Baptism

 

           

“You remember my friend, Trixie?”

            “Uh…I’m not sure….”

            “Well, it doesn’t matter. She owns this huge home in what is it called? One of those islands out there….Tiburon…? Belvedere…?”
            “Yeah, could be….”

            “So, she’s moving to Wyoming and she’s gonna give me the key to her house. It’s completely made of windows with views of the bay and…”

            “Why is she moving to Wyoming?”

            “COIVD’s not much of an issue up there. Anyway, I get the key and can stay there and….”

            “She’s renting it out?”

            “No, she’s just gonna keep the house and let me use it when I want and I was thinking that not next weekend but the weekend after next we could all go up there and hang out….”

            “WHHHHHAAAAA!!!!!!!!!! WHAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!”

            “What the hell is going on?” I manage to mutter, my eavesdropping here on Keller Beach interrupted by a screeching child.

            “That child hurt himself,” Ian explains as I continue to lie buried under my mountain of towels, trying to warm up after my arduous mile-long swim to the Pylons and back.

            “WHHHHHHHHSSSSQQQQQAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!”

            “Jeez, it sounds like it’s in pain,” I comment.

            “Yeah, I think he stepped on something. They’re looking at his foot. The mother looks quite distressed.”

            “Well, he’s certainly distressing me!” I proclaim, sitting up to try to see the injured kid.

            Instead I see a HUGE gathering of people on the far end of the beach from us. Must be at least 50 people crunched around, singing in Spanish and swaying back and forth, holding their cell phones up toward the sea to film 3 people, clothed in white flowing garments, back into the bay.

            “What’s that?” I ask.

            “It a COVID surge in the making,” Ian says. “Social gatherings. Even though most of them look like they’re wearing masks, they’re still all crowded together. No social distancing.”

            “Yeah, that’s how it happens,” I say. “That’s why the virus is still around and still is surging. People have to have their gatherings.”

            “Yeah, I heard on the radio how this couple had their wedding and they just had the immediate family, but the mother didn’t know she was asymptomatic and then she went to the wedding and sure enough, all the wedding party, the bride and groom, they all came down with the Virus. No one died, but still, social gatherings.”

            I nod as I continue to stare at the mass of people swaying, singing, and chanting as the flowing white-robed people back into the frigid sea. “It looks like some sort of ritual or ceremony,” I muse aloud. “A baptism? Do people still do that?”

            “Oh, yeah, Baptists do!” Ian asserts.

            I laugh. For some reason this strikes me as funny. Of course, Baptists have baptisms. But don’t other religions have them too? “Couldn’t they be Catholic?” I ask. “Don’t they baptize people too?”
            “Not like that. They just have the priest sprinkle the holy water and say some mumbo jumbo and then, voila, the lord is with you forever.”

            I shake my head as I start to gather up my stuff, still staring at the threesome, holding hands as they stand waist deep in the water. The singing and chanting from the crowd continues, not missing a beat. Clapping and swaying. It’s a social gathering all right. One that is one with itself.

            As we trudge up the path away from the beach, I stop for a moment to stare down at the scene. “Look!” I call out. “One of them is going under!”

            “Yes, they have to submerge themselves completely for the baptism to take effect.” Why does Ian know everything, I wonder. Or does he just sound like he knows everything cuz he’s an actor. He’s playing a role of I know all about baptisms. Maybe he played an officiator at such a ritual in one of his acting gigs.

            I continue to watch, fascinated, as another of the trio dunks under. They continue to hold hands. The three of them. I think how cold they must be now that their white gowns are soaking wet with the 63-degree water and the 68-degree wind blowing. Yet from this vantage point, I can’t tell if they’re shivering. Maybe once they’ve submerged, the Lord keeps them warm?

            Ian starts to clap along with the singing, doing a little two-step dance, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re so funny!” I giggle.

            He nods, then gathers up the stuff he’s set aside temporarily to allow for his dance. As we march up the path, away from the beach, he tells me how he misses being around people. That the clapping he’d just done, felt like he was part of a group, that he was participating.

            “Yeah,” I agree, kinda understanding, but kinda not. I don’t like crowds or social gathering personally, though I know many if not most people do. I didn’t know Ian was one of these people. He’s such a reclusive, solitary guy.

            Yet, I think this is what happens to us during this Covid isolation. Even those of us who are naturally, ‘Loners’ feel the loss of ‘connection’ with others. I don’t most of the time, but then once in a while I  do miss my friends. Wish they could come over and hang out.

            For now, we can’t.

            Unless one of us get baptized. Or we move to Wyoming.

            Tossing our shit in the trunk, I get in the warm sunny car. “Got any Tiger Milks, Ian?”
            He grins, “Yup, they’re in a secret hiding place.”

            He digs them out of the center storage unit between the two front seats, procuring the delicious snacks. I unwrap mine. It’s very melted. “Maybe not such a good hiding place,” I comment.

            Ian devours his, licking the wrapper, then turns the key in the ignition and does a U-turn and heads back through the Point Richmond tunnel, a V formation of Canada Geese honking at us as we disappear into the little tunnel’s dark depths.  

Navy Seals

 

            “Did you see the other swimmer out there?” Ian’s toweling off, pointing toward the bay’s choppy grey waters.

            “Nope,” I shiver, trying to get out of the wetsuit after my grueling, yet exhilarating swim to the pylons.

            “He’s out there,” Ian asserts. “He said he was training for the Navy Seals!”

            We both chuckle. But then I think, yup, it feels like that somedays, today especially. The water had been chilly and choppy for my swim out to the pylons against these waves and the wind. It was work! About halfway to the pylons I began to wonder, what the hell am I doing out here? In the SF Bay of all places? On a frigid summer’s day in the Bay Area. The skies are grey and cloudy. The wind is insistent in its frigid blowing. I fight to get even a few yards. Sometimes it even feels like I’m going backwards.

            I’ll never forget the time we went swimming with my Grandma Thompson. We were in a bright aqua pool, the sun was shining, I think my sisters were there too. Maybe it was our pool in Hacienda Heights that I reveled in as a girl. Maybe it was the pool at Gram’s Oceana complex in Oceanside. In any case, she got in. Gave it her all. Stroking the water, blowing bubbles. But to no avail. She just kept going backwards! It was hilarious. And she took it all in good humor.

            Today, though, my swimming conditions were hardly an idyllic day at the pool with Gram. It did feel like a battle. So, when Ian said this other swimmer was training for the Navy Seals, I had to laugh, but I also had to think, yup, it feels that crazy. Here we are out on the shore, in the freezing grey wind, with nary a soul around except for some unfriendly beachcombers, and it just seems like another world.

            And isn’t it? I mean, our world is NOT what it was 6 months ago. I don’t have access to my indoor pools anymore, let alone the heaty beauty of the sauna! I don’t have any contact with anyone outside of my bubble, which is Ian. And, I don’t go anywhere, but work from home on Zoom with students and writers. It’s surreal.

            Navy Seals do what anyway? They fight for the Navy in the sea? Like they are Combat Seals? How do they train? I remember a student of mine who wrote about being in the Navy, I’m not sure if he was a Seal, but he wrote about how he failed at some test and so he had to stay swimming in the water for hours, no matter how cold or tired he got, he just had to stay in the ocean.

            I remember thinking, this is torture! And, then I think, yeah, the US Military must be torturous. My students, most of whom have income, but some that don’t, enter the military. It’s a way to survive. And after they serve, it’s a way to get through college with the GI bill. I am always torn about this. On the one hand, I don’t believe or support any of the wars that the US is in right now. But on the other hand, I have to admire the courage that it takes these students to go off to these battlegrounds and sacrifice their lives—if not literally, then at the least, their psyches will never be the same.

            So, today, when I finally spy the Navy Seal trainee coming into shore, his florescent orange buoy trailing behind him, looking nothing like a Navy Seal really, but just some old guy in a worn wet suit with scraggy hair and a big grin, I think, yeah, it is a battle out there. Of course, it’s nothing like what my students face in Afghanistan or Iraq or what thousands of people are facing today with the Pandemic and all of its horrors, but it’s war today. We have to have courage to see what each day brings.

            I have the courage to brave the waters at Keller Beach. I am training for the Non-Navy Seals. I will continue to swim no matter what the cost.

            “Do you know if the showers are working?” Navy Seal man asks us as he heaves himself up the shore.

            “I think so,” Ian says. “The bathrooms are closed, but I think the showers are working.”

            “I hope so!” Navy Seal Man chuckles as he pulls off his military armor—wetsuit, orange floaty, fins. “See you guys tomorrow,” he grins at us, gathering up his gear and heading up the path to the showers.

            “Yup, see you tomorrow,” we call after him. Though for myself, I won’t be heading back to battle so soon. It takes me a few days to recuperate after the swim to the pylons.

            We gather up our gear, Ian, shouldering the bulk of the equipment. I turn to gaze out to the windy sea before we leave. It is still the same as when I was in it. Grey, wavy, timeless. 

        Tromping up the path under the eucalyptus, I hear the shower running. Navy Seal Man. I don't say anything to him as I follow Ian up the hill, away from the water, and toward my day. 

                                   

PARK CLOSED ?

So much crap! I think to myself.  I stand on the curb as Ian pulls shit out of the trunk: wetsuit, towels, fins, floaties, gym bags, sunscreen…. “See the chair I brought?” he grins, pointing at another massive unwieldy plastic bag. “Should I bring it?”

            “NO!” I sigh. “We’ve got enough stuff as it is.”

            He shrugs, shifts the wetsuit from one arm to another. Hands me my fins.

            “What about the umbrella?” he gestures toward a large pointy item.

            “NO no no!” I start to laugh.

            “Well, hello there!” An athletic looking middle-aged woman has stopped on the sidewalk and is grinning at me.

            “Do I know you?” I ask. She looks like someone that maybe I’ve swam with? Or I’ve met on one of my walks? She acts like I’m her long-lost lover.

            “No, I don’t think so,” she beams. “You going swimming out in the bay?” Her grin widens if that’s even possible as she turns and gestures toward the choppy grey waters of Keller Cove.

            “Yeah, we’re trying to,” I laugh.

            “I just so admire you! Swimming in the bay. It is so awesome. I live around here and I tell myself I need to do this, too.”
            “Do you swim?” I ask. She does look like a swimmer. But she could be a runner. Or a walker. Or a biker. Or just a skinny old broad.

            “Nah,” she chuckles. “I just get in the water and paddle around.”

            “Well, that’s great,” I say. “Getting in the water is the main thing. I swim with a wetsuit cuz I get so cold, but he…” I point to Ian now overloaded with crap on both arms. … “he swims without one.”

            “I’d just jump in NAKED!” she proclaims, cracking up at herself. “If my neighbors weren’t so goddamn nosy. I’ve had it with this Culture!”

            And with that, she’s off, walking down the sidewalk away from the beach.

            I glance over at Ian. “That was funny. What culture is she talking about?”

            “Oh, the Trump Culture.”

            “How do you know? She didn’t say anything about Trump.”

            “She didn’t have to.”

            “I think it was the Culture of anti-nudity. If there is such a culture. The Culture of Prudes. That could be Trump’s Culture…” I muse aloud as we head down the path to the beach.

            PARK CLOSED

            Due to High Fire Danger

 

A big RED sign sits in the middle of the path to the beach. I pause for one moment, then walk past it, thinking how there couldn’t be fire danger here at the beach. We’ll be in the water!

            Ian doesn’t question our entry into the park. We’ve come too far now to turn back. What with the wrestling of the Wetsuit ‘zip’ for 45 minutes before we even got here. What a hassle. Ian finally was able to get it to work, but the week before I was almost trapped in the wetsuit cuz he couldn’t get it unzipped.

            That woulda been bad.

            So, today, after getting the zip to work and driving here and unloading all the crap out of the car, no way was I gonna let a little park closed signage stop me.

            Besides, there were people down on the beach. Families with little kids screaming in the non-existent waves. Bored couples blasting music from their cell phones. A man and his dog playing fetch.

            They all ignored the sign.

            Ian and I park our stuff under a tree’s shade. It is less crowded than usual. Though this could just be because of the air quality. The smoky air is trapped thickly in the hazy fog that has mostly burned off. Yet, it does smell like Barbequed Chicken.

            We plop down, start to unpack and prepare. It’s quite a process. The wetsuit is the hardest, but once I’ve got it on and Ian has it zipped, we’re home free. I don my cap, and grab my fins and floaty Penelope after applying a thick layer of sunscreen.

            Head down to the shore.

            It’s choppy and salady. The tide isn’t too low, but it’s low enough to expose seaweed tangles. I still have some trepidation around swimming in the bay. Nude Swimmer Woman had asked about the water quality. I’d told her how there’s signage that lets swimmers know the water quality. Today it had been ‘yellow’ ---caution but okay.

            Would I go in the water still if it had been red, hazardous?

            Probably. I do seem to be ignoring red hazard signs today.

            As I start my swim to the pylons, so routine now, I think about the Park Closed sign and wonder if the cops will stroll up and down the little cove handing out citations. This worry doesn’t ruin my swim, but I do think about it. What if we get back to the beach and all the people have left and the cop is just standing next to all of our parked crap with his ticket book out ready to fine us?

            I had a plan of action ready. I was gonna say that the sign said, “Park Closed” not “Bay Closed”!

            How can they close the ocean? Even with COVID, the ocean is still here and people are still swimming and the birds are still flying overhead and the seaweed is still growing.

            The cops can’t close the sea!

            Heading back after making to visit Mr. and Mrs. Cormorant perched atop the pylons, I scan the shore for signs of cops.

            None that I can see. Though I can never see much with the saltwater and sun in my eyes. I do see Mr. Ian though with his neon yellow floaty, Roger, swimming about. Ian is so awesome! Swimming with me twice a week. But he really seems to enjoy it too. Well, who wouldn’t? Unless you get a ticket!

            “Hi Ian!”

            “Hi Carol!”

            “You having fun?”
            “Yeah.”

            We both grin.

            “Ready to head in?”

            “Yeah, I was waiting for you,” he says.

            I love him so much. Waiting for me! How cute is that?

            We drag ourselves out of the sea and stagger back to our towels. A group of Keller Cove swimmers has appeared. These are the serious swimmers! You can tell. No wetsuits. Tan, sturdy open water bodies. They are laughing and greeting each other: “Hey, Dan, what’s up? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

            “Yeah, I’ve been out at China Beach.”

            “How'd you like it?”
“It was great. I had a friend there who showed me the ropes.”
“Awesome!”

            I hunker under my towels, glancing up at a small group of women right in front of me. None of these swimmers were deterred by the Park Closed sign. Or maybe the sign is gone now?
            “How’s the water?” one of them asks me.

                        “It’s great!” I beam. “But I had my wetsuit on.”

                        “Don’t let anyone ever make you feel bad about wearing a wetsuit,” one of them offers. “Everyone is different.”

                        I nod. It’s true. We are all different. And I don’t feel bad about wearing a wetsuit for the reasons they might be thinking. I just envy them their ability to dive into the cold choppy sea free of it.

                        As Ian said later, “That used to be you.”
            And I remember how I used to swim so freely in the outdoors. In the pools. The ocean. No worries about the sun. No anxiety about being outside before 4 pm or after 10 am, like my dermatologist has instructed.

                        Yeah, the melanoma did change my life. But without the indoor pools open because of the pandemic, I’m back to swimming outdoors. I have to swim. It’s who I am.

                        Ian and I pack up again. Tromp back up the path to the car. The Park Closed sign is still there. A family walks right past it, the mom scrolling on her cell phone again after barely giving it a glance.

                        No one cares about the Fire Danger. It just doesn’t make sense here at the beach.

                        COVID is more of a threat.

                        Or those nosy neighbors who won’t let you swim naked in the sea!

Red Vines & Cottage Cheese :Wetsuit Nirvana, Part III

My hand reaches under the water, into the brown sandy murk. The visibility under the sea is what? About 3 feet. I try not to get freaked out by this. I like to see where I am. Where I’m going. This is only natural and not something that I have to think about in the pool.

            I lift my head up every few strokes to gauge the distance to the pylons. They still seem far away, but now I spy a seagull on top of them. He’s my great beaked hope!

            I swim on. Parallel to the rocky shore. I see families in bright colored pedal pushers, kids clamoring up and down the rocks. While I feel alone, I’m really not. These walkers are close and many seem to be watching me. I give a wave to one group. One of them waves back.

            I’m seen.

            I press on. I’m not cold, but I do start to wonder if I’ll ever make it to the pylons. And while Kilt Man had said it was only ½ mile to them, it feels like much more.  I flip onto my back and kick for a bit, then flip back over onto my stomach and try for a stronger freestyle stroke. It is hard! And then......, I glance up to see that all of a sudden, there They are. The Pylons! And they are two! Stuck into the sea’s floor, they loom above the surface of the water by about I don’t know, 12, 15 feet.

            And atop one is not a seagull but a Mighty Cormorant, his long black neck holding his small beaked head up. He’s gazing out at the view of San Francisco, the Sales Force Tower looming above the fog.

            “Hey, Mr. Cormorant!” I yell up to him. He gazes down at me for a moment before taking flight. He’s done his job.

            I feel a great sense of glee and relief. I made it! To the Pylons!

            Now,  circling around them, I have to swim back. Will I make it? It’s not like I have a choice, though I do think that if I get too tired or cold I could simply swim to the rocky shore and climb up. The families would help me.

            Yet, this is hardly necessary. The swimmer guys from a couple weeks ago were right. It’s a breeze swimming back. The waves and wind are behind me. The tide is pushing me forward toward the shore. I can’t keep the big grin off my face as I head  back to the beach.

            Ian greets me with his red towel as I swim into shore. “You made it,” he proclaims.

            “Ian! I swam to the pylons! I did a mile! Wow!”

            Exhausted, I plop down on my towel after the arduous task of removing the wetsuit. No need to describe it here. Let’s just say it easier to get off than get on. But not much.

            As I lie under towels, the warmth of the sun starts to soothe me. I’m exhausted but in a good way.

            “…..yes, Red Vines are delicious…..”

            “Gimme gimme….”

            “I brought some cottage cheese. Do you want some cottage cheese?”
            “NO NO NOOOO!!!! Red Vines!”

            “How about if I put a red vine on top of the cottage cheese?”

            “NO! RED VINE!!!!”

            I chuckle to myself. Who wouldn’t want a red vine instead of cottage cheese? But another part of me wonders, who the hell brings cottage cheese to the beach? It’s weird. Esp. with Covid signage everywhere saying “NO Picnics”.

            “Let me put my water shoes on and we’ll go down to the water, okay?”

            “NO. RED VINE!!!”

            “You about ready to go, Carol?” Ian interrupts my eavesdropping. “Don’t you have to go to the bathroom?”

            “Yeah, of course….” I shift a bit in the sand, feeling the warmth of the sun, thinking about the swim to the pylons, and thanking my sister for her wetsuit. She made it all possible.

           If I only had a red vine all would be complete. I don’t even like red vines, but now, I’ll forever associate them with swimming to the Pylons at Keller Cove.

            But forget the cottage cheese!