The Towel on the Bench on Cedar Ave

 

There are a few benches in my neighborhood. I walk my dog Lucy past the bench on Cedar almost every morning. There's always something safe and calming about seeing a towel there, or some flip-flops, or swimmers' gear. I like seeing the buoys out on the water. They look like pink bubbles floating by. I especially like seeing them when it's winter. That tells me that someone with brass balls is out there, giving it all they've got. Sometimes you can tell who it is -- stroke style, cap color, speed, or swim pattern. You wouldn't think so, but you can. In my case, I'm the one that is kind of au natural because I don't wear goggles and only wear a cap in winter. It's been 18 months now, and I still can't bring myself to put my head in the water. That would be 100% committing to the cold. As it is, I often use a different launch point other than Cedar. The beach gives you a place to rinse your hair and wash your feet -- in the warmer months anyway. But let me just say, I love walking down to that bench. I love looking at that bench. It means everything to me. It means someone went out there do to something that none of the rest of us can do, or dare to do. God knows how long they're out there, how far, or when they'll return. But the confidence is infectious. I remember documenting my swims in my head. Unlike scuba dives where I was oblivious, I sort of documented the swims in my brain -- what's the temp? Were the birds on the breakers? What kind of birds? Ducks? Swans? What's the current doing? How close can I swim to sunset? These are all the important questions. In fact, temperature is probably the least of it. Somehow, it just doesn't matter, compared to the sun, wind, current and wildlife -- sea life -- skates, snakes, sea nettles, cicadas, fish, crabs...I've seen, or felt, all of those. I occasionally worry about dead bodies, but I'm sure it's out of a movie and out of my own fear, and I know that we've had at least one float down to North Carolina. If anything, I focus on the fact that I can see my hands underwater, my arms above it, and most of all, the sky. Even still, I am attempting to settle into the idea that sometimes the town on the bench is mine. Sometimes it's my turn to feel fearless and invincible -- a little confident anyway. And the baptism of those Chesapeake waters takes away the hip pain, the stiff neck, and maybe even the chocolate belly, that I walk around with all day. For just a few moments, I'm free of all of it. The thoughts of the day, the body pain, and any anxiety or unwanted emotion. It all just melts away.

I suppose jogging does the same thing. While I love it, my right quad doesn't as much as I do. There's a serious need to hydrate to avoid re-injury. What I do love is the moment in life with just a tad of free time, friends, comfort, a beautiful neighborhood with wonderful neighbors, and the predictability of life in Oyster Harbor.

School is out. I have worked like a dog. I have studied. I have read. I have written. I have almost nothing to say anymore. I have lost my short-term memory for 18 months. I'm still wondering if it will come back. I have to write everything down anymore. I'm turning 46 and am praying it's old age.

So what is the point of this essay, you ask? It's that one can be truly happy, and at some point after seeing the behavior -- and the towels -- of one's heroes, you learn to wade into the pool yourself. After such a struggle fromm 8 years ago, rebuilding everything from the ground up, this is what has become of me. Driven? Yes. Focused? Absolutely. But there is a need to rest in a way that puts the mind at rest but not the body. The body is hurting from way too much sitting, and it needs some TLC. Thus, we go to the bench. We get in the water. And we meld in the space between water and sky. All thoughts are gone from that. You might see the sunrise, you might see the sunset, but you will think about nothing at all.

The temp was 64 today. It was glorious.