Night Swimming

First, the solitary call of a loon over milk blue water. The distant hum of a fishing boat. The fishermen leave early, before sunrise. Up above, tall white pine trees stretch out of view, forming a soft-needled canopy overhead. That’s the space for the stars to shine through. 

The tamarack by the front door is bright green, feathery tufts along cool branches.

In a dream, I was swimming. It was night time, still water under the stars. I thought I would only swim for a short time but the water held me as I floated, gazing upwards into the night. I imagined drifting out further, far from the shore. The shoreline began to vanish from my consciousness. I had a single wish: a longing to escape. I was weightless, my toes moving underwater to remind me of the present moment. 

When I was seventeen, I swam alone after sunset. The water was dark, almost black; the sky was brilliant with stars. 

*

“I love a lone swimmer,” she said. “I was watching you.”

She folded her towel and prepared to leave the beach. 

I had seen her earlier when I arrived. She sat close to the shoreline, knees crouched into her chest, a dark-blue blanket wrapped around her shoulders. From the corner of my eye, I saw her while I was folding my t-shirt into my sun hat, tucking away my keys and sunglasses. 

I walked into the water, dappled with sunlight. A gentle lapping against my legs and then my body. The water was blue-green and almost warm for Lake Michigan in late August. Once I was out of my depth, I swam deeper and further against the waves, turning now and then to check that my belongings were still on the beach. I could still make out the small huddled figure of the woman in the distance. 

I swam for a while, turning now and then to float on my back, eyes open to the slow sweep of sky.

I knew I was swimming against a rip current, so I tried to keep each stroke steady and deliberate. The waters turned colder the further out I swam. The lake stretched out endlessly around me, shimmery slate-blue under afternoon light. Above, gulls wheeled through the air, their cries distant and far away. 

I swam back to shore. As I walked through the shallow water back to the beach, I saw the woman was standing, shaking the sand from her towel. 

“The lake is so beautiful!” I called out.

“Yes, I was in twice today!” she shouted back.

I reached down to get my towel to wrap around me. Even though we were strangers, I felt I should walk over to say goodbye.

“Thank you,” I said, as I approached her. “I felt that you were watching out for me!”

“Oh yes,” she answered, “I was watching over you. I love a lone swimmer.”

As I walked away from the beach, down the winding beach road lined with pines, I considered what it means to go through life alone, to gather the love and protection of strangers. I realized I have been a lone swimmer for most of my life, swimming in wide open water, the silhouette of my body small against a vast blue expanse.

I don’t think she knew what she had given to me. A person’s value is often measured by their connections to others —relationships, partnerships, and marriage, rather than their solitude. 

I wondered if I could begin to love myself in ways I did not – if I could open my heart to the possibility of being loved, knowing that this would mean accepting the risk of being hurt. I thought about the place where lovers speak, their faces glimmering in the firelight. 

*

Walking through the woods, I remembered a love affair that was short-lived. Some things last only as long as the darkness. 

One love affair lasted a long time. In exchange for disappointment and doubt, I loved a man through the years. I exaggerated my place in his life, believing he was steady and would always be there. 

On Sundays, we arrived early at the marsh, walking hand in hand, listening to the migratory birds who stopped there on their journeys. We stayed late to hear the birds flying to the marsh to roost. At sunset, I heard the far-off trill of a Sandhill crane. 

We were migrating too, although I didn’t know it at the time. We were migrating through each other’s lives, without a shared destination.

For a time, everything reminded me of him.

*

The blue needles on the pines turn bluer. The tamarack changes from green to yellow. 

In the garden, there’s a baby mourning dove. I think it has a broken wing. The dove has elected to convalesce for a while, sitting for long stretches of time on the patio table under the umbrella.

In the early morning light, the lake looks like milk glass. I watch a solitary seagull standing at the shore. Silent, she flies fast into the wind. 

In October, the tamarack turns gold. I try to memorize the color. Then the needles fall without warning, piling up on the front steps to my house. Unlike other conifers, the tamarack sheds completely.

*

As the days grow shorter, birds depart on soundless wings, each flock forming thin lines against a pink November sky. 

There’s a moment of uncertainty when I look from the window, searching for movement of a wing or a person. 

The tamarack stands bare, its branches creaking in the wind. Slender silhouette, reddish-brown bark. The word “tamarack” comes from the Algonquian word akemantak, which means “wood used for making snowshoes.”

I wait for the first frosts to bring the Dark-eyed juncos out of the north, small and jumpy, indistinguishable from the ground. The nights draw in. There’s nothing to see except stars.

I dream about swimming in the dark, winter lake, ice-cold water washing over me.  

In the dusk, the pines carry a heavy burden of snow. 

A single silence finds refuge inside me. 

I rest and I am home.