Mary Swims

I made it. First open water swim in the month of December—now I can retire.

On second thought, I think I’ll keep swimming. I am certain the coldest days are yet to come, don’t want to miss those! Whatever would I write about?

Mother Nature certainly did her part coaxing me in today. The air was crisp and cold, with not a puff of wind and the sky was a brilliant blue with not a wisp of a cloud. If I were a seal not counting fish and without a calendar to reference I might have been fooled into thinking it was August.

But I’m not a seal nor do I really have any idea what goes on in those shiny heads, except that they are curious and like me, have their favorite spots to swim—and like to check out other life forms.

This afternoon I was the observed, not the observer, to the local seal who frequents the waters off Fletcher Landing.

I had arrived all suited up and packing a solid headache with me, hopeful that a swim under blue skies just before the sun sank below the horizon might lesson my aching head.

On autopilot I marched in and after a quick splash dove under, and after popping back up for air started doing the breast stroke south. Something was different, I thought, what is it? I was perplexed and slow to put the pieces together—why was I doing breaststroke when I always churn through freestyle?

Ah! Goggles! I went to change my stroke and put my face in before I figured out what was missing. I needed my fish eyes. Perfect. I thought, as my body leapt happily from the ice water with a mission destined to warm up a cooling core.

I felt like I was in the backseat to my body today. I dashed to the truck, grabbed my goggles and dashed back in, the errand having had the effect of pumping some blood around and diverting my attention away from the rather intense task of acclimating—my hands especially— to the freezing cold water.

Head down with a calm path before me, I plowed south to a certain house that seems to have become my designated winter turnaround spot—far enough to get some good swimming in, get my heart beating strong, but short enough to help me pace myself and not go too far and return an iceberg.

I paused just twice to look around, and save for one gull on a float I didn’t spot a single other living being, above or below the water. As I passed the float I had a sense I was being watched—my instincts were correct—this lone seagull stood at attention watching me glide by.

As I returned to the landing I heard voices onshore. A young couple stood at the water’s edge. As I neared them they asked if I’d seen the seal.

I told them I had not, having fallen into autopilot in the cold water, too preoccupied with the blissful joy of swimming through calm open water, uninterrupted and blessedly alone in my happy place.

“The seal was following you, right by you, for quite sometime,” the woman said.

I turned to look, and changed course, slowly moving back out into deeper water to perhaps see this friend. I waited and she appeared, our shiny heads both low in the water, peering at each other cautiously, silently.

In a blink she was gone, then reappeared briefly as I waited, as the feeling slowly left my numbing toes, my core beginning to rebel from the slow ache while my mind began calculating how soon I should get out and warm up.

Time to exit. I swam to shore, wishing I’d noticed this saltwater guide beside me.

But maybe that wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It was her turn to observe. I was on her turf, possibly scaring away her dinner or maybe just giving her a little distraction from her own woes.

Who knows what she worries about.

Who knows what hidden woes and joys and sorrows anyone carries with them?

We are all observers. Sometimes that’s all we can do —just make space for each other to just be who we are meant to be.

The saltwater is a good place for that.

Why I swim.

This one was my first passenger long ago when I fell deeply in love with swimming—in a pool. And the pool was where I fell deeply in love with A., my first child.

He was tiny, invisible to my eyes, keeping me company lap after lap, floating within floating, just the two of us, water all around. My belly would hang low in the water, my widening hips and sore lower back caressed and soothed by the water around me. I’d talk silently to him, my wee one, as we crossed back and forth, utterly self contained. Safe and bound together by blood and flesh. I was aware even then that this unique and private time, while he grew bigger inside and I grew bigger on the outside would pass by quickly and never be the same again once he was born. At birth he would have the whole world to explore, all of the oceans to swim in, no longer just mine.

I grew bold as I expanded, embraced my roundness and often waltzed to the pool’s edge in a bikini, inspired by a documentary showing bikini-clad Russian women leaping through holes in the ice, weeks before birth, to strengthen both mother and child.

I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be daring and brave and invincible on my path to motherhood, and beyond.

Living in the Pacific Northwest, an icy plunge into a frozen lake was not really an option. Eighteen years ago when I carried this fellow inside, I wasn’t open water swimming beyond an occasional dip on a hot summer’s day and certainly not thinking about swimming through winter in the Salish Sea.

I was swimming, however, and thought I was preparing for motherhood.

Not until motherhood arrives does one realize there is no preparing. Not really. It’s too big, like the ocean. Vast and complex and ever changing, filled with love so big you can’t possibly name it. And the days bring soft breezes with whispering little waves, and then tidal waves and giant sea swells washing up all manner of flotsam, followed by moments of utter stillness, the water a mirror reflecting back all those things you swore you’d never do as a parent or say. And sometimes the white capped waves and the wind collide and shout at you to figure it out and make it all better and heal the hurt, and have the answer, but you don’t.

The best moments are like today, at the beach, sitting on a bench with my son talking, while the water shimmered with shades of purple as the darkness arrived, the water calm and quiet reflecting a sky washed in fading bubblegum pink and gold and violet while our dog dashed about noisily digging holes and wagging about unaffected and cheerful, delighting both of us.

I asked to take A.’s picture. He allowed.

We talked some more. I listened. We watched two ducks dive down for their evening catch.

I asked him to trust that the answers will come, his path will unfold. In six months he will graduate from high school, a huge threshold. So much awaits him.

I told him I have no answers but know that he will find his way.

He looked out at the water and remarked that he doesn’t know how I stand the cold—how I do it.

I said it’s getting harder, but I love it. I told him I hope to get in at least once a week through the winter—maybe even tomorrow.

I looked out across the water, and a seal appeared, a dark glossy head followed by a slick body.

“Look, A., a seal!” I smiled.

The delight never ends. Nor does the hope for my sons’ futures.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll take my first December open water swim. There won’t be any ice to break through, but in I will go, bravely and boldly, and wear my love like a suit for all the world to see.

I’ve been learning a few things of late on my first fall in the open water. Much of what I have absorbed has been through trial and error, or gleaned from various sources online.

My favorite online source of late is a Facebook group called “Slow Swimmers”. The origins of this group seem to be in the U.K., with the bulk of posts also coming from folks there. To join the group requires answering a vital question:

“What is your favorite type of cake to enjoy after a swim?“

I feel a bit like a foreign interloper looking at posts of people in far off waters, rivers and lakes and the North Atlantic, floating around in fuzzy hats and talking about cake. I often wish I could join them. But for now I just have their pictures and joyful posts to read. I have learned much from reading their stories, including being reminded that the most important part of enjoying cold water is simply getting in—for any length of time, and getting out and dry quickly to enjoy some cake and a warm beverage afterwards.

I took this last bit of advice with me to Fay Bainbridge Park today, in the form of a steaming thermos of hot chocolate—the good kind, with whole milk. I didn’t have cake, but figured this drink is really a perfect combination of the two—sugary hydration and calories to refuel a cold core.

On the drive to the park, I cranked up the radio and joined Cyndi Lauper on “Time After Time”, feeling a little more ready than usual for a late fall swim on a new beach, armed with my thermos to bring my body temp back to normal post swim.

The afternoon was soft, the sky brushed with all manner of clouds, and the park speckled with all manner of people and dogs getting some fresh air after the hard morning rain.

Having arrived fully suited save my hood and goggles I took the north walkway to the beach. The water way feels much larger on the east side of the island, with ferry boats and freights passing by Seattle and it’s neighbors, the mighty Cascades beyond.

This new swim from an old familiar beach and the host of memories tied to this place distracted me from the chilling entry, and before I knew it I was standing chest deep in large waves from distant boats. The wind was light, the surface of the water smooth but rising and falling like a thousand bellies breathing in and out, up and down.

I did a quick glance South then North, and settled on the Northern route, and taking a quick dive under to break through the final wall of cold I was on my way. The bottom was dark, thick with eel grass, and likely many crabs hidden away out of view.

After a half dozen strokes I took my first breath, then a half dozen more before popping my head out to wait for the brain freeze to subside. Trial and error has taught me that this works pretty well—I pack in a dozen or so strokes with one breath in between, then lift my head out and wait for my brain to settle in and adjust to the cold.

Head down again I swam on past the park boundary and out along the spit, my view of eel grass broken up by the occasional patch of open sand, decorated with small clam shells.

This edge of the park once had the kind of establishment every kid craves—a snack shack. As a child I’d hop my bike with my sister and the neighbor kids and speed past the cemetery, up and over three big hills to reach this candy Mecca. Charleston Chews and Skittles, freedom on a bike, an open beach, no parents. It was alright.

In the open water I paused to take in the view, feeling the bigness of this place, my own smallness and a lifetime of connection and history on this stretch of water, just around the corner from my childhood home.

When I was three my dad came home with a salmon he’d caught right here, as tall as me, with a Christmas photo still floating around to prove it. When my folks still lived in Port Madison I brought my own little boys out in a little aluminum boat to drop crab pots. And for many summers I rode this water with my dad by speed boat to Shilshole, and sailed home with my family past this beach after adventures to the San Juan’s or afternoon trips with friends.

Other memories flooded in too, as I floated in the open water, watching seagulls soar above, staring across the undulating water. The cracked memories, the sad ones, the scary ones, those I let fall from my eyes to mix with more salty water. I set them free to float away. All memories end up somewhere in the end— some sink and some float and some lucky ones fly away.

All was still beneath the surface, my only company a large brown cloud of shimmering fish, not more than two inches long. They appeared and hovered and were gone like a dream, perfectly spaced from one another, suspended in the water in a perfect school. What a marvelous skill they have.

I turned back around at Pt. Monroe, palming one small jellyfish on the way back, it’s body slipping through my hand with the smoothness like a tiny body in motion in a womb—a sensation known only to expectant mothers.

Hot cocoa summoned me back to the start, and after a quick change truck side I took the thermos to the beach. My toes were very happy too, as I had the foresight to pack two pairs of wool socks and finished with a layer of the dog poop bags I keep in the truck for emergencies.

As much as I hate plastic, it sure comes in handy sometimes. My feet were in heaven.

Finding a dry log for a seat, I settled in to warm my belly and watch a sailboat pass by.

Mount Rainier stood to the South in soft shades of blue and purple, and I breathed it all in, thankful for another day in the open water.

Handful of beach—of sand and blue glass and eel grass and clam shell, of headlamp, of two moon snail shells the size of softballs, of cold fingers missing the pull through saltwater

Head full of thoughts—of wishes gazing out from an empty shore, of hopes for a kinder world, a more balanced world, a planet blooming with growth and new life, resilient and strong and free, of my endless need for the next swim or plunge maybe tomorrow when I can set these thoughts free, raise the anchor and set sail on flesh and bone and the memories of my muscles alone

Heart full of longings—for solitude and forgiveness and understanding and acceptance, for a prayer to include every being that hurts or is lonely or broken or lost or angry or hungry or thirsty, for a bigger heart to hold it all, endlessly expanding to the edges of everyone and everything

Ears full of voices and heartbeats—of little waves over little rocks, of distant cars rolling home from jobs or to jobs or the hospital or a friend’s house or the store, of nesting birds sharply warning me to mind my step, of pieces of songs from my own lips reminding me how the lyrics go, of my sons’ deepening voices saying goodnight and good morning and I love you and I’ll be back soon and I’ll be okay and watch me and just listen, of every heart beating in every creature below the waves, of my own heart drumming away beside the waves along with every other living being, steady

Eyes full of color and shape—of fading light and navy blue shadows over grey blue water, of a fuzzy moon hanging a night light in the cloudy sky, of far off headlights moving northward and southward in a band of black land beneath a darkening sky, of two ducks diving in tandem like synchronized swimmers then reappearing together to bob effortlessly over hills of water

Today full of life —at the water’s edge. At the beginning and end of everything.

The light got through today. And I swam and swam, and had gentle crossings with people on both sides of my swim.

It started with a little bag of salty almonds, homemade with care and lovingly delivered by my aunt this morning. A brief visit, a quiet chat about dad, her brother, and my mom. And after well wishes to each other on tomorrow’s one of a kind in a century Thanksgiving, we parted ways.

Before she left, my aunt mentioned my last post, wanted me to know that she has been reading them, acknowledged the weight and heft of some of my wandering musings on open water swimming and life.

My life. A drop. A million drops.

I dance the line in telling my story honestly, but cautiously, like a clam keeping some of my deepest thoughts and ponderings and dreams to myself, stored tightly in my shell.

But sometimes the water, the cold water, coaxes my thoughts out, untethers my hidden world, asks to be heard, written down, listened to, even celebrated.

None of us are really that different beneath the barnacles and flotsam, and writing helps me feel connected. Less alone.

And the light, and human connection brings us out of our shells.

After the pies were baked, the stuffing prepped, some dishes done and planning in order for the various deliveries of meals tomorrow to our parents, I stretched into my selkie suit and drove to the landing.

The sky held sunshine, and marvelously happy clouds, and arriving at the beach I also found the light had brought people. Such a stark contrast from the other day when I was here, when the sky and water mirrored my dark mood, on an empty beach, no soul around.

But today, the sun and blue skies poked through, the tide was high, and my stomach was full of feast samples, mainly bread-based—good fuel for a swim. My goal was to cover some ground, swim for awhile, travel and move through this watery landscape as only a wetsuit can allow me this time of year.

At the water’s edge a small boy stood in green boots with his mother, studying the beach. We smiled and chatted as I stepped slowly into the water, happy to see familiar faces and visit with my neighbors, a welcome distraction from the submergence into cold, cold water. We talked food for a bit, and I shared the experience of living with two teenage sons that eat more in a day than I consume in a week it seems.

With a wave I headed south, my neighbor first asking if she should stay and keep watch over me. I thanked her and assured her that I would be okay—I’ve done this a few times. She laughed and said it was just the mother in her, worrying. I appreciated the thought, and utterly get it.

In a time and world where so much is up in the air, uncertain, and stretched, I understood her concern, but I know this place and most of what to expect. Mostly.

My swim was quiet and soothing, a fuzzy green haze obscuring my view. Clam shells and my own breath my only company. I relaxed into the rhythm of my stroke, feeling tension leave my body even as the cold pulled at my hands and face and feet.

I ended my 3/4 mile swim, feeling calm and refreshed, my swim bookended by friendly crossings with people I know, all neighbors.

Thoroughly chilled and ready to dry out, I stepped ashore and saw two other neighbors of mine, whose house I often passed by in summertime on my swims in the bay.

After a quick change at the truck and grabbing my phone to capture the sky and water in all it’s brilliance, I headed back to the beach, stomping my feet in rapid succession to get the blood flowing again.

I glanced up to say hello to yet another couple enjoying the view, and found myself face to face with my science teacher from high school. Their daughter had also been a classmate of mine, and we shared delight in our common ground. A past with overlapping memories on this little island.

Tonight I tucked into my cozy bed, thankful for today’s gift of light. I went to the water to breathe and feel and float, and returned feeling a little bit lighter, more at peace.

And grateful for all of the people I crossed paths with today, friendly faces reflecting light.

Just before bed, I stood in the kitchen, huddled around the half turkey that my husband was carefully carving for tomorrow’s deliveries. My eldest son stood gnawing happily on a crispy wing while my youngest son picked at a tender morsel, and I scanned for the next bit of gristle to pass to our eager mutt.

I will go to sleep tonight giving thanks for all those dear people that I have crossed paths with in this life—my little family chief among them, and for those friends I have not even met yet. They are like the treasures of the Salish Sea—ready to meet me when the time is right.

And I’ll try to remember the light is always there, even in the deepest dark.

If I forget, you can remind me.

Still water lay beneath a heavy sky crowded with grey clouds, the air damp and mean like the sharp grab of snow down your neck on a winter’s day.

I was not feeling kind or generous or hopeful, just dull and bleak like the view before me this afternoon as I arrived at the beach.

All I knew to do was head to the water’s edge again, maybe there I might find a slice of lightness and relief from all that weighed me down. Or all that I let weigh me down. Perhaps it is both.

Sometimes the darkness is unavoidable.

On a whim, I tossed my swimsuit, towel and a headlamp into a mesh bag, and with my dog in tow—or maybe the other way around—we walked the half mile to the landing.

I spent most of the walk looking at the slate grey sky and naked branches, a chill down my neck, thinking that it was highly unlikely I’d actually swim.

I was so low energy that just the thought of getting into my wetsuit made me tired, so I settled for just bringing my swim suit—this way I could swim in the remaining daylight, modestly, if I really wanted to.

At the beach we steered south, my black and white pup wagging head to toe with glee, hopelessly tethered to the moment and whatever odors passed by his black snout.

I was jealous. What I would give to be blissfully ignorant of the endless trials and disasters of the past and present that us humans pile upon ourselves every day. Lucky dogs only know mindfulness—their entire existence is bonded only to the present moment. What a gift.

A lone heron stood at the waters’ edge, his legs and body unmoving, more shades of grey filling this dark November palette, ready to launch at any moment above the silent water.

We neared him and like a sudden breath he rose up, wings wide, hushed flapping and a squawk to announce his departure. Landing on a buoy to the north of us, he settled in, effortlessly balancing while my shoes slipped and slid noisily over damp rocks.

We passed the last house and reached a fallen tree jutting out over the beach. My indecision on whether to take a dip grew and I debated whether it was worth the effort, the inevitable discomfort of ice water around me.

I wasn’t feeling strong, quite the contrary. But the water was so still, and I had been thoughtful enough to bring a towel. I reasoned that it might brighten my spirits and I even had a four-legged lifeguard with me for the first time.

The water won. Again. She was ready for me.

High up the beach, among some leafy branches I stripped down and pulled on my red suit.

The water and air may have been about the same temperature, or so it seemed—Fahrenheit freezing.

I waded in and breathed deep, bracing for the mounting cold to seep in. The one plus side of not wearing a wetsuit was there was no delay in feeling the cold, waiting for the water to seep in past the zipper, or down the neck hole. The immediacy of the cold water’s arrival seized my brain and all thoughts ceased. This was what I had hoped for. It worked.

My legs went numb fairly quickly—acclimating surprisingly fast—and as my toes mounted their quiet revolt I took a few more loud breaths, squeezed my eyes shut and dove under. Popping back up I could see my furry companion standing at attention near the water’s edge, having paused his thorough study of the beach’s banquet of smells to keep a keen one-eyed watch over his mistress.

I paddled, head above the water, in one more little circle, and heard a splash behind me just as I turned my back away from the shore.

Eyes wide open and my skin dancing from the chill, I stepped out of the water much to Rocky’s delight. With his lifeguarding job done, his mistress now in arms reach and safely onshore, he dashed in circles and skidded up the beach prancing and smiling as only a dog knows how.

His world was in order, and now my world felt a little more in order too. Pleased with myself for getting in, however briefly, lessoned the weight. I got in the water, and found a piece of myself that had come loose. The water brought it back.

They say dogs feel our emotions, are in tune to their humans. Maybe it’s magical thinking, or maybe it’s true, but my dog danced when I exited the water.

Perhaps he felt my happiness breaking through the slate grey within me.

Either way, I’m glad I took a dip. And I’m really glad I had my one-eyed wonder dog for company.

He’s got some more lessons for me on mindfulness, and living—and swimming—in the moment.

Two days, two beaches, one naked swim.

It all started because of my finger injury with the hatchet. I couldn’t swim, but the water called. With a beach walk I could continue my quest for more moon snail shells and fragments, and delight in watching my mutt scamper with unbridled joy at the beach.

Overwhelming sadness and grief took me hostage yesterday like a suffocating blanket. I needed an out, I needed to be near the water if not in it. As my finger injury kept me out of the water, the beach would have to suffice.

The first beach was Crystal Springs yesterday, just Rocky and me. Together we explored the quiet beach and found dozens of fragments of moon snail shells, while the sun sank low and the waves brushed the shore. Ducks hunkered down onshore, or nearby, bobbing on the waves, and scattered like leaves when Rocky caught sight of them and dashed into the water to watch them startle and take flight.

We strolled north, lightly trespassing over slick stones past houses lining the beach, hoping that our peaceful stroll wouldn’t upset the folks who see this view everyday. It dawned on me that this slight anxiety I felt down my spine would have been utterly absent had I been floating in this same water, just a few feet offshore.

I don’t understand the concept of “private” beaches, and find it repellant—but swimming one can float just over the “private” land and be left alone.

Dozens of times this summer and fall I swam just offshore of dozens of beachfront houses, and never once even considered that this was a trespass. But had I walked these beaches, sadly I am certain that at least some owners would not have been pleased.

Yet another way that the water makes me feel free. No one can own the saltwater.

We arrived home laden with shells, to be photographed and studied, fragments that hold stories of their own. I went to bed and slept hard and long, waking rested at nearly 11am.

Today was a lighter day. The sky made space for sun light, brightening my mood and lifting my spirits. We ate French toast and then sat together, with our sons, talking about the planet and the future and skateboards and electric cars and dictators and prisons and melting polar ice caps.

Later on, amidst cleaning out our closet I found some poems I had written on motherhood, and raising sons, reflections on living.

I read one to Aidan. The next one was not so light, and he asked me if it was dark, and if it would make him want to wrap me in a big blanket and hold me. And I said yes, and he said let’s skip that poem. And then he wrapped his arms around me to give me a giant hug. My heart burst into a thousand pieces.

And then evening came and I felt restless, and strapped on my shoes and announced I was going for a run. This would have been my third run in three years, but it was cut short by my desire to just walk, take a sharp right and go the beach.

The darkness was closing in fast, and I arrived at the landing at dusk. The rocks shown black and shiny, and I veered right, another light trespass to walk in near darkness the length of the spit. Shore birds swooped and cried, sounding the alarm, likely drawing me away from their hidden nests. I stayed low at the waters edge, looking down at the same rocks I have passed over many times during higher tides, wrapped in my saltwater blankets. Two moon snail shells found my hands, more hidden stories to be told, if I could uncover them.

The moon was out, glowing from behind dark clouds as I returned to the landing. All was still. I had the beach and the moon and the water to myself. Maybe just a brief dip wouldn’t do much harm to my finger. And maybe a swimsuit wasn’t necessary.

At the rock wall, after a quick glance around, I ran a mental checklist of my available clothing needed to get home, and after considering perceived and actual risks with a quick skin swim in the purest sense of the word, I committed.

I hurriedly shed my land layers and tiptoed over the wet rocks and shells, walking straight away into the cold water up to my waist.

And there I stood.

Adrenaline is a powerful thing, and as I had experienced just the other day with my first November skin swim (in a suit), the cold was present but more of a side note to the experience.

I felt like a mermaid for a moment.

Again I felt giddy with delight at standing alone, completely free of any physical restraints. I looked around, at the water and the sky and the moon, joining this other world again—and then spotted just a few meters away a black form, like a bowl turned upside down in the water. The shape was there then gone, and my eyes or imagination or the merging of the two watched a dark wave become another dark wave and another, headed straight for me.

I stood stock still. What was I seeing? Was I dreaming? Was it a seal or my desire to see one?

Fear was not in me. I was okay. I know this place. I looked down towards my feet at grey and black and brown rocks sitting still around me. No sign of movement there.

And then a splash to my left, a little ways away.

I was not alone. I dove under, and swam breast stroke in a circle. The cold surprised my body where I usually have a thick layer of neoprene.

I swam to the shallows, and turned once more, swimming freestyle out a few yards, my toes tingling. The unique feel of Raynaud’s—my old friend. Time to get out. I wanted this to go well. This was worth repeating.

Back on shore I crept cautiously and quickly like a stealthy raccoon back to my cache of clothing, and using my shirt as a towel dried off and whipped on my clothes in record time.

I looked back at the water, and again in the near darkness could just make out the shape of a round head floating low in the black water. With my headlamp I aimed it at the water, hoping to to clarify what I was gazing at, but the light did not reach.

The darkness and waves swallowed up my friend, and whether real or imagined, the effect was the same. I was not alone.

With a burst of energy and heightened alertness, I clutched my shells in one hand and my headlamp in the other and started running home. Half way home I realized I had left my red shirt at the beach.

Perhaps I’ll go back tomorrow and try to find it. My sons were slightly aghast that their own mother would do such a thing. Swim naked from a public beach.

But it was dark, I explained. No one could see me. And I was all alone.

Or was I?

Persevere and Pivot.

These may be my new favorite words, and most rightly capture the day I had yesterday and where I find myself today.

Yesterday I persevered and won a battle with a rusty bike lock, and succeeded with no help but for the company of my loyal mutt and a can of liquid wrench in emancipating our small outboard motor from our aluminum skiff where it was tethered.

After a soggy walk in pouring rain, I decided since I couldn’t get any wetter I might as well tend to this long overdue task of hauling our little skiff from the water.

I arrived at the wobbly little floating dock to find the vessel half full of rain water. The motor stared back at me, stubbornly locked to the skiff by the rusted bike lock that I should have removed before the rains started…like, say, two months ago.

The bay was a brown grey puddle of swirling cedar leaves and pine needles. Staring wistfully at the water, I accepted that today’s mission would likely not leave time for a swim when all was said and done. But I was still near the water, almost in it and certainly looked as if I’d been swimming already—fully clothed in boots and baseball cap no less.

Forty six bucketfuls or so later I found the boat looking much higher in the water, and my pants much wetter.

That was the easy part.

I pulled the boat close to shore, sprayed the lock with stinky liquid wrench and then lost hope and my mind as the key would not enter the lock let alone turn. Grumbling to myself and my dog we headed to the house to call the rental center to inquire about cable cutters. No luck—I was informed that cable is a beast to cut, and other options involved a power source and rental fees and expertise I do not have.

So, after a quick thank you and goodbye, I grabbed some pliers and a spark of determination and hope to head back to the boat for one last try. Spirited cursing, a bit of grunting and a few blunt jabs and twists of the pliers later, and the key entered and turned.

“Yes!” I exclaimed to the empty bay and my bedraggled mutt.

Much relieved to have won this battle, we popped up to the house for the oars and a life jacket to finish the job and row the boat to Fletcher’s Landing for the haul out.

(The motor, in case you were wondering, stopped working propearly months ago—rowing was the only option.)

The trip was wet and quiet, just the sounds of the oars’ steady rhythm as we carved a zig zag path of bubbles out of the bay. The wind picked up as we reached the entrance, and I stayed in close, hugging the shore to keep an eye out for a salty treasure—a moon snail shell perhaps or a clam shell book.

Fighting the waves and rain we meandered south along the spit, where a hearty crew of builders hammered away in the rain atop the frame of a new house. I had been feeling tough until I saw this crew, in wind and rain all day. My adventure was almost done—they had hours to go.

At the landing I unloaded the engine, tethered the boat to shore and headed the half mile back through the rain to get the truck. My friend Larry arrived to help and beating me there loaded all but the skiff by the time I returned.

Back at the house, mutt and I both needed several towels and a rest.

When evening came, I had bread rising, two hungry boys, and then the power went out. After lighting candles and switching on a few lanterns, I set to building a fire.

There was no kindling to be found, but I was pleased that I had at least cleaned the stove weeks ago in preparation for our first fire.

The moment had arrived. With confidence and some excitement lighting the first fire of fall I began splitting wood, calculating when I’d need to dash off with the rising dough to a working oven—and figure out a dinner plan.

And about then is when I chopped into the tip of my left index finger with the hatchet.

A gasp, a concerned son and a quarter of my finger nail suddenly barely attached, the day and my utterly terrible response to physical trauma sent me reeling.

Fortunately, my son Anders, launched into EMT-mode, bringing me water, Advil, bandages and coaxed me to put my head down while also making time to text my husband and my eldest son for backup.

After ten minutes of extreme wooziness I pulled myself together, and absorbed the blessed reality that my finger was still intact, and only the nail was impacted. I am certain a good part of my shock was that window of time when in slow motion I contemplated the frightening fact that a ever so slight change in the angle and I would have cut off the end of my finger.

When Aidan arrived home shortly after the incident, I convinced both sons that I was not only wholly intact but also feeling okay, and thought take out was in order. Relieved and happy they headed off for this rare treat.

Once returned, the three of us huddled around the living room table in a puddle of lantern light, the fire glowing in the corner, as we devoured our dinner and recounted the day’s events.

I was giddy with relief, and even managed to save the rising bread, with a trip to Larry’s where the lights were still on and the oven warm.

Yesterday was full of pivots and perseverance.

As the dark closed in tonight I strapped on my shoes and a headlamp and went for a short run. It’s nothing like swimming, except that breathing is involved and in the dark reminded me of the unique sensory deprivation found in the open water. And the feeling of being alone—in a good way.

I’m happy to report that my finger is doing okay today, but guitar playing and swimming are out of the question, at least for a little while.

And I’m okay with that. I miss both, and find myself thinking how grateful I am to have found the open water and steel strings.

But I still have the end of my finger, the boat is out of the water and my sons know how to take good care of their mom.

Plus now I have time to work on my hatchet skills until I can swim and play guitar again.

Oh wait. No hatchet.

I’ll let my boys tend to the fire for now while I read more swim stories and listen to others play music.

Splash!

Maybe I needed to jump start my system, feel the holy cold jolt of November’s icy saltwater on my skin, or maybe prove my youthfulness to my son, but either way today’s “swim” was definitely more of a plunge.

When the endless rain took a pause this afternoon, I grabbed hold of a half hour window and invited my youngest to accompany me to the landing for a quick dip. I’d drive, take my first November “skin swim” plunge (no accoutrements but my swimsuit) and ask Anders to capture it on film.

My energy was low, after waking too early, sleep alluding me like so many others these days. I wished for the energy to take a long swim, but didn’t have it and heeding my inner voice I opted to try a “dip” in the tradition of the Irish and English women who continue to inspire me. The goal was to get in, get wet, maybe splash a bit and finish with cake.

Sometimes it pays to move quickly, suspend thought and act on intuition. It worked in my favor today and my exuberance got us both out the door in minutes, and to the landing shortly thereafter. My heart rate shot up with the reckless excitement of leaving my selkie suit behind and trying a dip in the shadows of trees shedding their leaves, revealing their nakedness—boldly signaling winter’s imminent arrival.

With little time to spare and my heart racing, we hopped out of the truck and dashed to the shore. My adrenaline made me giddy and after dumping my pile of clothes and towel on the rock wall, I made for the waves.

A few steps in, I hollered with joy at having arrived and with a quick wave to Anders, dove under. I had expected a giant shock of cold, not being snug in my wetsuit, and was rather surprised how well I handled the cold. For a moment. My sense of elation and release of just being back in the water kept me happy, almost feeling strangely warm, even as the cold soaked in, tingling my skin.

Well, I didn’t go into shock, and after a few strokes, one quick trip ashore and a second plunge I was out quicker than the time I usually spend just getting acclimated.

I whooped again, feeling rejuvenated and wide awake—joyful relief knowing that the water is still there ready to take me in. Even in November, especially in this November when the sky is dark and dull and full of rain, and our second lockdown is just underway.

My dear son took some photos, congratulated me and quick as a wink we were back in the truck. My toes gave me an icy scolding on the way there, as I squished them naked and turning white through thick dark mud.

Through the rain soaked windshield white caps waved goodbye in the distance, and I scanned the water one last time hoping to spot the porpoise that Anders had spotted earlier in the day.

No luck. Today’s wildlife was us. With our shaggy hair and twinkling eyes we smiled and laughed and had a happy moment, in the wind together on this little wild beach.

Returning home for a quick shower, I thanked Anders again and had a piece of cake.

Not a bad day.

Being with my son was the best part.

I found selkies at the shore today.

And sunlight.

Venturing up the road a few miles from home, I arrived to Dock Street, one of the island’s public road ends—a forty-foot wide corridor providing public access to the saltwater I love.

The small bay lies sheltered from southerly winds, and I was delighted to find her calm and sunny, unaffected by the blustery wind. This little bay was made all the more inviting on my maiden swim here by the presence of two other women. One of whom I’ve know for most of my life.

I have grown accustomed to venturing out mostly on my own, and was quite surprised to find swimmers here—glad to find friendly faces and others suited up as I was.

They invited me to join them and with little hesitation I accepted the offer. The sunshine and warm greeting bolstered my courage to plunge into the icy water, and lowered my trepidation with entering this new bay for the first time.

In the distance the white triangles of happy sailboats skimmed along beneath the Olympics, skirted in light grey clouds and capped with fresh snow.

We clambered down over the concrete wall into two feet of high water, landing softly onto soft sand rippled by waves.

The sand was another unexpected surprise, a quiet promise of more good things to come—further calming my nerves.

We bobbed along, two orange buoys and my yellow one, a small pod of neoprene selkies buoyed by the clear water, splashing through a bit of time and space free of conflict and loss and fear, seemingly beyond the reach of the world and the pandemic and all that entails.

My swim buddies didn’t stall for long once submerged and following their lead, after a brief splash in the face I put my head in and pulled forward. To speed my acclimatization I tried six initial strokes without a breath, and pushed all of the air out as I went. The anticipated ice cream headache arrived for a second as I lifted my head out, but this was all I needed.

With a quick glance around, and a brief check in with the others I was ready. And the water took me in.

The bay floor was out of sight, deeper than I had anticipated, a lovely clear green, void of any debris. The open view was like a salve to my eyes, an endless expanse, clearing my mind as sunlight cast an almost perceptible warmth upon the surface.

I paused up the bay to investigate a massive log, encased in barnacles and muscles, secured to the floor below. I was informed that this log would not move, was “the log”, immovable, a staunch guardian to this little bay.

Together we turned around near the log, taking a wide arch out into the dancing waves, reveling in the sunlight that brought the feeling of warmth to us, even though our faces grew chilled and toes grew numb.

As we approached the beach the waves grew, casting about and cementing my decision to accept a shorter swim, and get out while I was feeling good.

Deb checked her watch—twenty-four minutes in the water. A good number, enough time to cool the mind and refresh our spirits.

A rapid change at the truck a few minutes later, and I was ready to snap a photo and head home to drink some cocoa. Julie and Deb graciously allowed me to take their picture, and we parted ways.

My body continued to cool on the drive home, and with a tingling in my toes and a chill swirling around my chest, I was glad I had opted for a shorter swim.

Even in the sunlight, the water left a chill and I was reminded again that the goal is to just get in the water this time of year. And spend a little time floating, cover a little ground if possible, keep my body acclimatized to the winter temperatures.

But most of all I reminded myself that the magic is at the threshold. That liberating moment when I lift my feet, lower my head and give my body to the water. There I feel at home.