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The ocean at first looked calmer than the air, with a light rain just starting. Thankfully the water was not freezing like I expected. Maybe mid sixties. In no time at all I was head down and making ripples. The air and sea temperatures were close enough that my goggles fogged. Vision we take for granted, until we can’t. I put in by an apartment building across from a slight cove that shelters me for a bit before giving way to open ocean. As soon as I outdistanced its protection, I was tossed by a breaker. I hadn’t seen that my swimming angle brought me too close to shore. I cleared the goggles, angled out, and kept on.

The seas got choppy as the rain picked up, but I made excellent progress, almost like I was pushed along. In no time I was past the half way point of the bath house, and seemingly before I even had time to celebrate that I was at my turnaround point of the blue awning of a hotel. This marked nearly a mile of swimming. I felt like a gold medalist, at least until the waves hit me in the face when I turned to go back. I knew then what had pushed me along. If one hit me when I turned sideways for a breath, I took in water or missed that breath. I switched to breathing from only the right side where the chop was not as direct, but still my strokes were irregular. I had been struggling for a bit and felt I wasn’t making progress, so I stopped to look to shore. There was the blue awning, mocking me. I had barely moved.

I thought about getting out, but the walk back in a chill windy rain would be its own crucible. Instead, I stuck my head back in and dug through the chop for a minute before looking to shore. The awning was gone, but that was impossible. For one absurd instant I thought I had made miraculous progress. Then I turned around in the ‘wrong’ direction to find the awning looking back at me. The waves had turned me so I had been swimming almost directly out from shore. I treaded water long enough to catch my breath before swimming back toward the beach. No one wants to be far from shore in this mess.

Needing to catch my breath is not normal for my swims. The right side only breathing was not a success. I had to stop trying to outthink it and let my body take over. I could feel the swell push me. When it peaked on my breath stroke, I did not turn to breathe, but kept my head down and missed the breath until I turned left on the following stroke. I then took three strokes and a breath on the original side. Though the chop worked against me, I soon saw that I had made over 100 yards. My toes were not growing numb. My hands were not cramping. Hypothermia would not shut me down.

Once I let my body do the breathing, swimming was almost easy. I relaxed, focusing on my stroke to the exclusion of all else. I blocked out even my sense of time, so I wasn’t quite sure how long it was when I finally looked to shore and was rewarded with a view of the bath house. Half way! But again the waves had turned me, changing my perspective so what I had thought was a right-angle view to shore was actually a hypotenuse, with the bath house still a good distance away.

I had to get my bearings, then figure out how to keep them. I looked far past the bath house for the apartment building, but with foggy glasses and rough seas I couldn’t make it out. I did see the dance pavilion just beyond the bath house, and the arcade beyond that. I used these points as my marks and drew a straight line in my mind across the breaking waves that I could redraw against those shore points to try to stay parallel.

I set off again. Stroke. Stroke. I went as long as I dared before I stopped to make sure of my bearings. I was still not even to the bath house but had maintained a parallel line to the shore. That was all I needed. I wasn’t about to give in to the ocean, or the dull ache that had settled into my shoulders and arms by the time I made it past the bath house. I was brimming with confidence until I realized the waves had turned me again, away from shore. I made a new plan to lift my head up every 8 strokes or so to confirm my direction. That kept me on course, but lifting your head up means gravity tugs it down. Sometimes I missed a full breath, but at least I knew where I was going.

What was left was to fight fatigue and the occasional chop of water up my nose. Small price to pay for the progress I made, now at a right angle to the apartments. So why did they look so far away? I knew the answer with a sinking feeling that was the last thing I needed with tired arms. I was far, far offshore. How? Now was no time to puzzle it out. I had a direction, straight in to shore, so I put my head down and stroked. I wish I hadn’t remembered my sister’s warning about a strong swimmer who had drowned in Hawaii. Then came the memory of the football quarterback who had drowned in a rip tide. I pulled my head up to look for the shore. Was I close? It was hard to see through rain and foggy goggles, but there was no lying to myself. I was not sure I was any closer at all. I’d never heard of a rip tide at this beach. Never. I tried to hold that thought with each stroke. The rain meant there was no one on the beach. I didn’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself, I just had to stroke, stroke.

The waves seemed to rise higher. To pound me lower. I just had to stroke, stroke. Now I didn’t even dare look. Just stroke. Stroke. I must be closer. The building looked bigger. Or did it? Shut it out and stroke. Stroke. And then it happened, at the bottom of my downstroke, at the bottom of a swell, my fingers touched sand. Nothing had ever felt so good. I thanked God and splashed to my feet. A wave sent me sprawling, but I was sprawling shoreward.

The rain no longer felt cold. The coffee had never tasted so good. Finding my way home is wonderful.