The Fog of War

Ocean Swim Again

I broke the rules this morning. My own rules. I had sworn off ocean swims on foggy mornings because my struggles, if any, would be witnessed by no one else. I’ve never had worse than a leg cramp I could deal with by straightening the leg and gritting my teeth, but there is always a first time. The ocean can be lonely, and there is security in knowing there are other humans near, walking the beach, or looking out across the water from a perch on shore. Most of the morning crowd are too old to be lifeguards, but even grandma has a phone these days, and could certainly punch 911 and then video the action from there.

My house sits above an estuary just a half mile from the shoreline. I hadn’t noticed fog early this morning when the dog chased a rabbit, and I chased the dog. I was more successful in my search than the dog was, luckily for the rabbit, and once back home I readied for my swim. Warm ups consist of active stretching and calisthenics, and then a gathering of supplies: slippers (for after the swim when the feet are freezing, and fingers too numb for lacing sneakers), tee shirt, hooded sweat shirt, sweat pants. Yes, it’s July 1, but it’s also the Atlantic blocked from the Gulf Stream by Cape Cod. Brrrr.

I drive to my swim spot, having given up the run to the beach that had been my routine when my body was able to run a mile, swim a few, and then run home. It is the running home part I don’t trust now. I fear it would be more of a crawl, or failing that, a hitch hike. Running may have been faster than driving this morning, though, because as I got near the beach, the fog was so thick I could see only hazy outlines of light from the headlights of the cars passing by me the other way, if indeed they were cars. I immediately thought of the rule against swimming in fog, but held out hope that a breeze at the water may have started to break it up there. Wrong. I could barely see the parking space until I pulled in.

I thought about heading home to take the dog for a run, but I had been looking forward to my swim since the late afternoon before, which I had spent at an oceanside bar overlooking a host of beachgoers frolicking in the surf. A gentle, steady shoreward breeze had pushed the warm surface waters in as the tide rose, raising the water temps to the point where none of the dozens of people venturing in so much as paused as their toes hit the water, but instead ploughed forward as if in to a heated pool. And there they stayed for as long as I cared to watch, raising my expectations of a very long morning swim with no need to calculate the rising numbness at feet and fingers to determine my turn around spot as the length I could cover before too long in the water raised the risk of disorientation through hypothermia. I was not about to give up that warm water dream to a silly self-inflicted rule about fog!

It was not so easy getting out of the car knowing what I was facing out in that water. There are always the sharks. No one has ever been bitten here, yet Great Whites have been sighted nearby, and it is impossible to ocean swim without thinking about sharks. Today a more immediate issue rose, because in looking to the water, I couldn’t see beyond the dull outline of a whitecap through the dull white air. I felt some comfort in the sound of voices on the beach. I followed the sound to make out shadows perhaps 30 feet away. Other humans. Good. I looked out past the white caps to where I would swim. They would not be able to see me, but they could hear my voice if I needed to raise a cry, and was able to manage it. Small comfort is better than no comfort, so I set to my task.

I knew better than to expect the water temperature of the morning to approximate the water temperature of the previous evening. Each new tide brings its own surprise based on current and wind. Still, imagine my disappointment when my toes curled against the steely cold surf. I dipped my goggles in to wet them before scurrying back to the sand to adjust them and put them on in the comparative warmth of the morning air. I ploughed back in, waist high, to the point where I could dive forward and go, but dive I did not. I put my hands in so they could adjust. Ouch. My breath already came in gasps as I thought about what was to come. I had to go. I just had to go. I leaned forward in anticipation. I did not go. Instead, I looked shoreward to the hotel where I put in. At least I looked in the direction I had come, but the hotel was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t even see the sea wall that separated the beach from my parking spot. It occurred to me that once my head was wet in the water, I would have no visual point of reference other than the sea floor below my eyes, if the water happened to be clear enough today for me to see that much. I always judge my progress by shore points I have described in earlier essays. First the hotel, before the three brightly painted shacks of Daddys Beach Club (think ‘getting clubbed’, not country club), the Parrot where I had spent the previous afternoon, and various landmarks, until a concrete ramp before the beach ends at a rise of rocks that returns the land seaward. There would be no judging today. Yet I needed to maintain direction. If I lost all point of reference I could end up in London, or worse, Davy Jones’ locker.

I dove in. Sometimes you have to do it without thinking, or you just won’t do it at all. OMG. It is hard to breath with your heart slamming FEAR! FEAR! FEAR! I suppose it is the brain that is warning you of death, but all you can feel is the heart, until the shortness of breath hits your lungs. I know I just have to get through it. The body will be fine, it is the mind you need to train. Stroke, and breathe. Stroke, and breathe. I have done it enough times that it becomes rote. I fought through it until it was no longer a fight, and became merely work. Had I made it to the blue awning at the mid point of the hotel? Of course, there was no way to know. All I could see was the sand below me, but thankfully I could see that much. I felt the gentle swell of a building wave gliding by, and so knew in that direction lay the shore. As long as I knew where the shore was, what could possibly go wrong?

It occurred to me, in a way that you might have to be out there on your own to fully feel, that I was alone in the universe. No compass. No guide. No earth beneath my feet. Yet the earth was there. Right below. I could almost touch it. Couldn’t I? I stopped and stood up, surprised I was in almost five feet of water. It had seemed like less. I turned for the shore. Which way was the shore? The swell of the water looked random at first, without direction. I could not see any shore. No wave at all for a few more eerie moments, until one broke and I knew for sure I was still pointed toward the cliffs at the far end of the beach, with the shore on my right. That’s all it took for me to dive back in and get after it.

I tried to take a small measure of comfort in not seeing my shore points. At times the view could be frustrating. If I paid too much attention, it seemed to take forever to get even from one to another. Today there would be none of the temptation to look too often, only to discover that my hopes had exceeded my progress. Who among us can forget how much more slowly each day passed as we anticipated the last day of school? Ocean swims give me the chance to master my fears and anticipations, while locking myself into the present moment as my body must do in order to survive this unnatural environment. How foolish we are to get ahead of ourselves and forget the task at hand, the roses we can smell, the love we can share, the focus we forgot on depth and direction while we were waxing philosophic.

Merde! Where is the shore?

I looked for the waves, but could see no whitecaps. I redoubled my stroke, pulling for the shore, or what I thought was the shore, before realizing that I had no direction. I could be going deeper. I stopped to stand, reaching my toes down to find only water. That’s when it hit me. I had maybe an hour, or an hour and a half in water of this temperature before I would lose orientation and function. Before I would become helpless. I have little doubt of my ability to stay afloat for hours and hours and hours on end, but I am not a cold blooded animal. My body needs heat, and if the water took that, I was done for. That meant I could not wait to be found. I could not wait for the sun to break through. I could not wait for my wife to report me missing. I had to find the shore.

But how to find it?

I knew it was right there. I could not have been more than 100 yards, probably less. But if I swam in the wrong direction, I could be 120 yards. 160. If I didn’t pick the right direction now, the search radius would widen.

I was already too deep to see the swell tug the bottom sands shoreward. Too far from the shore to see the white crest of a wave. All I could see were gentle swells, yet they seemed to swell in all directions. I thought of the tragic drowning death of Ryan Mallet, who had quarterbacked for the New England Patriots, just a few days before. A young man. A professional athlete. What chance did I have? So I counted my chances. I am an expert swimmer. I had an hour and a half. I could fight my fears, stay calm, keep my head above water, push up the goggles, and adjust my drying eyes to my surroundings. I treaded water and watched the swells. I watched as far as my eye could go, looking this way, and then that. I had one really good chance to get it right, and then still a series of lesser chances. I needed to take my time. I needed to pick wisely. Yet I also needed to get going. I thought I could make out a consistent line that was behind me. Perhaps I had hurried my stroke in the wrong direction, or else how had I wavered into deeper water? I watched closely as the waters swelled gently past. I had no proof. Nothing definitive. It was not a good feeling. I had already taken advantage of all the evidence I had, so it was time to swim.

My stroke was not robust. It was not a time to be in a hurry when those strokes could be taking me farther from shore. I studied the bottom. Was it deeper, or nearer? Impossible to tell. Not in this short distance. I paused again after going maybe 20 feet. The dominant swell seemed to be in the direction I had picked. Was that right? It can be hard not to play tricks on yourself when you want to believe something so badly, but now was no time for false belief. I swam again, maybe 10 feet this time, and stopped again.

It just occurred to me as I am writing this, that you know I have written this. You know the outcome, so now it is just the method of survival that remains in doubt. No, I never shouted for help. I don’t know why. I had not considered the possibility of help while I was in the water. I don’t know why. Although I could not see the shore, I knew I was close enough for my voice to be heard, if anyone happened to be on the beach. I still had time. It is a popular spot. Not so much on foggy mornings, but there had been beach walkers. Perhaps I had not conquered my fears as soundly as I had thought. Perhaps I had not coolly considered all possibilities. Perhaps I would have thought of it had all else failed, though had I picked the wrong direction, would my voice have been heard?

Imagine my relief to see a white cap breaking in what I had presumed to be the dominant direction of the swell. But don’t imagine too much relief, because a foggy ocean is a mysterious place. I started again in that direction, slowly again, studying the bottom, studying the swell, eyeing the whitecaps when I turned for a breath. And then the bottom got closer. The whitecaps became more defined. I had proof. I was saved. I stood up. My toes hit sand.

You might think that would be the end of the story. That happy to survive I would splash through the shallow ocean to shore and return home to my wife, who is pregnant and two days past her due date. But I was loose and limber, warmed up, and adjusted to the water. The swim wasn’t over. If I could stay in waist deep water, what could possibly go wrong? I didn’t show up to quit, so I didn’t. I dove back in.

Now my toes touched sand after a wave crashed and left the low swell behind. My toes stirred up eddies of sand at the bottom of my stroke. My body was tossed by the waters, but that was merely annoying, not dangerous. It occurred to me that I did not know which direction I was going along the beach. I could have done a 180 in my confusion and so be heading back toward the hotel, but no matter. The beach ended in that direction as well where the land turned to the ocean, though that was miles away, and now I remained keenly aware of depth. I knew at all times I could stand and breathe. There was no way I could get in trouble. Even if that near sand led toward deeper water. Even if a sand bar led me away from shore, I still had that sand. I could still stand.

I did not occur to me that a sand bar could lead me out past where I could make out the shore, and strand me there with no sense of direction. Sure, I could stand. I could breathe. But the tide was rising.

I had little idea of the distance I had covered. Most days I go a bit less than a mile along the beach and then turn back. I was going to have to estimate that point today. It sure would be nice if this fog lifted. Yet hark! What light through yonder fog bank breaks? It is the East, no Juliet, but the sun. A circle of slightly brighter white through the duller white, and then it was gone. Only the sand was my friend, tumbling like a shaken hourglass to point the way shoreward where the swell had strength enough. Those swells were my friends. I could go four strokes, eight strokes, twelve, studying the steady bottom until, what a relief, the sands would turn and spin, pointing to safety. Now all I had to worry about was the cold, with my fingers numb enough that I could not hold them straight as I pulled back, and so I swam with claws. They were not going to get any warmer in the water, so I turned to shore. I stood. I splashed through the shallow water to the beach, seeing nothing beyond but the shadow of an antennae. I had not ever noticed an antennae. I walked across the beach, almost to the sea wall, until I could make out the ramp that marked my turn around. I had not quite made it, but was close. Close enough with cold claws that I turned back. Time to head back to the hotel.

I wondered how far I could go on my return before getting out. I knew that when I stopped to gauge my spot, and struggled out of the water, I would not get back in. That would be it. I didn’t set a goal. I didn’t resolve to make it back to the hotel, but only as far as my remaining warmth would take me. I played with the shore points in my mind. Had I made it to the blue arcade? (what is the name?) The dance pavilion? The bath house? I gave thanks for the clear water, but nothing else. It was more like, why me? Why did all of yesterday’s frolickers get warm waters, and I got ice? Why didn’t the fog burn off? Where did that white cap go? Am I going in the right direction? Oh, there it is. But there was much to be thankful for as well. My body still functioned. I could challenge myself, and rise to meet it. I had an entire day ahead of me, another child about to be born who, with good fortune has 80 or 100 years to enjoy this world. The good and the bad are with us always. We choose which we see. Right now, I chose to focus on tired shoulders. Our bodies have a way of getting attention that civilization and reason struggle against with mixed results.

Enough. I wasn’t going to worry about goals. It was time to get out. And imagine my surprise to stand only to find my feet barely touched bottom. I was far deeper than I had imagined. I started in toward shore, and I could even make out the shore now, or at least the outline of the Daddy’s Beach Club shacks. And next to them the hotel. I had almost made it. Close enough for government work. I was glad to be going home. Still, as I got to waist deep water, I considered the waves. I let one surge past me. I thought I could swim here. I could still make it to the hotel.

Yes, I am crazy. Yes, I kept swimming. Yes, I made it. There was no marching band to greet me on the beach. No clap on the back, except my own. No shared brotherhood of athletes after the game. Yet there was a satisfaction as great as that. I am still here. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. I still have miles to go before I sleep. And I have the faith that will get me there.

Blessings.