Gutsy Girls

We probably shouldn’t have gone out in the ocean that day; it was pretty rough. But, as Jeff Bridges says in the movie Crazy Heart, “We had fun. Nobody died.”

When I wrote a blog about “Guys in Gratitude,” I shared how my swim friends have helped me feel more comfortable around men. I have no such problems with women. I love my women friends, and am hugely grateful to have them in my life. I admire their courage, their resilience, and their wisdom. They are all strong women, and they all have led remarkable lives. This blog is in celebration of them.

Although I swim with my “pod” three or four times a week, Saturday is special in that we usually have a bigger group. We swim in the open ocean from Baby Beach all the way to the lifeguard tower, about a mile further up Baldwin Beach. Last Saturday my partner Susan decided that she wanted to come and join us. She usually swims on the other side of the island, where the water is much calmer.

At 11:00 we all meet up at Max’s house, overlooking the ocean: Tom, Katharine, Barry, and Vilma, Max’s assistant. Max has just gotten back from Switzerland with his wife Mary, and is showing us his new artificial arm. Max lost his arm in a boating accident ten years ago, and it has been a long, slow agonizing process of recovery. His daily swims are what keep him going, and they are also the main inspirations behind our swims. If he can do it with one arm, why can’t we do it with two? I introduce Susan to everyone, and we set off for the beach in high spirits.

The ocean on the North Shore is rarely calm, but the past few weeks have been delightful, with the water a warm 84 degrees and the ocean only moderately rough. Today, however, when we round the corner to the beach, I know we are in for trouble. The sky is overcast, and the wind is fierce. I can see nothing but whitecaps in the distance.

“Wow. Is it always this way?” Susan asks in alarm. She looks ready for anything in her bikini, her pink rash guard, carrying her mask and fins. Susan is petite, with blond hair, slim legs, and a fit looking body.

“Well, it doesn’t look much worse than it did the other day,” I say, not too convincingly.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “It looks pretty rough to me.”

“We’ll see,” I say. “We don’t have to go out in the ocean. We can always swim inside the reef.”

“But I want to do this,” she says, a look of determination on her face. Susan is understandably nervous. She’s not a super-strong swimmer, and is worried about whether she can keep up. She doesn’t want to be left behind far out in the ocean, and wants to prove to herself that she can make it. Susan also has to factor in that she has a severe immune disorder, as well as gastroparesis, a disease that paralyses her stomach. Susan has found out that getting in the water every day helps with her symptoms; it literally keeps her going. So every day of the year she gets in the water, no matter how cold, or stormy it is, often swimming alone out into the ocean for half a mile. But she knows that if she overextends herself, she’ll get exhausted.

I turn to look at the rest of the group. Katharine and Daniel are walking behind us. Katharine, wearing a blue bathing cap with her mask perched on her head. “Looks pretty crazy out there!” she says. I’m very fond of her; she’s two days older than I am, and we like to kid around a lot. Katharine is a real water person, and at one point in her life was a high dive performer who traveled around the world doing her dives. Now she has rheumatoid arthritis, which affects her hands, her feet, and her knees. She’s often in a lot of pain. Yet, whenever she can, she gets in the ocean and swims almost a mile with all of us guys, often swimming with just one arm because of a sore shoulder. We all admire her gutsiness. Daniel, a tanned, solidly built guy in his sixties, who was once an Ironman triathlete, laughs. “Ya, ya, we’ll see. It doesn’t look too bad.”

As we walk up the beach to our launching point, the wind is blowing sand into our faces. I can see the surf crashing on the reef, and the ocean is stirred up to a wild pitch. The sun is behind the clouds, making the water look dark and menacing.

Tom takes one look and says, “Max and I are going to stay inside today. He’s still recovering from 24 hours of flying.” They peel off and wade into the protected area inside the reef, along with Vilma. We wave to them and keep going.

“Do you still want to go out?” I ask Susan over the roar of the wind.

“Sure, I’m scared shitless, but I want to go.”

We walk up to our starting point, where I help Susan get her mask on before wading in. In no time the water is crashing over her head. She struggles to put on her fins as she keeps going underwater. “Are you ok?” She nods her head, her eyes wide open in fright behind her mask.

Once she has them on, I yell, “I’ll get my fins and be right back.” I run up to where I’ve left them on the beach. By the time I return, Susan has been swept 50 yards away in the rip current. The water is all churned up and murky as it rushes out of the channel. I can see the waves tossing her around as I rush down the beach and gesture for her to come back in. They keep washing over her as she tries to get out of the water. I finally have to grab her by the arm and drag her onto the beach; I’m worried I’ll pull her arm out of the socket. I help pull her fins off and stand up. I shout over the wind, “We can stop now or we can go further down the beach and get in there. It’s not quite as rough. What do you want to do? Do you want to go back” She shakes her head and points down the beach, her look terrified and determined.

We reenter the water, and once we’re beyond the shore break, we get our fins on. I’ve been swimming here for years and have never seen the water this rough. The wind is whipping up a spray. We swim out, hoping for calmer water. I look back and see Susan gesturing. I swim over to her. “My mask is leaking,” she shouts. There’s nothing worse than being out in these conditions and have a leaking mask. I help her clear it. We keep on swimming, making slow progress against the current. Fifty yards ahead of me I can see two heads bobbing up and down in the waves. It’s Daniel and Katharine, the only two willing to head out. Another swimmer who came out with them has turned back.

“Look, there they are!” I say, waving at them. Then they disappear into a trough and I lose sight of them. A few minutes later they reappear. It looks like they’re struggling with the current too. It’s so comforting to see someone else out here in this mess. I feel like one of the Navy Seals in The Perfect Storm. Like them, I’m trying not to panic. I’m worried about how to get Susan back in.

When their heads appear again, I can see they’re heading back too. Thank God. A few minutes later we meet up with cheers and laughter as waves continue to crash over our heads. “A little wild, isn’t it,” quips Katharine. We all laugh. “Watch out Susan!” Daniel shouts, pointing to a breaking wave rolling in towards us. Susan turns and ducks her head just in time. These waves can knock your mask off in an instant. How Daniel manages to swim in these conditions, with no fins and just swim goggles, I don’t know.

Now comes the challenging part: getting back in to land. I can see the surf crashing on the beach. We start to swim towards it. Daniel is helping Katharine; I’m with Susan. Up and down, up and down we go, riding on the huge waves. For a while, it feels like we’re making no progress and the current is pulling us out. This has me nervous. Finally I can touch bottom. I take my fins off, then help Susan get hers off as the waves roll us around. I glance over and see Katherine and Daniel struggling in the water. I watch as a wave rolls over her, knocking her down. The hard part is getting up the steep incline of the beach as the undertow tries to drag us back in. Eventually we get a foothold and fight our way up onto land.

We all raise our arms in a grand cheer and give each other hugs. “That was fun, wasn’t it,” I say. “Susan, you did it!”

“No I didn’t. You had to haul me out!”

Daniel laughs, “No no, you did good. That was pretty crazy out there!

“We made it!“ Katharine yells, a big smile on her face. “Yea!!!”

I look out at the churning, roiling ocean we’ve just come out of. Not many people would do that, I think. Here I am with two women in their seventies, both with severe physical disabilities, who were willing to give it a try.

No wonder I love women so much.