It’s September 4, 2016 and I’m alone in the water of Mattapoisett Harbor, alone and sliding through the very cool water at town beach.
The ocean has seemed cooler this summer than last. My swimming partner, who is not with me today, says the same thing. In spite of days of heat, our pilgrimages to the sea have found us experiencing cool water temperatures. We are undaunted. She usually is dressed from head to ankle in sun-screening garments meant to protect her delicate skin from damaging sunlight, and I, I’m in my wetsuit.
I get a fair number of funny looks from people, especially on hot days as I slip into the welcoming waters off Ned’s Point wearing my wetsuit. I don’t care. All I care about is getting into that water, using my aching body in ways I would never be able to on land, feeling the lack of gravity on a crooked spine, on a pair of stressed-out feet and a soul quite weary and yearning for this release.
She and I call Ned’s Point our church, our spiritual healing place, our sanctuary. In the height of summer, and in spite of high ambient temperatures, we are on many occasions the only ones swimming. All the more for us, we think. It is ours. Other times we share it with like-minded people who have found, as we have, that this tiny beach, open to the currents of Buzzards Bay and beyond, is transporting and I think, necessary.
We stay in the water until our fingers are puckered and numb. Like children unwilling to stop their play, we haul ourselves out attesting to what grand fun it was and promises of doing it again tomorrow. We pay close attention to the tide charts finding those days and times where our shore-side responsibilities may be put aside because the tide will be in and we must enter our water world.
I do not really swim as others do. My body is restricted in several ways, but I get it to cooperate in a frog-kick-water-treading fashion that ever so slowly propels me along. It is enough and I’m grateful.
She and I talk about all sorts of things as we bob around in the surf like castoff wine corks no longer needed. She sometimes brings a list of talking points so our conversations are always interesting and fresh. We’ve come to learn that we share a great many ideas in common, and on those where we may deviate, our independent natures allow room for cheerful debate.
On days when our schedules may not line up, when she or I may not have the opportunity to join in restful union at our “church of what’s happening now,” we still jump into the water and enjoy the solitude.
September 4, 2016, I alone am in the water. It’s noontime, the church bells announce, as it echoes over town beach. It is Labor Day weekend and the beach is deserted. The masses have ebbed away on their tidal surges back to their cities and towns, jobs, schools, schedules and demands of modern life, while I am here gliding along, absorbed in the sky above, the gulls that soar, and the sensation of saltwater keeping me afloat as my thoughts drift away.
Yesterday, my friend was here at town beach with a grandchild. How many generations have come here to enjoy the calm shoreline with small children in tow? She said her husband and his son swam out far towards the raft, staying there a long time talking together in communion with each other and the water’s movement. How many fathers and sons have washed away the past to embrace the now and plan the future in these waters?
But today I am alone in the water, and I let the fears that rob my bliss wash away unspoken except to the universe. I think in a few more minutes I should get out because today the air and the sea are both rather cool for these aging bones, but I glide on unwilling and unable to leave just yet. The weight of all I carry waits on the shore, waits on the shore for us all.
In the water where dreams and hopes blend in perfect proportions, I am renewed, refreshed, and reminded of my place and the importance of simply being in the moment – this moment where I am in harmony with nature and have been anointed by the water.
By Marilou Newell