In the fog

Last week, I showed up at the cove to swim. One fellow swimmer was there.

We stood on the higher ground and surveyed the situation: we couldn’t see anything but fog. We couldn’t see any of our usual markers: not our first stop, the blue boat on the far side of the cove, none of the boats anchored mid-cove. Heck, we couldn’t see our entry to the water.

We attached our neon orange buoys and began discussing options and strategies.

Fog is deceptively still and quiet, yet it’s active. It has its own vibrant, ethereal energy as it lumbers and slumbers through treetops and along shorelines, slinking past calmed boats, wrapping itself on the stanchions of the bridge and weaving between the suspension wires.

My friend is a strong swimmer who is hard of hearing; we needed a plan and an agreement before we left solid ground.

We were craving a swim in the flat waters on a summer morning. We decided we’d wade in and stop when we couldn’t see the shore. We’d stay shallow and hug the shore of the cove as we made our way.

A few years earlier, I’d gotten caught in a fog. It floated in quickly. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face–no exaggeration whatsover.

I immediately felt positively glorious. It was like a hallucination of sensory deprivation, a rare and magical moment. I couldn’t see anything except the hint of grayness that enveloped me. I had no idea where I was or which way was north or south, out to the channel or back to the shore.

I wanted to stay in that altered state for as long as possible, and yet I knew my fellow swimmers might be concerned about how I’d disappeared. I didn’t want to call out because I felt that they might think I was in distress–when I was actually in bliss.

When we all found our way back to shore that day, we discussed how we’d gotten separated. We agreed that in the future the swimmer or swimmers who were in the fog, separated from the group, would call out “Marco” and the rest would answer “Polo,” as we did when we were kids in a swimming pool. It would be both a kind of echolocation and a sign that we were safe.

As we swam in the fog, I raised my head often to sight my friend’s buoy. He’s a stronger swimmer than I am; he could leave me in the fog with a few strokes, yet he kept a steady pace and checked in on me often.

This time, as soon as we began our swim, we lost sight of the shore. We could barely see each other. At regular intervals, we would stop and reassess.

We agreed to keep swimming. When we thought we were in proximity to our first stop, the blue boat, we looked out and strained to pick up a hint of the form of the blue boat.

“I think it’s there. I think I see it.”

We agreed to swim for it.

We reached the blue boat. A round trip to the blue boat is a sweet swim; however, it’s not a long one. We wanted a longer swim, despite the fog–actually, because of the fog, in my case.

We again discussed the situation. We hovered near the boat and marveled at how socked in the fog was. We looked for our next marker, a boat we call “center console.”

We couldn’t see anything. We kept looking.

“I think it’s there. Let’s go for it.”

We swam in the direction of where we felt the center console would be. We stopped and turned after a few strokes, and the blue boat had vanished in the fog. We still didn’t have a strong fix on our next stop.

We did find the center console. We stopped and floated in the fog for a few minutes. We decided it would be lovely–but folly–to continue farther.

We turned and headed back in the direction of our best guess at the location for the blue boat.

When we reached shore, I let my friend know how much I appreciated his easy yet serious approach to our swim and water safety. We communicated beautifully and executed our plan well.

We were calm in the calm water. We were stilled in the soft, silent fog.

As I reflected on the swim, I realized it represented a great metaphor for living life, particularly for me in these difficult days.

I am less than a month away from the funeral for my father and the funeral for my younger sister. I often think of them when I swim. Many mornings, I compose pieces of the eulogy that I will give for my father.

During this past year and a half, I often lose my way in a fog of feelings: stress, tension, anger, sadness. Some days I can’t find my way; I can’t see the way.

Now I remind myself of swimming in the fog, and the lessons I’ve learned.

Go slowly. Go from one point to the next. Take time to breathe and be still then assess the next move.

The fog limits my vision. Its quiet guides me on my way. I simply need to embrace it, trust it and trust myself.

And remember, even when I feel lost and alone, I am never truly lost or alone.

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