For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
For my final day, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: swim straight out to sea. When I do open water swimming, I swim parallel to shore. This would be different. No markers. No sight line. Just the horizon. The currents. The waves. On top of this, we would be swimming from Bolinas, a quaint fishing town that is famously hostile to visitors and removes its signs to keep them out. This is where the Bolinas Lagoon opens out to the open ocean. Seals gather here, and the sharks supposedly come here to feast on the seals. I didn’t know if this was just a rumor to keep out-of-town surfers away, but the Farallon Islands just 20 miles south of Point Reyes are the winter playground for some of the world’s largest great white sharks. For this endeavor I enlisted the help of my friend, Greg, a local.
We wore wetsuits. He gave me a cozy neoprene hat to wear over my cap and goggles to keep my head warm. He also provided me with a special anti-shark amulet that I wore on my wrist like a watch. Developed in Australia, these wrist magnets repel the sharks, he said, and “feel like a punch in the nose” to the sharks if they get too close. Sounded good to me!
Swimming with the birds made me feel like I, too, was a wild creature — another element in the web of life rather than the apex predator detached from the natural world that I usually am in my everyday urban existence.
The day dawned foggy, but the low blanket of mist that hugged the land the day before had lifted. I was terrified of swimming straight out and losing sight of land. Greg assured me that even in dense fog you know where land is by sensing the direction of the waves. That may be true, but I wasn’t ready to swim by the feel of the currents yet. Greg also wore tiny flippers that looked like duck feet and a neon bubble attached to his waist to carry our valuables and make us visible to boats. We agreed to swim out 15 minutes.
The waves were big. The surfers were already out at a local spot known as the “patch.” We dove through the waves, swimming hard between. The water visibility was nil — just a blur of yellow, brown and eventually black. We wouldn’t be able to see a seal or shark if it swam right beneath us. I didn’t like the feeling.
But my friend was beside me. Finally my shallow, panicked breath slowed, my stroke evened out and I settled in. Out past the waveline we stopped. The early-morning sea was glassy and smooth. It felt viscous, velvety and otherworldly. Pelicans and terns swooped and dove around us. Surprisingly, once we swam out, I could see the land encircled us with long arms. Stinson Beach stretched out to the right, Bolinas to the left. We would not lose our way. We swam farther out. Every few strokes we stopped to take in the view. We were just specks in the ocean, as tiny as a velella or an anchovy, part of a big, watery world.
Out here my perspective changed. I realized we could swim forever and still see the shore. We lay on our backs and let the swells gently lift us, then fall. The words of my father, a second-generation submariner, often recited when I was a child, drifted through my head: “Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep.” We swam to where the glassiness ended and the wind rippled the surface, 14 minutes out.
The magic of the open water experience was better shared. No GoPro or camera can capture the vastness of the ocean for someone back on shore. Or what it feels like to ride the slow heaving of the ocean, pulsing like the heartbeat of the world. We came ashore in a big set, swimming frantically in, then turning to face the waves so we didn’t get wiped out. We swam until our feet touched the sandy bottom and crawled out happy but exhausted.
My body carried the rocking of the ocean for the rest of the day. I could close my eyes and be back there, gently rising and falling under the low, gray sky. I held onto that feeling as long as I could.
My friend promised me that by next year, he would have more bodies of water and more secret swims. Already he had come up with new watering holes I never knew existed. But for me, the quest had been a success. Being in water every day helped me regain my equilibrium. Surfers say the ions in salt water make you happy. I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m 60% water and I felt I had moistened my dry skin, lightened the pull of gravity on my aging body and shed some of the heaviness of the first six months of the year.
When I first went to my therapist many years ago, she told me the story of the selkies. At the time I was feeling overwhelmed with work, marriage and motherhood. Much of our work has been my journey back to myself. After my vacation, I told her of my adventure. She said, “You were able to put your pelt back on. You’re spending more time in your seal suit.” Yes. On land and in the water. I am. Sometimes the metaphor is the medicine.
