I woke before the sun rose, looking forward to what looked like a clear day, with some cloud cover to keep down the heat. I looked forward to my ocean swim, despite having been stung by a Lion’s Mane jellyfish yesterday. They are currently a plague upon our waters, but I checked sharktivity to confirm no Great Whites have been spotted north of Cape Cod. Pain I can deal with, but death I would prefer to avoid. I knew from the surf report that waters would be still, so I could stay close to shore. That was uppermost in my mind when I drove the ¾ of a mile to the ocean to find the shoreline shrouded in fog. I have sworn off swimming in fog thick enough that those walking along the shore could not see me in the water in case I had need of drawing attention. It was dead low tide, so I would be swimming 100 yards or so from the walkers, but I knew I could stay in waist deep water, and so stand up if I had any need. I decided to add a clause to my ‘no fog’ contract, to allow swimming as long as I would not be over my head.

A person who reckons by maps or GPS has perhaps never used the sun as a navigation point, but ocean swimmers are an exception. You can judge your direction by your angle to the sun, and so navigate without needing to pull your head out of the water more than every minute or so to check yourself against shore points to confirm your path. None of that was going to work today, with the shore just a mist and the sun on hiatus. Instead, my navigation aid was the sandy bottom itself, clearly visible through the 3 to 4 feet of calm water I was able to swim in, with no waves churning it up with the sand. Yet visibility was compromised by lack of sun. The light was opaque rather than bright. I could see only a few feet in front of me, and knew spotting a jellyfish, doubtful in the best conditions, was impossible now. Oh well, that soon became a secondary concern because the fog rolled in thick enough that I could not see any shore. If you have ever experienced the unease of now knowing where you are on land, imagine what it feels like in the water. I did have my one point, the bottom, and so turned my angle toward the shore if I saw I was getting in a little deep, and then turning back out if my fingers or feet touched sand. Thankfully the fog cleared a bit so I could see the buildings on shore, and then enough that I could see the shore point I was heading toward, and so navigate by sight. I looked forward to it blowing off totally so I could get even slanting rays of the early morning sun, because it was cold in the water this morning. My fingers were feeling it already. It became more difficult to hold them together as a web as they began to numb up. I second guessed my decision not to wear a wet suit, but less equipment meant less to deal with, and I like to keep it simple.
My arms we a bit sore since I had done the same swim, just short of 2 miles, yesterday in the late afternoon. I was glad to see the dance pavilion that marked me more than half way to my turn around spot, and knew there were few buildings I would have to mark my progress from there. Thankfully I could see ahead where I was going, until that view was pulled down like a curtain by the fog. Suddenly I could not even see the sea wall, or the sand of the shore itself which was probably not more than 60 feet away. I stood up. My goggles were fogged. I took them off, but not even that helped. Well, for the first time I was glad the tide was cold this morning, because the chill waters cleared the goggles enough when I started again that I could at least see bottom. I began to think I might cut my trip short. My toes were cold know, and the anxiety of not being able to see where I was would not go away. I didn’t worry about sharks, another benefit of cold water is they are smarter than I am, and generally avoid it. I wasn’t even worried about jelly fish. They were the least of my problems at this point. I figured instead of turning back early, I would make it to my turn around spot, and then just cut it short on the way back and walk up the beach to my car if I pooped out.

I already described I was in the part of my swim with few shore buildings to mark progress, and now I had not even the shore itself. I had only recently begun to build up my distance, and so it was difficult to pass the turn around spot of my early season swims to stroke on into nothingness. But as I got closer, my confidence built, and the shore at this point was closer to the main parking area, so there were walkers on the beach I could spot like beacons. You learn to best appreciate the sight of another human when you are lost and alone. Likewise, you learn to best appreciate your turn around spot when you are in frigid water with no visibility, when it seems like the water itself could wrap you in its embrace of nothingness and sweep you away in the slightest current. I made it!

My celebration was short lived, because the journey back had only begun. More good fortune that two women in neon bright wind gear were walking in the same direction and so were my unwitting guides for as long as I could follow their pace. I knew better than to look for shore points which would be hard to see, and inevitably disappointing. I have only made it this far? At one point I couldn’t take it any longer and so stood again to remove the goggles. I saw a familiar ramp to confirm my disappointment. I had only made it a few hundred yards on the return. I thought about getting out, but it would be a long walk back in the cold air. I took my chances in the water, trying to shut down my thinking to stroke, stroke, stroke. The fog swirled at points that I could occasionally see shore buildings, and felt some confidence when I saw my favorite dance hall. I could make it from here. I think I can. I think I can. The long pergola of a bath house was next, teasing me at the start, because it is only at the other end that I would be close enough to the finish to feel it would be all downhill, but knowing I was getting to that point was enough. Confidence was rising. I was going to do it!

And then it happened. My right forearm burst into flame. I knew from yesterday it was a jelly fish. I looked, but a few million years of evolution makes them hard to see. I was hit over a larger area today. The pain sharpened. At first I kept swimming because the tentacles can trail up to 50 feet. Then I kept swimming because I guessed the cold water was a better salve than letting it dry in the air. Finally I kept swimming because I had made it to my downhill point. I was cold, I was tired, my arm stung, but I was determined. Now there was a man in a red jacket who stood out like a lighthouse, pulling me along in his slow walking pace. Finally I could make out the shadow of the hotel that was my end point. I knew to stop looking. It would be over 5 minutes to get there. No sense torturing myself. I now had the luxury of comparing this swim to the same course just 16 hours earlier, in the bright, hot sunshine, and clear warm water. I love the ocean, except when I am lost, frozen, and in pain. If I believe in weather gods, I would have cursed them for ruining my morning. Instead I kept swimming, with a joy like the winner of a race when I made it to the hotel and stood up in the waist deep water to head to shore. The arm hurt worse when the air started to dry it. It looked swollen in spots, and misshapen, like my sinews had rearranged themselves. I thought of a doctor, and then wondered if my skin and veins always looked like this after a cold swim. I knew the white spots were the jelly fish. I can still see them. I hope the bastard washes ashore and dies.