4 loops
lake nokomis open swim
75 degrees
An almost perfect morning for a swim: sunny, warm, barely a ripple in the water. Amazing. I couldn’t see the orange buoys, but it didn’t matter. Steady and straight, right to them. On the first loop, something hard bumped into me — a twig? — and, for a moment, I was startled out of my stroking and breathing trance. I thought about what was down below me, imagining some fish swimming up and bumping into me. Then I forgot about it and almost everything else.
As I entered the water, more than a dozen tiny minnows parted at my feet — the fish in me escaping!
10 Things
- cloudless blue sky — bright, but not quite cerulean
- a dragonfly near the surface — at least I think it was dragonfly, it looked big, but too small for a bird — size is often distorted when looking in the lake
- swimming south towards the bridge, shafts of light were rising up from the bottom of the lake
- a few planes in the air
- both green buoys were easy to sight — bright, white dots in the distance
- hardly any other swimmers in the water — in the best way possible, I felt alone
- water surface: blue, flat, smooth
- stopping briefly in the middle of the lake, hearing the sloshing and rhythmic splashing of someone else’s strokes
- after the swim, walking near the bike rack: the solar panels on top of the picnic structure were casting pale orange shapes on the sidewalk
- swimming east towards the little beach, the bubbles my hands make were sparkling and glittering in the sun, too sparkling to be real, looking like something you’d see in a cartoon*
*Days after writing this, I happened to be watching classic Scooby-Doo and saw the bubbles I was thinking of:
Speaking of bubbles, I searched for them on Poetry Foundation and found these lines:
Its bubbles are words
meant for no one.
(from In the Aquarium/ Dunya Mikhail)
I like imagining my underwater bubbles as words being released, not as speech intended for any one, but as something else: a letting go? an accident — leaking words all over the lake?
I’m reminded of Alice Oswald’s restless thought bubbles in Nobody released from the body and traveling across the water, there and there and there.
I’m also reminded of Anne Sexton and “The Nude Swim”:
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun
What patterns do I leave on the surface with my strokes, and how long do they last? What if my bubbles could float above and witness them?