Possibly one of the worst sensations I have ever sensed is the sensation of pulling on a wet bathing suit. The sensation is worse if it has to happen right after one rolls out of a warm bed. It is possibly worst of all if the reason for the wet-bathing-suit-in-the-morning sensation is that one is preparing for a swim in a lake. A long swim in a cold lake. The length and temperature of the swim are, of course, a matter of perception. I am no Lynne Cox, swimming the 30-plus miles across the English Channel or the 43-degree waters of the Bering Strait. For your average 43-year old mom, however, what I was planning seemed like more than enough.
The official Douglas Lake Swim is about 2.3 miles, across the narrowest part of the lake from Case’s Point in the South to the big white house on the North side of the lake. This is the official swim because in days gone by Case’s Point housed a camp, and the campers would swim over to the big white house for pancakes. I have recently begun wondering how they returned to camp, but that’s not really germane here. The official swim can also be done from North to South, depending on the wind, but from that direction, it lacks the caché of historical precedent.
I had done the swim twice before, both more than 20 years ago in my pre-married, pre-mom days. I don’t remember the swims in detail, but I do remember that it seemed like a huge accomplishment and required a good deal of buildup. I practiced swimming a mile in the lake each day, I did core workouts, I “bulked up” by eating extra calories the day before the planned swim. This time, the swim came as a bit of a surprise. I think it started with the arrival of my cousin Brad, who had been with me on my second lake swim and then completed a second one of his own with my sister, Cate, a few years later. My son Drew is an excellent swimmer, so he decided that, since we had a quorum of previous swimmers on the island (Cate was there, too), we needed to repeat the swim, with him there to beat all of our times and set the lake swim speed record. That last part wasn’t going to be difficult, as none of us remembered how long the swim had taken us. I guessed a couple of hours, taking into account the waves, natural swimmer drift off course, and stops for snacks. Brad guessed 45 minutes, taking into account the fact that when he had last done the swim, he had been a competitive swimmer and could have done it in that time.
I was not as enchanted with the idea as Drew was. In fact, none of the previous members of the Pells Island Swim Team were really up for the feat. Cate bowed out immediately, then went for a run to prove that physical fitness wasn’t the issue. Brad said he’d think about it. I, in the name of supportive motherhood, said I was in, but only if the day wasn’t windy. Johanna said she would try, but after swimming to the point of the island with her, I vetoed her participation. She has the worst internal compass I have ever seen; I was trying to swim next to her to keep her headed in the right direction, and she ran into me about 17 times. I had visions of her veering east and ending up at the University of Michigan Biological Station in South Fishtail Bay. Her running fitness is no help, either, because it has made her a compact package of muscle that’s apt to sink to the bottom like a stone. So in the end, the boat held me, Drew, Brad (who had slept well and figured why not), and our 17-year-old French exchange student, who didn’t expect to complete the swim, but thought it would be fun to join us for the beginning. My dad was the driver. I threw some water bottles and snacks in the boat, unsure whether we’d need some sustenance on the way. The lake was calm, and the day was as warm as it had been all week, though not as sunny as we might have wished. When we jumped in at Case’s Point, the water set my teeth on edge. Record snowfalls and a late spring meant that the lake was cooler than normal. We adjusted our goggles, dunked under the water, and set off. The time was 10:02 a.m.
Brad offered to swim “cleanup” for the first 15 minutes, keeping an eye on the other swimmers to make sure we were all still afloat. My dad putted off in the boat, leading us on what we hoped was a straight course for the opposite shore. After the first 15 minutes, our French friend decided that he had had enough fun for the day and joined my dad in the boat. Drew switched to clean-up duty. Eric and my mom joined us in the big green boat, armed with cameras to document the event and more towels in case any hypothermic swimmers needed to exit the lake and warm up. After my cleanup turn, we decided that with two boats, we could just all look out for ourselves. Brad is an ex-competitive swimmer and lifeguard. Drew is a current lifeguard, and I -- though I failed my high school lifesaving class -- am in pretty good shape for an old person.
It was at this point, about halfway across the lake, that I started to feel really happy. Water, especially lake water, has always been my most natural element. It feels safe and comfortable, like a benediction. I lined myself up with the boat and settled into a steady crawl. I run for exercise much more than I swim. I like to be a runner. I like the feeling of having run. But swimming, I love. In a lake, with no lane dividers, no walls, no chorine, I felt like I could swim forever. Of course, the disadvantage of a lake is that it’s a little harder to tell where you are going. I found myself wishing that there was a way to maintain the natural beauty of the lake while still painting lane lines on the bottom. Glowing ones that I could see through all the murk and seaweed. Failing that, I had to switch to breast stroke every few minutes to make sure that I was still headed toward the white house.
It was also about at this point that our swim team started to spread out. Drew, with the fitness of a 17-year-old, pulled ahead. I called to him to wait for us, but he was deep into the zone. Eric and my mom went with him in the green boat. Brad decided that he wanted to float for a while, and enjoy the scenery. My dad said he’d stay with him. I took off after Drew and the green boat, but couldn’t catch them. Drew ended up finishing in around an hour (we weren’t sure, since the official timepiece was in the boat with my dad). Given that Brad finished in 1:08, I am awarding myself a time of 1:03. I have no idea if this is any kind of PR for me, but I will assume -- for the sake of my ego -- that it is.
What did strike me is that this swim felt much easier than I remember from the previous two times. I wasn’t quite ready to turn around and do it the other way, but I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day in bed, either. I can’t decide whether this is good or bad. On the one hand, maybe it means that, at 43, I am fitter than I was at 20. That must be a good thing. On the other hand, there is something a little sad about finding that one of my mountains isn’t as big as I thought it was. Or maybe the takeaway is that as we grow, so should our goals. Chesapeake Bay anyone?
