June 3 – June 9, 2012 – An Ode to REM
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I’m not sure all these people understand.
It’s not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water.
They cannot see me naked.
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday.
Humming, I slowly wade in. Nightswimming. Icicles! Deserves a quiet night. What am I doing? Of recklessness and water. Fuck this is cold! These things, they go away. Maybe for you Michael Stipe. Replaced by everyday. Come on you wuss, just do it! Go in, go under already. Turn around and just run in, fast. Get it over with. Like ripping off a band-aid. No, I decide to torture myself. Ever so slowly. Because I am a wuss.
I’m in, to my waist now. No turning back really. I’m committed. I turn, look at the shore. Smatterings of people. Some kids playing in the sand, the sun setting behind the buildings. I turn back and look out into the lake. Not a person or boat in sight. The water reflects the purple and orange from the sky. The horizon doesn’t distinguish between the two. They become one. It looks inviting I’ll admit. I snap back to reality. I’m fucking cold. I put my hands in the water, wetting my wrists and elbows in an attempt to reduce the shock. It’s not working. I cup the water and gently pat it on my arms, then shoulders, then stomach (squeal), and then chest. I shiver. Repulsed. How cold is this? I later read: a brisk 63 degrees. Breathe in, breathe out. You can do it. Just dive forward. And I do. When my head submerges I feel pain, but I am swimming forward, holding my breath. I surface, inhale and tread water. I feel invigorated.
My instinct is to get out. Quickly. But I decide to stay and swim. Thinking, it will get better with time, that moving will generate warmth. I am, of course, wrong. I float on my back, shades of pink and purple. It’s quiet. My frolic in the lake is brief. I slowly swim towards shore. Slowly because I am actually numb. As I exit the cool water I feel the heat of the day on my skin. The feeling is refreshing and welcomed. Tonight I made a discovery: Night is delight, it’s time to swim. Not during the day when crowds of Chicagoan’s flock to the shores, seeking refuge and salvation from the heat and their lives, and the life guards accost you verbally when you wade out past your knees. At dusk, the sunburned mom’s and dad’s tote their coolers off the hot sand, the lifeguards vacate the premises. At dusk, you can swim. Freely. And it is blissful.
Early years in Chicago brought me to the lake frequently. But that subsided ages ago. Fear of waking with a third eye or a flesh-eating bacteria the next day have clouded any opportunity to do so. The 10 o’clock news reporting beach closures due to e coli and tyrannical lifeguards have kept me at bay for too long. No more. I found the lakes sweet spot and have fallen for its charms. I find the calm and cool waters comforting and forgiving, lulling me into calm and back into the arms of Chicago.
Stay tuned for week 44 when I trudge through the homes of 6 perfect strangers.
I’m so glad that you tried night-swimming in Lake Michigan. Admittedly, I never tried it wading in from a Chicago beach. I used to do it, to some lesser or greater extent always drunk, off friends’ boats. No wade, therefore, but a plunge (or a trip, which counted as much the same thing). The thing that always took my breath away was that, even in high summer, after the upper few feet, Lake Michigan is darn cold. So I know what you mean about numbness. Seinfeld and George were right about “shrinkage”.
Still, every cloud has a silver lining. My earlier night swimming activities had been in salt water, and particularly in the Pacific, in Australia. I’d go to parties at swanky homes on Sydney Harbour, and eventually some fool would suggest a swim out to some pal’s boat anchored off, or right across a cove to someone else’s party. Problem is, night time is when the sharks move inshore to feed. Even if there’s little or no shrinkage in those languid latitudes, there’s no comfort zone in wondering just what might be sharing the water beside you as you splash out through the inky dark billows.
So, chilly Lake Michigan ain’t all bad.