Mary Swims

He swam away, last Thursday

The tide, a traveling vet with a black leather bag worn down by other visits such as this one, took him out on a sunny day, a day like today

We knew the tide would take him, we knew he would float out far, far away to places too far to swim to

our boat has a hole and no oars

None of us knew how much empty beach he’d leave behind, or how quickly he would leave

Our sons dug the hole that we lined with cedar boughs

With a strength so vast I stumble over the size of the memory, our eldest lifted the limp body and walked to the hole to pass the furry shell to my husband standing in the hole

Curled up neatly we let petals fall around him, a sprig or two of blues and pinks, then the blanket of knitted wool squares

But only after—stop! His nose has dirt on it! Please wipe it clean! I cried out.

I scrambled to the fountain with a leaking palm of water, begging Josh to clean his nose like my life depended on it—because it did

This death felt like dying

Until it didn’t

With a strange frenzy we filled the hole and wept and laid the beach rocks the boys had just gathered into a spiral over the dry dirt

In the middle we set the copper bowls —water for Rocky to drink in the afterlife, or at least a place for little songbirds to visit—

He’d like that too

We are still here, just our dog is gone

I look for him everywhere and want him so

I want his fur in my face and my hot tears to catch in the crook of his ear, where the black meets the white over his departure and my dad’s new cancer and my broken brother and my scattered family and my endless ache and my little self still six and scared and so very sad and my sad big sister, wide eyed with grief

This is all too much

But I went for a swim anyway

After the radiation and the dark tale of what esophageal cancer surgery does to the body and my dad tipsy with fear and rosy cheeks and a quaver in his voice as we went arm and arm back to the white car in the bright sunshine and back to his assisted living where they waited to connect the tube and give him liquid food, tubed water

In the water, there, green and thick the bay quiet but for me I rolled on my back and perched my head upon the orange float and watched as a seabird circled high above me

Just wings and blue, belly flickering as it changed direction mid flight

What is this place

I met one moon jelly near the dock and looked for my dog and my broken heart in the green water

Nothing stirred

Just the water, surrounding me in that salty embrace, pushing ever so gently back against my body like my dog at night upon the blankets

Warm and still

Constant companion

Outside of time

Waiting for me to come home

Twelve starfish

My one and only swim of February, and yesterday I counted twelve

My wetsuit was tight, tighter than before

My lungs heaved a bit

But Dave waited for me

And we swam under sunshine

“The water is the coldest it will be all year, but it’s going to start warming up.”

I don’t know if these words were a promise or a dare, but either way it worked.

I took a 1/2 mile swim —it took me a full month to get back in.

Oh, yeah, my new job could be to blame

Hours spent with little people, just out of diapers, learning to take turns, learning empathy, learning how to hold scissors and paint penguin feathers

I never dreamed I’d be here now, teaching preschool again but never did I imagine I’d become an open water swimmer amidst a pandemic either

And both feel really good

The swim felt so familiar, even as my tired muscles relearned how to churn through cold water and I stared at speckled rocks while seagulls soared overhead and sunlight broke through the salty waves casting golden light over young starfish

Twelve starfish, purple and orange

The first one I spotted was a mango orange

The sight of it took my breath away, just as my heart burst the first day of Montessori preschool in early January when I got my first hug, minutes into my first day

By the end of the first day I received twelve hugs or so at least

Small hands and happy squinty eyes peeking over cotton masks, welcoming me, embracing me, accepting me into their world of little tables and little aprons and little works, new stars in this brand new galaxy

Magical and full of hope, flooding me with hope for our planet, our future, just like those twelve February starfish

Oh! You were all here all along! How did I not see you?

Thank you, thank you for appearing here before me. I have so much to learn from all of you.

And thank you blessed sea, for granting me a swim in your cool waters.

I was here all along too.

Sometimes there are no words to do justice, express, explain, unravel, recount, capture, reveal, or otherwise describe what must be simply lived.

Early evening yesterday, and there my little self stepping out of the blue.

I wore my warm hat, kept my head out, bobbed up and over the waves to the pilings and back, cold spray dousing my happy cheeks, my skin singing in the water, my edges washed away while the sky blossomed like a garden of pale flowers, clouds hummed in shades of pink and purple, and on the shore my dear friend, Erin, stood still and at peace as our two silly dogs lit up the beach in matching neon collars.

Oh sweet life in the water, by the water!

Oh salty dogs, salty friends!

My words hum around the edge of the indescribable sense of release and freedom I feel only here, in the sea. All is in order there, even within myself.

How quickly we forget what is truly best for us, turn away from that which we need the most.

And it is all so simple.

We just need to breathe in then out to touch the mystery, the life force that is within all of us. Better yet, do it in the sea, if you can, and I will join you.

We are all okay. We are good enough. If only we can let go of ourselves and let all feeling pass through us without holding on.

It is all just water. We are all just light.

When I stepped ashore yesterday, saltwater came with me, the setting sun glowed, a yellow line low on the horizon, and my friend and I held quiet space for a fleeting moment.

We shared peace as we gazed in wonder at the water and the marvelous sky while our two furry friends waited with a patience equal to the sea.

Open Water Swimmers: 2

Water temperature: 48 Fahrenheit (8.889 Celsius)

Air Temperature: No idea, likely about the same temperature as the water

Entry Time: 4:20pm

Swim attire: Skin, swimsuit, two swim shirts, goggles, swim buoy with swim light and two caps (one standard plus one neoprene)

Judgement: Clear, but I had my doubts once I stepped into the ice water

Distance: 1/2 mile

Water quality: Clear and dark, the still surface reflecting an orange and magenta sunset, sight limited due to setting sun, but all around utterly magical

Post swim notes: Toes in severe pain immediately following swim, followed by coldest walk home ever, then 2 hours to thaw and return to even body temperature, with significant after drop. Even my heart felt cold.

Post swim treatment: Four layers of clothes, hot tea, jumping jacks, 20 minutes under heated blanket prepared by my husband followed by long hot shower once chill subsided, followed by Josh’s supreme homemade noodle soup and time laying on top of the dog for good measure.

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Yesterday was another first in my open water swim journey—first 1/2 mile skin swim in November. Two texts from fellow open water swimmers and then a run in with my neighbor, Dave, late in the afternoon plus a clear sky lead me to believe that the Universe was really trying to tell me to get out there yesterday. I heeded the call.

I asked Dave if he would join me after I walked the dog. He agreed. I had accountability now and a set time—both would lead to my success. In hindsight, I am certain now that I would have backed out if he hadn’t been there. Peer pressure is a powerful thing.

I went for a very brief skin swim about a week ago, and that had felt good, but beyond my head out-fuzzy-hat swim (I even left my glasses on) it had been several weeks since my last open water swim and I was missing my longer swims in the sea.

Yesterday, as soon I was waist deep with Dave, feet teetering below on invisible rocks while my skin screamed and my muscles tightened I doubted that I could swim more than a yard or two before I would surely shatter to pieces. The water was frigid.

What was I thinking leaving my wetsuit at home? I was mad. And felt brave. And stupid.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said to Dave.

But Dave was there, calm, encouraging and unhurried. His comfort in the cold water and trust that both of us would succeed spurred me on.

“Take your time,” he said as I found my slow breath and looked around at the snowy mountains beginning to glow as the sun lowered in the sky. My eyes searched the watery landscape, seeking anything to distract myself from the pain.

Meanwhile, a woman stood onshore, chatting and curious.

“You two are braver than me. I swam in the pool earlier, and that was enough for me,”she called to us as we stood waist deep hovering at the threshold between land and sea, sanity and insanity.

“I don’t know about braver,” I said. “The words crazy and stupid come to mind,” I replied through labored breaths.

“How far will you go?” She inquired.

“No idea. Might make it to those pilings, or a 1/4 mile, maybe 1/2,” I said, simultaneously annoyed and glad to have her questions distracting me from my work of trying to accept my current Arctic-like environment.

My strategy for this swim was to double up—two long sleeve swim shirts and two swim caps, the outer one insulated, to help hold in the heat. The swim shirts didn’t really provide any warmth, but psychologically speaking made me feel slightly “bundled”. I had also packed chai tea, knowing that sugary, warm liquid would be a welcome treat after this swim.

Yesterday there was a moment when I at once felt myself cross a fuzzy and stark line, when the shock of cold slowly faded, my body adjusted and I thought of the blood redirecting inward to keep my core warm while my arms and legs got rolling and my eyes watched the orange band of sunset flash on my right side and my breath steadied out and somehow the water dance came to life.

I felt myself merge with the water. I felt powerful and sure of myself. Days prior in the pool I had felt like I was swimming through thick mud, laboring through each stroke. But out in the sea, the cold water felt thin and easy, my strokes even and effortless.

After swimming in a pool a few times over the past month, being back out in the open water with no walls, no lifeguards, no roof, no heat but the heat that I myself generated gave me a profound energy and a sense of self sufficiency.

The water below was dark as we headed south, and I was motivated to swim steadily to keep warm, keep up with Dave and race the fast setting sun. Our buoys glowed close behind us in the fading light, like fallen fireflies upon the water. To my left I spotted the windows of the familiar houses glowing in brilliant orange as if set on fire. The acrid smell of a fire reached my nostrils as we passed a swim float.

Dave stayed to the outside, in deeper water and every so often I’d glance up to track his progress forward. We returned to the landing, me breathless and surprised to have made this journey. The dark settled in quickly as we made to shore, the call of a lone heron echoing across the water. To the west, a soft yellow light announced the sun’s descent and the black silhouettes of trees took their nightly place in the world.

I thanked Dave for waiting for me.

“Of course!” he replied.

We dressed awkwardly beside the rock wall as night took hold, our hands stiff, clothes sticking to salty skin.

I carried my glowing swim buoy home, my trusty firefly signaling our safe return home, so thankful for the sea and another fine swim in good company.

This photo is already over one year old. A day out crabbing with my youngest son during the first summer of the pandemic. A lot has happened since then.

Lately for me that has included a whole host of crazy vivid dreams about the sea.

The first one, several nights ago, had me open water swimming in deep water somewhere outside of Seattle. I kept swimming in circles, and fell asleep afloat a few times, and every time I opened my eyes I spun around in the water searching the land around me trying to sort out where I was. And every time I looked around me the view changed, none of the houses were recognizable. I kept swimming about, drifting in close to shore to ask small groups of revelers celebrating something, anything, nothing, for directions.

“I just need to know which way is North!” I asked over and over again. But no one could or would tell me. I don’t know if they didn’t know or didn’t care, but I was frantic and frustrated and scared. I needed a reference point to find my way home, I needed a row of mountains or an arrow pointing North, or just a finger, but no one would answer me. And I couldn’t find any mountains. I woke up swimming. My whole life I’ve lived near the sea, with the water and mountains always serving as my way of orientating myself. In my dream I was utterly lost.

In the morning over a cup of coffee, my first thought was that my dream was reflecting back on my feelings lately of feeling lost, adrift, directionless, unsure of myself. But then I realized that my dream was not my mind asserting that I was lost and directionless, but rather reminding me that I needed to return to the sea. I always know where I am in the sea.

I had been out of the sea for over two weeks. My dream was my heart telling me to go back to find my way, not the other way around. Or maybe dreaming was enough.

The next night I dreamt of giant white jellyfish in the water and more washing up upon the shore. They slid silently along the beach upside down, like translucent wet gelatinous buckets with tentacles. One headed straight for me, gliding over the sand silently. I yelled and kicked at it with my bare feet. I don’t remember anymore.

The next day I stood by the sea with my husband, sunlight warming our shoulders and held a perfect moon jelly in my hands. It was bobbing about in a wash of bright green seaweed, only moved by waves, all life gone out of it. I traced the tiny white lines with my finger tip, the intricate patterns running over its underside like a map, the opaque white bell slippery but firm.

I felt joy and anticipation rise up inside me “The jellyfish are still out there!” I exclaimed to Josh.

I finally did get back to the sea after these dreams, last weekend.

After this very cold swim, my first ever skin swim in November, I dreamt again. This time of water contained, chlorinated, in a deep deep pool within a crazy fancy new house. Colorful mosaic tiles covered the walls, and a too narrow etched glass opening led me to the edge of a fantastic hot tub, perfectly round and very deep, a dozen meters or more, walled entirely in glass. It was a warm room with built in chairs around the edge, like a sauna with seating all around. I asked the owners of the house if I could get into the water, but they said no. The water was just to look at, no swimming aloud. I woke so very disappointed. I don’t know who the people were or why I was at their house. All that was clear was the water in the pool. my desire to sink in to the warm water and nearby a field of horses, grazing.

I don’t know what dreams are meant for–release, reflection, insight, distraction or something else entirely, maybe nothing. But I do know that if my crabbing day with my youngest was a dream, it was everything a dream was meant to be.

I remember clearly, like it was yesterday, going crabbing with my son upon the Salish Sea. I remember we smiled a lot and felt the salt on our faces and plucked a few beautiful Dungeness crab from the sea, and thanked them for letting us bring them home. I remember knowing exactly where we were, in the shadow of the Olympic mountains to our west, bobbing upon the waves, just above a world full of life and wonders we only catch tiny glimpses of. I remember we cooked the crab outside in a big pot on our camp stove and feasted on them with delight.

And I remember feeling like the luckiest mom in the world, in a boat with my boy, smiling back at me.