Near the end of January, I checked the weather. It was freezing. With the ripping northeast wind, the temperature was 13 degrees. There was a small craft advisory. That wind direction meant there’d be impressive chop in the small cove.
Perfect day of a swim. And not.
We decided to meet at the cove and make a decision. We arrived, hunkered in our cars with the heaters on full.
We looked at each other. She rolled down the window on the passenger side of her van. “What do you think?” “I think it’s cold.”
It’s a funny thing. If we’d come alone, we would have bailed. Now that we are two, we encourage one another. “Let’s go for it.”
That morning I had texted my friend, our fearless leader, the woman who began the intrepid pursuit of year-round swimming in the fall 2019. She wanted to train for the Memphremagog Winter Swimming Festival in Newport, Vermont, where they carve 25-yard swim lanes in the ice of a frozen lake.
I didn’t have the financial resources to enter the contest or make the journey, but I did have the dedication to commit to supporting her training. I knew it would be a challenge. I don’t like the cold.
When I was in college, I rowed on our crew team, women’s lightweight eight. From our home dock, we lowered our boats into the water. For a regatta on the Willamette River near Portland, Oregon, we had to walk our shells down to the shore and wade in and hold our boats while each member tied in.
I rowed three-seat, near the rear in a racing shell, with my back to the bow. I stood in that cold water as each of my five teammates tied in ahead of me, one by agonizing one.
When you row crew, you are tough. A rower is physically tough; and, I’ll assert, mentally tougher. Pain is a buzzing fly you flick away. I couldn’t bear that cold water; it felt like daggers of ice stabbing my shins. I tried to tough it out. I had to hop out of and back into the water. Not cool. Not tough. Definitely not a good look for a competitive athlete.
Decades later, I found myself volunteering to support my friend on her quest, in spite of my genuine misgivings about the cold water. I had a few things in my favor. I am still mentally tough. I’m a loyal teammate. And, I’m many pounds heavier than I was in my college rowing days, so I have more insulation.
We swam at least once a week through every month of our New England year. My coach and friend achieved her goal and competed in Vermont. We had created a new tradition: winter swimming. Swim suits only. No wet suits. Taking the plunge.
In this pandemic year, our year-round swimming, especially our winter swimming, brought me moments of joy—euphoria even—in the wake of losses and sorrows. My swimming and the people who share those swims and the ocean water with me, offered me connection and comfort.
We are a motely and beautiful crew. We come from a broad swath of backgrounds. We represent different ages, political beliefs, religious beliefs, economic levels and ethnic and cultural heritages. Our group has a veterinarian, a dentist, artists, engineers, lawyers, educators, entrepreneurs, minimum wage workers, the happily retired and the under- and/or unemployed. We have Black Lives Matters advocates in our pod of swimmers, and others who are staunch supporters of the former president.
It’s not always a smooth outing. Our gatherings can be a calm as the flat water that awaits us at sunrise some mornings. Or as rough and choppy as the days the waters are whipped up by a northeast wind, and the waves batter us as we put our heads down and swim.
A couple summers ago, the Senate confirmation hearings for Brett Kavanaugh stirred up our stark differences of opinion. In the aftermath of the storming of the Capitol on January 6 this year, a wave of outrage and misunderstanding swamped our pandemic group text.
And yet, with all our differences, our diversity, we are united in our swims. We show up for one another, on the shore and in our lives. In our best times. And in our heart-breaking times.
My swim buddies contacted me by FaceTime at 5 a.m. one summer morning in 2020, when I was with my family in Texas. I tiptoed out of our dark, quiet house to take the call. I thought they were calling to check on my father’s health. They were calling to tell me our swimming friend had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. They did not know yet that my father was living with the same illness. This same disease ravaged my father and my sister, taking each of them in four months, four months apart. My friend’s doctor made his diagnosis early, and he embraces his journey with profound optimism and deep faith. We could not swim together, so we stayed in touch on our group text thread. We began ending our text messages #withkeith. Because we are always with him. United we swim.
Our fearless leader ordered T-shirts. We picked black, featuring #withkeith in a white sans serif font, evoking the classic 1990s Got Milk? advertising campaign. I swim with a trio of women, winter mermaids, who dare the frosty waters and chilling winds. We sometimes wear our T-shirts and send selfies to our swimming friends on the group text, signing off #withkeith.
The Memphremagog Winter Festival Swim was virtual this year. Our coach planned the event, complete with the classic hat competition. She marked off the lengths of the swim along the beach in 25-yard increments. She brought pink, purple, yellow and blue ribbons that we could inscribe with names of people who had survived, were living with or had died of cancer. I had a handful of ribbons. We wore our #withkeith T-shirts.
Before the swim, our swimming friend showed, sporting his own #withkeith T-shirt. Best day.
United we swim. #withkeith
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