SUNRISE ADDICTION

Naked Swimmers Are My People

Cutting through the waves away from the storm

I thought I was afraid of everything, but then I joined the 6 a.m. swimmers on the lake. These were my people. When you find your people the world is less terrifying.

I suspected the early morning swimmers were my people when I’d watched them all those years, chairs lined up to the horizon, waiting for the sun. Now, I was waiting beside them. I was home.

I was even more convinced they were my people when I found out one of them was always getting in trouble for swimming naked.

In trouble with who? I asked.

The lifeguards, she said. They pull their boats or paddleboards over and tell me to put some clothes on.

Yes, these were definitely my people. The naked swimmer said we all swim naked. I suggested we sew stars on our suits like generals for every time one of us swam naked.

Mine would be covered, the primo-naked swimmer said.

Swimsuits don’t last nearly long enough, another swimmer said.

We agreed suits have an early expiration date so we’d sew our stars to jackets. They said they had special windbreakers for the lake swimmers. We could sew them onto there.

We shouldn’t have had this much time to talk before an open water race, but we needed to wait 30 minutes since the last lightning strike. There were firemen, extra paddleboard volunteers, a couple dozen lifeguards, and us — the swimmers counting down from 1800 seconds.

I’m used to anxiety. It’s an old friend. I waited for it to come when I was watching for lighting, but it didn’t come. Not the lightning or the anxiety.

We were given a safety speech. No swimming over other swimmers. If you’re having a hard time, wave your arms and call for a lifeguard. If someone else is having a hard time, wave your arms and call for a lifeguard. Don’t be a hero. Don’t try to save anyone else. That’s for the lifeguards and the firemen. Have fun.

They lined us up. We secured our timer chips velcroed around our ankles. They sent us out three at a time, spacing us. I waited for my anxiety to show up. It didn’t. It was taking the morning off.

There were four, well-spaced, floating giant buoy stations. We were to swim around them counterclockwise to make the distance. Many lifeguards were waiting on their paddle boards outside of the buoys. Bigger boats were further out, so we didn’t swim to Indiana.

My group was called. We ran into the water. It was immediately choppy. The waves were huge. Not surprising since an all-night storm had just ended. I swam breaststroke to get oriented.

I noticed several other people were too. Swimmers were checking out other swimmers as if to ask, ‘Is this too wavy? Should we keep going? Should we turn around?’

I finally started to swim front crawl, looking up to make sure I wasn’t crashing into anyone else. My anxiety was churning up. Well? It was asking. Are we okay?

I thought about my lake swims. The beginning is always hard. I’m not warmed up. My body is cement. I gotta get past my frozen body into my trusting body. I gotta remember to breathe.

I watched a couple of people plucked up by lifeguards and tossed onto paddle boards. Uh oh. I saw another man hanging off a lifeguard boat breathing hard.

You okay? I asked.

No, he said. My shoulder. I nodded and kept going.

The deeper I got, the bigger the waves got. More people were brought in by lifeguards. It was wild. I put my head into the space I travel to when I’m swimming for fun.

There’s no hurry. I’m not here to win. Have fun. You’re doing your favorite thing in the world. You’re strong. You’re capable. You’re choosing this. This isn’t a punishment.

The moving buoy stations were blowing further out. We followed them like kids anxiously trying to keep up with our mothers at a busy street fair. Wait up! This was definitely longer and rougher than the intended swim.

We were swimming in Chicago but our moving buoys were floating to Indiana. Wait for us! Our bodies screamed, chopping through the waves.

I didn’t look back to the shore to see how far out we were, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Someone told me later the waves concealed it. They said, ‘It was like looking through fog.’

A couple of times I thought I should get into a boat. I reminded myself this was paradise. This is as good as it gets. I am made for this. Relax. Have fun. I am alive. I am lucky to be here. Thank you, body.

I was finally warmed up enough to pick up speed. I felt like I was honoring my seafaring Viking ancestors. I’d probably been swimming for 40 minutes already with about 30 to go. No hurry. This is exactly where I wanted to be. Thank you.

There’s no way to describe the feeling when I saw the end. Two giant orange floating cones within reach. Not arms reach. Eyes reach. My arms could have only reached them if my arms were as long as football fields, but no such luck.

The important thing was I saw the end. It was possible. This reality filled my body with satisfaction, relief, and gratitude. Keep going, almost there. I both wanted to get to the end and keep swimming forever.

When I crossed the water finish line, I then walked beneath the inflatable land finish line. My partner was standing on the other side taking pictures. A little girl handed me a wooden circular award. I was starving and proud.

I was one of the last swimmers they let come in on my own. A seiche was on its way. A seiche is like a tidal wave in the lake. It pulls you out. I’d read about seiches years ago when I was studying Lake Michigan for a book idea. They terrified me. They rolled up and pulled people right off the street. When you were in the water, they gobbled you up.

The beauty of swimming for a long time is your body holds its memory. It is not a glimpse. It‘s a submersion. I thought I was afraid of everything, but I’m not.

I will see my people on Monday, chairs pulled up to the horizon awaiting the sun. It will come.

Wouldn’t you rather be thinking? Follow Contemplate and Amy Sea