water–or better yet in the water. I realize now that part of the draw is that it makes me feel closer to dad. Yesterday I squeezed into a wetsuit and hoodie and swam my first 1/2 mile in Fletcher Bay with my neighbor, Dave. The water temperature was 58 degrees. This was a big first. I couldn’t wait to tell him.

Probably my happiest moment today with my dad included telling him I made him an apple pie (just like his mom would have made) and telling him about my chilly swim yesterday. I think that dad would agree that I got his “spunk” gene.

And best of all—watching him revel in the cards our sons made for him–our eldest drew a picture of him and dad riding around in the little motor boat, with fishing poles and a beer perched on the outboard (just like dad used to do)–and our youngest drew dad’s sailboat, his refuge, now a distant memory.

Dad. If life allows, I hope we can take another boat ride together this summer. It’s been too long. And we could both use a cold beer.

I passed by bright white snow berries on my way to the beach today.

At the shore, waves tipped with white caps crashed in coating the beach with white foam, fuzzy and thick, completely obscuring the rocks and pebbles and crushed shells beneath.

Across the water, below a bright December sky crowded with clouds, the Olympics stood wearing deep blankets of snow—the cold shawls of winter, there to remind me that winter has only just begun.

A bright pile of clothes, shoes, and a rainbow COVID mask lay piled on the small rock wall—and a can of Crisco, swim cap and Spit Spray for defogging goggles. All familiar items—yes, my friend Dave was in the water.

Soon an orange buoy caught my eye, and the familiar bare brown arms of this hearty skin swimmer. He passed by headed north, beating through high waves and from the beach I could just make out his new blue snowflake swim cap—my token gift to Dave, my first open water teacher and swim companion.

I waited to welcome him in, and cheer on his success. Through stiff lips and a warm half frozen smile, he asked if I was getting in, as he assured me the water felt warmer today.

I had been on the fence, but seeing him come ashore refreshed and happy was all the motivation I needed. I would opt for my full attire, I told him, as a skin swim in underwear was not sounding very appealing. I left him to change and defrost and skipped home with my mutt for my selkie suit.

When I returned a short while later, the wind was still strong and after bobbing through the icy chop, pushing off the bottom with my toes, dancing the cold away and mucking about until the water seeped in through my selkie armor, I made for the mouth of Fletcher Bay, and a calm swim through the still, murky waters.

Breathing came easy and my freestyle strokes came steadily as I rounded the bay and bright winter sunlight cast rays of light into the water around me, giving the water a yellowish green glow as I passed by trees onshore, glowing in a symphony of green. I was reminded of the swims of last summer when the sunlight danced off the bottom and the clear water lit up the infinite treasures below. I wondered where all the critters hide out now, and peered about without spotting one single fish, crab or even clam bubble. Not even a seal showed today. Only seabirds and ducks seemed to be out today, keeping watch over the bay.

My hands felt like blocks of ice, my feet complained all afternoon post swim and tonight my shoulders are tired to the bone, and still I am thankful and so grateful for the gift of open water swimming.

I had a lot to give to the water today. And the water took hold of it all—my pandemic-weary self, my cagey cabin fever, my heartache and grief, and floated my cares away on the waves for a spell, like a bunch of snow berries.

My thoughts and worries still float about, the water can’t make them go away, but they dilute them and wash them.

If I work at it, gratitude, love, generosity, compassion, and creativity grow bigger, swelling up like an ocean to make me stronger still—the kind of person I wish to be, and what I wish for my sons.

My little snow berries. Clinging to little branches, full of possibility.

So today I swam right into a float, unscathed I’m happy to report, and lifted my head out of the icy water to the sounds of cheering.

Life onshore and life in the water urged me on today, as I struggled to manage the coldest water to date. Yesterday snow fell in some neighboring towns, while icy rain overflowed ditches and streams, turning roads into small lakes in some places —and seemed to turn everyone’s eyes to the ground. Including my own.

But today I awoke to a thick mist with the sun slowly seeping through. As I walked the dog in the dank morning air, sunlight lit up the moss and ferns along the trail and trees continued to shed the water from yesterday’s storm—everything sparkled—even my dog seemed lighter on his paws.

As the sun burned away the last fog by mid day I felt certain that this was a good day for a swim, and by the early afternoon under bright sunshine, my errands done and calm water waiting, I headed to the landing.

A deep trench split the small beach at the landing in two, likely the work of yesterday’s deluge, but otherwise all was in order.

Two kayakers made their way to the water’s edge, curious about my swim plans and cold tolerance.

After a brief chat that helped distract me slightly I waded in. The shock shook my core. For the first time since open water swimming I had to fight every cell in my being to not exit. An internal scream shook my thoughts.

“This is nuts! I’m crazy. This is not pleasant, I could be in a pool or on my couch, anywhere but here. What the $&!?%# am I doing out here? What is wrong with me?!!”

After my thoughts were out, I let them sink like rocks to the bottom and reminded myself that I would adjust. I could do this.

My desire to float won the brief internal battle and I bobbed out into deep water, unable to put my head under. My mind flew through details of yesterday—reports of snow from my sister in Seattle, the freezing rain, the muddy waters drenching everything and everyone.

I was letting my thoughts win, bringing the cold in deeper as I connected the dots and realized that all of that icy water had ended up here, all around me. Everything flows downhill. As I neared the pilings desperate for distraction, two seagulls broke out in salty singing together, and I finally broke free of my mind’s attempt to bail , as I watched them finish their caterwauling and take flight.

And then she appeared —my seal friend. A brown hump and then a dark brown head rose nearby me—and the cold left me.

I forgot about the cold. I was among friends. I hovered and waited, turning slowly to wait for this quiet host to share her eyes with me. I put my face under but the muddy green water left little view, and after several checks under water I settled with peering around above the still water to wait for her.

She appeared a third time, not more than ten feet away, her sleek head turned to the side, and then she disappeared, her slick brown body dappled with black spots the last to fall from view.

I suppose I wanted a sign or a guide or something to help me do this swim, or something to help me let go and surrender—and leave this cold wet world.

The seal won. Her invitation to swim had arrived. I could do this. I knew this water. I wanted to stay here, swim with this seal, suspend all thoughts and just blow bubbles and swim as best I knew how.

I looked south and without another thought put my head down and swam. My ears strained at the cold, and I had to lift my head out a few strokes in to squish my cap over my ears and ease the tightness.

But I knew I could do this. And I put my head down and pulled through the thick murky green water, and thought about the ice swimmers and the skin swimmers—my friend, Dave among them. If they could do this with no wetsuit, surely I was tough enough to do this with a wetsuit.

And I was. And in time I warmed up and was happy and found myself at the turn around house quite quickly, and spun around to make my way home.

Winter swimming does not allow for shell hunting or leisurely stops, floating on your back to gaze at clouds or tread water and chat with folks (almost no one is ever out on the water in winter anyway) for long—the cold is too intense, and fear of getting too cold always keeps me hurrying along. I miss the leisurely days of summer when I could take my time and soak in the salty brine, and study the sky and dive below for treasures.

So my light collision with an anchored float was the only real pause I took, other than my seal visit. The cheers startled and delighted me, as I looked to shore to find a half dozen or so people huddled around a campfire on a bulkhead.

I waved hello and said I hadn’t meant to run into the float, but appreciated their encouragement. Smoke rose slowly up around them as they offered me an adult beverage to help me keep going. I declined, knowing that this would be the end of my swim and would require a cold walk on the beach back to the truck.

After a brief visit, and photo, I thanked my new beach friends for their exuberant cheering. They asked if I’d like more cheering to help me on my way, and I accepted. So I put my face back into the cold, while strangers whooped and clapped.

The company today was a sweet gift. Bookending my swim— I had seagulls and a seal capturing my attention and spurring me on at the start of this chilling swim and a jolly group of humans cheering me on, helping me find the resolve to make it through to the end of my little adventure.

The days are officially getting longer now. No complaints here. And the balmy days of August are right around the corner….?

I hope I can keep this up until then.

My couch is nice but no seals or human friends.

Yesterday, as my youngest son and I drove the island roads delivering holiday cookies to friends, between stops we acknowledged the heavy feel of this season before us.

I told him that despite everything happening everywhere, we can hold on to the fact that we are one day closer to the shortest day of the year and one day closer to the longest day of the year. Winter Solstice will mark the turn back to lighter days.

He smiled at my statement, and quipped back, “You know, mom, one could also say we are one day closer to Halloween. That’s kind of an absurd statement.”

He’s right of course, but it’s true, and I also hold on to the fact that we are one day closer to the end of the pandemic, just as we are one day further from it’s beginning so many terrible months ago.

He sweetly allowed me my glass half full reflection, and we finished our deliveries feeling a little lighter.

Today I thought more about time and the darkness and the coming light all morning long. You see, it’s been a very long day today.

It was an early morning for me—in fact the earliest morning I’ve had since I worked as a baker many years ago long before children.

Since March of this year, I’ve become a terrible night owl, with wakeful sleep some nights, usually around 4am. But this morning at 4:30am I was wide awake, and surrendered to my wakeful state, to rise and stumble into the kitchen at 5am to make coffee and feed the mutt.

All was quiet and dark inside and outside our little house, as our dog rallied with glee as only a dog can at such an hour to join me with my blue cup of hot coffee for a walk along the shadowed roads of our neighborhood.

As we walked the quiet streets I smiled as I realized that I would get to witness the darkness lift, being up before sunrise—a welcome change after watching the darkness move in faster and faster each day, racing time to grab some daylight—any light—at all before the afternoon sunsets.

The air was dry and clear following the torrential rainfall of yesterday, which had muddied the roads, drenching all those unfortunate to be caught in it.

As Rocky and I made our way to the beach, we passed over a gully, dry for much of the year, but singing like a river full of yesterday’s rain. The burbling sounds carried me up to the mountains, to memories of many hikes along and over small rivers and streams. Again I smiled and paused to listen.

At the beach, a light wind blew small even waves to shore in the dark haze of pre-dawn. Far to the south, a ferry glowed bright with lights headed east to Seattle, and across the water house lights peeked out at us. I stood very still, taking in the morning, the stillness and peace, and turned surprised to find my dog mimicking my stance, waiting with me, witnessing the dark and making space for my own desire to be quiet.

Our walk along the beach was cast in deep shadow, and the light took its time arriving. I felt impatient for the light, and reminded myself that it would come in time, as it always does.

Near the water’s edge a translucent circle shimmered, and as my mind said jellyfish, my eyes recognized the too perfect quality of it. I reached down and pulled out a plastic disk. Lid? Hatch cover? No. A frisbee. This treasure held joyful possibility.

We headed for home as my stomach burned, a familiar side effect from too little sleep. I turned for one last look at the water, and without more than one complete check to see that I was all alone, I shed my clothes, piled them on the rock wall, told my dog to stay and waded in. I stood shin deep for a spell absorbing the chill, waiting for acceptance and heard the cry of an eagle nearby, a single voice calling me to the present.

My swim was short, more like a dip, and I paddled in circles and dove under three times like a lost seal pup looking for its mother. Again the water freed me from myself, my burning stomach and delivered me into the new day, refreshed and happy.

My orange shirt served as my makeshift towel and my dog served as my makeshift lifeguard as I put my trust in the sanctuary of the water again to buoy my spirits.

P.S. I do hope for a bit more sleep tonight…

Hold fast, for tonight I shall write of the light and the dark and the wind and the waves, each bound to the other, no more or lesser than the other. All needed. All a part of the whole. All teachers.

In near darkness I ended this third swim of December, six days before the shortest day of the year.

I almost missed this swim, almost backed out, almost bagged the whole idea of keeping this up once a week through these powerfully cold, wet and dank months that are the Pacific Northwest winter.

But I reminded myself that there is light on the other side, and I knew that if I could just get myself in I would feel the light. So I pushed through my hesitancy, my dread of the dark and cold, chugged cold coffee, wedged into my selkie suit and with it found my purpose once more. By the time my booties were on, and my husband had carefully zipped me in, reminding me to bring my light, I was practically bouncing with anticipation. I had made it. Adrenaline kicked in and I could hardly wait to get in. I danced to the front door, drawing a smile from my eldest son.

Light and time ran out as I dashed to the water, losing precious minutes hastening back home to fetch my forgotten goggles. On the drive I passed by a young buck snacking mere feet from the edge of the road, his small antlers clean and smooth. He was my unexpected wild gift today.

The goggles weren’t much help after all, as the fading light and cloudy water churned by waves narrowed my view to shadows of clam shells and hovering seaweed.

Swimming is a sort of sensory deprivation on the one hand and sensory enlightenment on the other. Hearing fails, as water fills the ears, eyes struggle to identify murky shapes through fogged up goggles and fuzzy water, while numbing cold dulls the touch, as wetsuits (for those who use them) prevent the kiss of water on skin.

Rough waves jostled me about, pushing me towards shore, and with a quick spot check I just missed running headlong into a beached log jutting out over the high tide. My hands felt heavy from the chill, and I wondered how well they would bend once I finished this swim. Hoping to stave off numbness, I opened and closed them tight each time I paused. The trick seemed to work, and I felt pleased to avoid needing gloves, my hands free to feel all that the water holds.

My view was dim but my glowing buoy floated brightly behind me, tethered snugly to my waist. I was glad to have my lighted beacon, one bright spot in a giant mass of black and indigo waters as I swam north from the landing and into the still waters of Fletcher Bay.

Large clouds of seaweed greeted me as I entered the mouth of the bay, suspended and quiet, like a salty greeting waving me home.

In the bay the towering trees shown black and flat, all color and depth gone with the darkening sky. I paused to catch my breath, check my buoy, make sure the glow was strong, and there it shown bright and inviting just beside me. I instinctively wrapped my arms full around this glowing orange orb, the light of it a comfort equal to the warmth and serenity of a cracking campfire.

I hugged and floated, and spun around to gaze at the layers of darkness. Above me a flock of geese called into the night. It was time to swim home.

Outside of the bay, waves challenged my breaths, challenged my strokes and kept me working hard to get to the finish line.

I paused to check for orcas, a highly unlikely and irrational concern swimming in four feet of water, but fear rose up all the same. The local paper featured a picture of one of these magical creatures just offshore in these waters to the south just the other day.

No dorsal fins appeared, just my own low grade anxiety, a welcome break from the land-based worries we all live under these pandemic days.

So the darkness rolled in on me, fear gripped me briefly as I contemplated orcas, my hands were icy and I bumped my leg on a log as I took my last strokes, but it all worked out just fine.

I stepped ashore a little tired and utterly happy. On the flip side of the sensory deprivation and acute challenging sensations of open water swimming is extreme exhilaration. This is the trade off. Most any cold water swimmer or dipper would wholeheartedly agree I think that the cold sharpens the mind’s focus, forces blood to the core, brightens the spirit and the world expands to the infinite.

To float among the fish, and ponder the fact that there are places beneath the surface alive with life that no human has yet witnessed or discovered, now that’s exhilarating. And once out of the water, never is one more awake, never more in the body.

At home I made mint tea and walked lighter on my feet, grateful for another day in the open water.

And now, I go to bed salty, my souvenir of a swim well spent.

Six days since my last December swim.

The water is thick with cold and small flecks of seaweed swirling out with the tide, dancing on invisible currents—all is green and quiet.

I almost retreat, almost stop before I even start, but like now, this time, this unrelenting march through days full of numbers and masks and sadness for the losses, I enter at the high tide like I enter each day, one foot then the other unsure of where I’ll end up but sure that these are steps I must take. We all must walk alone into cold water.

Sunlight glows through a bank of grey clouds and far to the west the Olympic mountains are adorned in blankets of snow, calling me towards beauty and a whisper of hope.

The cold takes me like the day—I waver, feel the chill, wonder what was I, am I thinking, doing, heading towards or away from.

Time starts and stops, as I force my hands under, bare and bracing for the shock that will surely come—pull hands quickly out, splash my face, send hands back in, swirl, then repeat.

Repetition guides me here, gives me structure, a plan for entry into this other world of salt water where I have forged my own rituals.

Some of these sensations I’ve come to expect, but I forget the sharpness just as I wake each day again to the sharpness of now that I had cast away while sleeping. My dreams are heavier now, darker, more confusing, slippery and the water is not the balm it was when the days were warmer. Now I must brace hard to get in and patiently wait for my body to accept this harsh adventure.

The summer’s softness has long gone, the water’s chill dares me to stay—how much can I endure? Where is it safest? On land or in the water?

I dive under, and pull hard, blowing out a steady long stream of bubbles—focus on the bubbles, my legs kicking, torso twisting back and forth while I take my breaths, water and a sliver of land flashing on either side, again and again.

I stop, winded, feel the body surrender, feel my heart beating, peer about hoping to spot an aquatic friend while I slow my breathing with concerted effort.

No seals about, just the memory of them here, in this water, just the other day—a group splashed and barked about feasting on fish while from shore I watched with my dog, mesmerized as one small body leapt completely out of the water.

I continue on, north and into the bay, round the spit, still water and endless space to spin my arms and breathe and float.

Ah yes. That’s it. I belong here. I mentally check in with my toes—they are holding fast in their little booties, and my naked hands stay pink and happy. Fast swimming has dried my mouth, a cave of salt—dry and parched.

A half lap in the still bay, no company, I turn back and make my way to the road end.

Today I want to capture the water, an image, in the water. Fingers stretched, my hand, the limit of my own reach.

I touch both earth and sky. Gratitude for this place, the sanctuary that is water and a moment of peace in this sea. My home.