Right Now, it’s all About the Masks

“Ohhh…..I’m SO sorry!” Her voice dripped with contrition, thick layers of shame oozing out onto the nearly empty sidewalk. “I forgot my mask when I came out tonight….”

            We’d nearly run into each other, the sidewalk overgrown with wild green hedges, low hanging boughs of a jacaranda, weeds sprouting from the sidewalk cracks. I hadn’t seen her. Maybe cuz of all the flora and fauna, but mostly because I was talking to plush black cat, its golden eyes beckoning for my attentions.  I just hadn’t seen her till she was almost upon me.

And this woman? Why was she distracted? Her dog?  She was walking a large golden retriever who was pulling her along. So, this could have been why she didn’t see me till we almost bumped into each other.  But I think she was momentarily distracted by her own shame at forgetting her mask.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I assure her, dodging the dog and heading out into the street. Yet, even though I felt her shame, there was a part of me that wondered if it was okay. For once, I had my ladybug mask on. I’d been a bit more vigilant about this lately. But hell, no one was usually walking in droves through the Richmond North and East neighborhood. So, I usually didn’t wear it. Or haven’t been, till the lastest mandate from the governor about wearing masks anytime you were out in public.

So, tonight, I let her off. I don’t shame her more. Like what happened to DL the other day at McLaughlin Beach in Berkeley. She’d gone out for an evening stroll. The apartment was stifling her. And the beach was lovely and empty and she’d been daydreaming with her mask off, when a bicyclist got off her two-wheeled steed, walked right in front of DL and then glared at her for not wearing a mask. When DL told me this story, I said, “Well, you were there first! No one had been around. She could have given you some warning before jumping in front of you!” DL had agreed, but I could tell, even over the fuzziness that is Skype, she was embarrassed. To be caught without a mask.

This morning I’m walking down 30^th street, and Two Peas in a Pod are coming toward me. Both masked. They always have been. Embracing the severity of the pandemic from the beginning. I remember when masks weren’t required except for grocery stores and other essential businesses one might have to enter into. But Two Peas, maybe cuz they are elderly, have always donned their bright blue masks. They greet me this morning with a hearty “HELLO” which I return. Yet I’m distracted. Across the street is a woman with a little brown dog pulling her along. And the little brown dog has a black netting over its face. A doggie mask?

Really?

Has it come to this where we have to mask our pets? I can’t imagine the cats in the neighborhood wearing little netted masks. They wouldn’t stand for it. But of course, there are neighborhood animals that have natural masks, such as the racoons, though granted I’m not sure how much protection these built in fur masks provide. And Murray, the mocking bird? Who would want to mask him? Muffling his song?

Though, since this virus was started by bats, maybe they’re the ones who really need to wear little bat masks! Gosh! Can you imagine? Bats look sinister enough as it is. If they were required to wear little black masks over their little pointy muzzles, I’d really run screaming!

All in all, it’s time to mask up whether we like it or not. I don’t like it, but I know it’s necessary to keep the virus from spreading. Gov Newsome drones on everyday with his pie charts and stats, but he’s right, Californians need to hit the ‘dimmer switch’ and turn down the lights on all the opening up of restrictions.

So, mask your dog. Mask your cat. Mask your bats. But most of all, mask yourself. Unless you want to invoke the ire of Masked Wearers everywhere!

Keller Cove Swimmers

The tunnel was blocked. Damn! What the hell was going on? Ian and I sat in the car, at the stop sign, next to the closed Plunge, staring at the police car blocking the road ahead, its whirring and ominous emergency lights spinning and flashing red, blue, and yellow.

            “Well, this doesn’t look good,” I mutter.

            “Yeah, it doesn’t. Let’s go see what’s going on.” Ian pulls away from the intersection and heads up the empty road, toward the police van. “Maybe the cop can give us some information.”

            “Is there another way to the beach?” I whine. Here I am, all ready to dive into the Keller Cove’s choppy waters, and the only way to the beach, that I know of, is through this sweet little tunnel behind the plunge. If it’s blocked, then can we walk through the tunnel to the beach? Or is there a way around?

            Ian pulls up alongside the cop, rolls down his window, “Hi, can you tell us what’s going on?”

            The cop gives us a steely stare, menacing in its intensity, but then speaks: “There was an accident. Guy caught between two vehicles.”

            Shit, I think. That sounds horrendous.

            “Is there another way around?” Ian asks.

            The cop stares ahead, not looking at us anymore, then speaks again, “You can take Canal and then Seacliff. But it’s a long way around.” The cop turns toward us, daring Ian to ask another question.

            “Okay, thanks, I can see you’re busy….” Ian rolls his window up, pulls out his phone as he drives to the side of the road to look up the directions. A helicopter swoops overhead, hovering for a moment, then lands in the middle of the green lawn of the park right in front of us.

            Damn! This does look bad. But hell, if someone was caught between two cars, did he survive? Was he a swimmer? A Sunday beachgoer? How did this happen?

            All these questions circled my brain, but the biggest question was, how the hell do we get to the beach so I can swim?

            Now this might seem cold, but I knew there was nothing we could do to help this poor guy, and if Ian could get around the little hill, circumventing the tunnel, maybe I could still swim. After all, this was the most important thing in the world, right? Though a bigger part of me was scared and uneasy. I felt a simmering wave of nausea thinking about this accident. Here we were on a beautiful Sunday, Father's Day no less, and this guy was probably just going to have his day in the sea when wham. He's in this hellish accident.  

            “Excuse me, Sir…..?????” A man in a blue van had pulled up even with Ian’s car on the other side of the street. “Please, can you tell me sir how to get around?”

            “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Ian holds up his phone, pointing to its magic maps that the questioning man couldn’t possibly see.

            “Please, Sir, can you tell me?”

            Ian shakes his head, “I don’t know, like I said, we’re trying to find out.” He rolls up his window, shaking his head.

            I grin. Ian knows the priority is to get me to the beach before I have a Nervous Breakdown over the Swim Police Action Tunnel Block Situation!

            “There is a way around. The cop is right. It’s a ways but we can do it,” he says, circling around the park as the helicopter’s choppers whirr loudly. Damn, it was so intense. “What’s up with the helicopter?” Ian asks. “Kaiser is just 3 minutes away.  Why do they need a helicopter?”

            I nod. He’s right. It is strange. Maybe Kaiser doesn’t have the facilities to deal with a smashed man? Maybe they were filled up with COVID patients and couldn’t take him in? Who knows.

            I hide my head behind my hands as we pass the helicopter where they’re loading someone on a stretcher. I don’t need to see this. I need to get out of here and into the water.

            Ian drives around the brown hill, through warehouses, overgrown brush, and then piles of new condos on the hillside. “I recognize some of this road,” I observe. Then point to the condos, “But those weren’t here before.”

            “Nope, you’re right. It was just the derelict warehouses.”

            I nod, now having to go to the bathroom because of the delay in getting to the beach. And, I was sure, even if the bathrooms were open, because of Covid, I wasn’t confident about their cleanliness and usability. I’d just have to go in the sea.

            Yeah, right. How cold was that water? 61 degrees? Colder than Alameda, I knew. But as we continued to drive around, I started to wonder if we’d even be able to get down to the beach. What if the beach was blocked off too? What if we’d come all this way and I still wasn’t going to be able to swim?

            I tried to stay positive (not my strong suit) as we finally turned the corner and saw the beach. It was dark Prussian blue with tiny white caps. Glorious. Yet, as we came near the entrance to the beach, more cop cars, yellow tape, and an ominously crunched car pulled over to the side of the road.

            The beach didn’t look accessible.

Keller Cove Beach, photo by Ian Lambton

            Ian parked away from the action. I climbed out of the car and gazed out to sea. Yes, there were a couple of swimmers out there. I could tell from their bright caps and fluorescent floaties. Okay, so, it was possible. But how to get down there?

            “I think we can go down this way,” Ian started down a path that pointed in the opposite direction from the beach.

            “Really?” I was dubious. “How will we get over there?” I pointed to the chain link fence and the railroad tracks that blocked our access.

            “I think there’s a way. Follow me.”

            Okay, I thought. He seems to know what he’s doing. But he always seems like he knows what he’s doing. I like this about him. But again, maybe he’s just acting. To keep me from crying.

            We tromp down the path, but he’s right, it winds around and heads back toward the beach. There’s an opening in the chain link fence that we can march through and then over the railroad tracks and onto the bluff overlooking the sweet little Keller Cove.

            YES! We can get there.

            My excitement mounts as we head down the path to the beach, the eucalyptus trees blowing in the wind, a couple of families now evident on the beach, social distancing won’t be a problem. Not a lot of people. Well maybe the Tunnel Block helped with keeping the crowds at bay?

            A trio of swimmers are emerging from the water, grinning and laughing. They stop under a eucalyptus tree and begin to towel off.

            “How’s the water?” I holler to them.

Cj waving photo by Ian Lambton

            “It’s lovely!” one of the women beams at me. “But a bit choppy.”

            I hold up my fins. “I came prepared.” I smile back at her, my excitement mounting.

            “Have a good swim,” she calls out, holding up her own fins to wave goodbye.

            And I do. Have a good swim. The water is cold, but feels exhilarating. Which isn’t surprising given how hard it was to get to it. And, yes, it’s choppy, but I can handle this. Again, it’s just so marvelous to be in the water. Backstroking toward the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, the seagulls cawing overhead. The water enveloping me in its salty embrace.

            I don’t last long. Only about 15 minutes, but as the Lovely I proclaimed when I met her at Alameda earlier in the week, “It doesn’t take long” to feel like ourselves again.

Serious Swimmers photo by Ian Lambton

After trudging out of the water, cold but happy, I sit on the beach, trying to get warm. I watch as 3 burly guys prepare to dive in. They’re serious. You can tell. They take their time getting in, laughing and joking. Their speedos so small of a protection against the frigid sea. I watch as they dive in, taking off toward the Golden Gate. And, yeah, they are moving. They might really be swimming there!

            I only hope the poor injured man who didn’t get to the beach, didn’t get to swim, didn’t get to enjoy this beautiful day, will be okay.          I can’t help but think of him as I try to cover myself up with my Hawaii Beach towel. Lying here, trying to warm up, I shiver. How lucky I was to have this swim, this day, this life.

Postscript

I've since joined a group of swimmers who swim regularly at Keller Cove. From their very active email chain, I was able to piece together that the accident victim was a swimmer, though not a part of this group. His name is Dave and he was helicoptered to John Muir medical center. He lost some parts of his legs and feet but will get prosthetics and will not be paralyzed. Thankfully, he will be okay but will have many months of rehab to heal. These swimmers seem so wonderfully kind! Here's a photo they put together for this injured swimmer. Healing waves to Dave!

Keller Cove Swimmers: photo by Kim Anno, banner by Kim Anno, Joye Wiley, and Amelia

....it out!

Near the end of my morning walk, I’m slowing down. Tired and tired but happy to be out. I’m on the last block of 30^th street when I spy a woman, splayed out on the sidewalk, no mask, no hat, pulling weeds. She’s talking VERY loudly on the phone. Even though I cross the street to maintain social distancing, I can’t help but overhear her.

            “……if you can’t physical therapy it out, then you only have two choices: One, you can become addicted to opioids; two, you can……

            I don’t hear the second option. But, I’m delighted by the use of the noun phrase, physical therapy, as a verb. I’ve never heard this before and wonder if it’s a common usage. Language changes every minute it seems, but this word form switch-a-roo is especially fun. I can’t think of any  others right now except for one I can’t stand: “My bad.” Ugh! It sounds like your whole entire being is BAD! Not that you’ve just made a mistake, which is what I think we used to say, right?  Granted, it’s an adjective gone to a noun, but same idea. Here’s one scenario:

“Honey, I went to the store; here’s the root beer you wanted.”

            “But it’s regular root beer, not diet!”

            “Oh, my bad!”

            When in the past, we’d say, “Oh, my mistake, sorry.”

            I’m learning Spanish right now. And I’ve very bad at it. But it’s not My Bad. I’m just bad at remembering all the vocabulary. Never mind the word forms! It gives me such an appreciation for my students and their struggles with word forms and verb forms. It’s hard! But this morning’s change of word form usage had nothing to do with language acquisition. It was just language change. And maybe this happens especially with conversation?  

            So no longer is it “I will try physical therapy instead of getting addicted to opioids” , but “I will physical therapy it out before I get addicted to opioids.” I like the use of the preposition 'out' too. This gives it an added authenticity for the new word form usage. And, so, we can say:

            “I will opioid it out since I can’t seem to physical therapy it out.”

            Or, what I would recommend, “I will swim it out so I don’t have to opioid it out!” And the beauty of the word swim is that it can be a noun, or a verb or anything that floats! This is the answer to the injured party on the other end of the phone. Swim it out! I’m sure that was the second option. And yeah, it might be close to physical therapy, but it’s a specialized physical therapy, right? Water therapy.

            So water therapy it out before anything!

            Of course, with COVID, to swim is a BIG challenge. As, I would imagine, is regular physical therapy. How can you social distance with your PT?  But things may be opening up. Or so I hear. Yet, will we all get sick from this opening up? There has been a definite, evidence-based surge resulting from this loosening of restrictions. I read an article in the SF Chron, Business section this last Sunday, (6/21) about how wineries in Napa and Sonoma are opening up. But….they are now being stricken with more cases of the Virus when before their infection rate was low.

            So, I wouldn’t recommend to wine taste it out! Though, frankly this might be the best therapy of all. If you can do it.

            Salud it out!

           

Pianos

I’d been walking past the tidy grey stucco bungalow for years. Way before the pandemic pacings. And yet, before today, I’d never seen anyone in the house or outside of it. I’ve always been curious about who lives here.

            Why?

            The piano.

            It sits sweetly in the front alcove room, a baby grand with its lid up. No music on the stand, no one seems to play this sweet little piano. It looks so forlorn and empty. It wants to be played. Doesn’t it? I don’t know. But I do wish that someday, I’d walk by, and hear the sweet music from its keys. Chopin? Bach? Debussy?

            So, today, as I’m coming up to the grey house, I see someone out front watering the brown lawn. Immediately I think of the piano. Is this the pianist? He must be. Of course, I have to stop and ask him.

            At first he’s hesitant, focusing on his watering. I think, drought, dude, but don’t say anything. Instead, I ask, “Are you the pianist?”

            He nods, a little leery of me? I’ve been careful to maintain social distancing. I’m well over 6 feet away. But people are scared. Rightly so. The Virus is on the rise again.

            “Yes…”

            “I have been walking by your house for years and always have noticed your sweet piano in the window, but have never heard you playing.”

            He begins to warm up, “Yeah, well, I’m a saxophonist. The piano, I tinkle around on it. By ear. Even though I can read music….”

            “Cool….what kind of music do you play? Jazz? Blues?” I just assume this as a guy thing. Playing jazz by ear on the piano. But it is an assumption. Maybe he plays Mozart Sonatas.

            “That’s right,” he nods. “Jazz….I was in a jazz ensemble for years. Played around the Bay Area. I used to live in Piedmont. Rented this place out. But then, moved back here. With the piano, it was my grandmother’s. I like to keep it near.”

            “Yes, I understand,” I nod. “I have my mother’s baby grand. I will always keep it near.” And then I think of my own grandmother. She played a heavy upright. Church hymns pounded out on its keyboard. I remember sitting next to her and absorbing those big bass chords. Her singing along. It was magical. Later, when she moved out of this house in Whittier, into the condo in Oceanside, she still had the piano. I remember visiting one day, decades ago. She asked me to play something for her. I played the Moonlight Sonata. I remember this so vividly even today. And it isn’t like I have ever played much Beethoven, but I must have memorized that first movement for a recital because I just remember sitting down at the keyboard and playing for Gram. And she was so appreciative, clapping when I’d finished.

            So, today, when he mentions his gram, I wonder what she was like. I can imagine her in some grand old mansion in Piedmont with ancient fountains and ruby bougainvillea. She’d sit at the piano every afternoon and play Chopin’s Nocturnes. Their melancholy melodies floating over her tangled garden patio. Her touch was gentle; she felt the music. She closed her eyes and let Chopin sweep her away…..

            But I don’t ask him about her now even though there is an opening. I’ll save this query for next time. Or maybe not. I’ll just let my imagination keep her where she is.

            “It’s so nice to meet you finally,” I sign off, starting to walk on.

            “Yes, you too,” he beams now. A fellow musician. We have that in common. It is a bond that musicians share. The love of music. How it can create this immediate affinity for each other.

            “I hope I hear you ‘tinkling’ the keys soon,” I grin, starting to walk.

            He nods, but doesn’t answer, turning to hose another section of the brown lawn as a noisy mockingbird swoops down from his rooftop into the birch tree and warms up with a loud, boisterous song!

Walking to Heal

Isabella ….Alessandro….. Brothers…Brothers….Thinking of you….. Thinking of you….. Brothers please get well. Get well….get well….Isabella….Alessandro Brothers …..Brothers…. Brothers….Thinking of you…thinking of you….Get well soon. COVID be damned. Please get well…..

            I march along, the ‘song’ in my head with each step. Sending my healing thoughts while walking this morning. The rhythm of the walk creates a background for my thoughts. And, I think, yes, this will help. If I walk for Alessandro’s brothers, both in the hospital with COVID, they will feel me. They will get better….or at least, it can’t hurt, right?

            Isabella had asked everyone to ‘have a quiet time’ between 9:00-9:30 this morning, that if all of her friends on this email chain did this together, there would be power to heal and support. And, I thought, yes, I can do that. I will go on a purposeful quiet walk and think of these two men, brothers who are sick with COVID 19. One in Mexico City. One here in Richmond. I don’t know them. I only know of them. But I know Isabella and Alessandro. And I do believe that the collective thoughts of healing can bring solace at the very least, and maybe wellness at the very most.

            I used to not believe in such a power. I was a skeptic about this sort of unseen, unknown collective. But I took a “Dream Class” at Woo Woo U and had a classmate’s thoughts transmitted to me during the night. She had been shown ‘images’ during class and then she was to ‘transmit’ these to all of us while we were sleeping.  It was so strange. My dreams are always so narrative, with a beginning, middle, and ending and lots of action between these points. But that night, from the dream classmate, I ‘received’ these visions. They were unlike any dreams I’d ever had. There were no 'stories' , no narrative like usual. Just pictures. The images were of flowers blooming in a vast meadow, a red barn in the background. A green wall with a desk and a man in a black bowler hat sitting at it. These images just flashed to me. And when I reported back to the class and it was revealed to me the ‘real’ images that my classmate had sent to me, the resemblance was uncanny.  I really had received these images.

            And, so today, as I walk and send my thoughts to this family and these brothers, I believe in this power. I note the beauty of my neighborhood. How the fruit trees are all busting out with lemons and peaches and apricots. How the summer flowers are blooming, the Agapanthus’ purple and white blooms bursting onto the sidewalk. How the large noisy crows are scavenging in the gutter, then swooping up and onto the roof of a tidy blue stucco house.

            It’s all so alive.

            And this is what I wish for these brothers. That they get well. That they live to take a walk, to sing, to dance.

            Isabella….Alessandro ……brothers….brothers…..get well…get well… please get well….

The Blue Cube

Where is she?

After a series of text message locations  that I don’t understand, I have arrived at Alameda’s Crown Beach. In search of the Lovely I. I scan the beach after rechecking the texts: “I usually swim in front of the Boardsports California Hut”. I have no clue where this is and text her back this. “Use your navigation and point it toward the Boardsports” I have no navigation! Haha!

 I had gotten lost before I even arrive at the beach. Yes, I do find the island, but then can’t find the beach! How the hell do you lose the beach on a small island? I take a wrong turn up Central—to the right instead of the left. I drive along the empty 4 lane highway. This doesn’t feel right as I pass a huge sculpture of a former plane that has been put up to show what? An airport?

            Damn.

            I make a U turn, and head back the way I came. Past Webster again. And then, voila! There’s the beach. Only a block away. The other direction.

            I can’t park in the parking lot. They’re collecting a toll at the little booth? What? Is it summer?

            Do another U turn; drive around looking for Shell Gate (another Text from the Lovely I). What the hell is that? Is there a big gate somewhere made of shells? Or in the shape of a shell? I turn up a side street. Check my phone again. It’s dead. Shit. I hate this phone! Turn around again and head back to street by the parking lot and just park. Okay, I’m here. Now where is the Lovely I?

            I march down to the beach, lugging all my stuff for the big adventure. So excited to be going swimming again, esp. with the Lovely I, but now my swim is colored by getting lost. I hate getting lost. But I ALWAYS get lost on Alameda. Always always always. Yet, now standing under the big shady tree that Ian and I had sat under the other day, the Lovely I is nowhere is sight.

            I text her again. Telling her where I am.

            “I am down the beach, by the Blue Cube.”

            The Blue Cube? Well, at least that’s poetic and bright, right?

            I head down the beach, scanning the shore for The Blue Cube. I spot the Boardsports California Hut. There’s a crowd of swimmers here preparing to enter the water. They’re chatting and energetic. They know each other. They don’t social distance. I wonder, Is The Lovely I in this group? Are these swimmers from her Hot Tub group of Mills College? I stand at the top of the sandy hill trying to see if she’s in the crowd. A Swimmer Guy with his swimmer’s body stretches and chats. A muscular woman in a strawberry patterned Speedo jumps up and down. It’s a club of some sort. They look very serious. I don’t think the Lovely I would be a part of this group, so I walk around them, feeling more and more anxious.

            Where is the Blue Cube? Where is the Blue Cube? Oh, where are you, Blue Cube?

            I text her again. “Is the Blue Cube toward The City or away?” The great thing about Alameda beach is that San Francisco looms in the distance. Like a postcard.

            “Yes, if you’re facing the water, walk to your left.”

            Damn, I don’t know my left from my right. I pick a direction and walk. And walk. And walk. The beach is more crowded than the day Ian and I came. Lots of families with children running and screaming, no masks, no social distance. I’m anxious and need to go to the bathroom, of course, but I haven’t even found the Lovey I yet, let alone gone in the water.

            I trudge on. My feet sinking in the sandy shore. My neck beginning to ache from lugging my bag full of shit.

            And then….could that be it? I spy a turquoise cube shaped tent. The Blue Cube! That must be it!

            Quickening my pace, I hurry toward it and …..sitting on the other side, in a low slung beach chair, sits the Lovely I, calmly gazing out to sea.

            She turns just as I start to holler at her! “You made it!” she proclaims, jumping up but not hugging me. We do social distance air hugs, laughing. 

            “I thought I would never find you!”

            “I know! I don’t know when the last time was I saw you!”

            “I know!”       

            And I plop down, 8 feet away, and we begin to chat as I start the process of getting ready to enter the water. Sunscreen. Rash guard long sleeved shirt, black sun protection pants, my cap, my mask. It’s a lot. The Lovely I starts in too. Sunscreen. Her purple cap. A friend of hers shows up. “You made it!” she proclaims again.

            The woman grins, “Yup.”

            The Lovely I introduces us, and Gretchen starts to don a wetsuit. It’s really a process, but man, I envy her. I get too cold, and today the water is choppy and less inviting than when Ian and I came. But I am ready!

            Gretchen grins as she tells a story of swimming obsession. “Yeah, I have these friends that don’t swim and when I tell them that I swam 5-6 days a week before the Pandemic they look at me admiringly and say, ‘Wow! You’re so disciplined!’ But I just tell them, ‘Discipline has nothing to do with it. It’s like Breathing’!"

            The Lovely I and I laugh, nod, sing in unison, “Exactly!”

            I grab my fins, head toward the water, ready to breathe deeply for the next 20 minutes.  

            I back into the water, turn and dive in. As I begin to pull through the brisk chops of the bay, a pelican soars overhead. The water’s brisk wave envelopes me.  I’m breathing!

A Moment of Ecstasy

My sweatshirt smells of the sea! Delicious. Intoxicating. Impossible?

I had thought so. The San Francisco Bay is way too cold for me to dive in, right? But then, on Sunday afternoon, Mr. Ian and I took a walk on Alameda beach. I took my shoes off and tested the water. “Hey, it’s not so bad!” I exclaimed. Maybe I can swim!

            I glanced around at the beach. It’s teaming with people, very few of whom are wearing masks, but I suppose since we’re all outside, it’s okay? People are sick of it. I know I am. I just want everything to go back to ‘normal’ but realize, at this point, they won’t. Hence my flirtation with the idea of swimming in the bay. The pools' opening seem a LONG way off and when they do, as A, a fellow swimmer at Hilltop, had said, “Oh, Carol, you will not like it. If you are a worrier. You will not be happy.”
            I think she’s right.

            So, I had brought my swim stuff this afternoon. But….even though the water felt inviting, I was leery of all the parachuter guys racing through the water at 75 miles an hour. If they didn’t see a swimmer, whoops! That’d be that.

            I noted one swimmer with a lime green floaty buoy attached to her feet. This might help. She also had a bright pink cap. Again, this might help. But if the wind guy didn’t see her in time, would he be able to steer away? Would he be able to stop? I was doubtful. Plus the water was very choppy. The wind had kicked up in the afternoon and while I’ve swam in choppy water before, it’s not ideal.

            I walked along the shore, enjoying the sea, when all of a sudden,  my foot gave way. I was up to my left knee in a deep hidden sandy hole. A sinkhole? What the hell! “Ian, help!”

            He pulled me up, and out. What had happened. “That’s so weird!” I exclaimed, trying to get all the wet sand off my leg, past my knee.

            “Yeah, it was like quicksand,” Ian noted.

            I shook my head. Damn! I’m sick of walking! Another reason to get into the sea.

            Now I was really motivated to swim! “We could come back tomorrow morning,” I say to Mr. Ian. “I bet there won’t be as many parachute guys and the wind will be calmer too.”

            “Sure, we can do that,” he agrees, making way for a Parachute Guy toting his huge purple and lime green wings on the beach.

            “You guys go ahead,” Parachute Guy said, stopping to let us pass.

            “That’s one way to maintain social distance!” Ian jokes.

            We all laugh, yet, I still feel like everyone is just out for a normal day on the beach. All the families with radios, umbrellas, screaming kids, beers in hand, laughing and chatting. It all made me uncomfortable. No one was really paying attention to social distancing. The pandemic wasn't real here. 

            Tomorrow would be calmer. It was a Monday and I was sure that all of these crowds would be gone.

            And they were. We arrived around 10 am, and the parking lot for Crown Memorial Beach was empty. Lugging all my crap out of the car (I’d forgotten how much gear it takes to swim!), my excitement at the prospect of a swim was spine tingling. The sky and the sea were grey and calm, with a few people on the beach, but only one swimmer in the sea. Was it the same one as the afternoon before? She had a lime green buoy. And she was moving at a stately pace parallel to the shore. Wasn’t she cold? She wasn’t wearing a wet suit.

            I, on the other hand, was decked out in my ‘cat suit’----black swim pants, black long sleeved rash guard. My fuchsia cap on, my fins in hand, I ran down to the water. Put my foot in as Mr. Ian watched, grinning. “Damn! It’s cold!” I screamed, laughing.

            He stuck his feet in, “Yeah, it is.”

            “I think it’s colder than yesterday.”

            “Maybe.”

            I was committed now, though. And hanging on to Ian, I put my fins on, then backed into the frigid bay. Was I insane? What the hell was I doing? My legs stung at the icy temperature, but then I started laughing. Turned and dove in.

            Oh my! What a wonder! I was swimming. I was floating. I was moving through water.

            I was home!

            As I swam out into the grey bay, its surface a perfect glassiness, I turned on my back. A pair of sea birds, silver and white, streaked above me. The high clouds floated serenely over me, a subtle sky by Turner. I remembered how much I love swimming in the sea, being outdoors in the water. Sure it wasn’t Waikiki, but hell, Alameda wasn’t bad.

            It was a Moment of Ecstasy, swimming again after 91 days on land.

            I turned over and began swimming freestyle, my arms pulling through the murky browny sand water. Then when I tired, I turned back on my back, stroked a few times. I repeated this routine till I reached the breakwater at the end of the beach, then realized that the water was hella shallow. I could almost scrape my hands on the sandy bottom. So I turned around and swam back, now feeling both tired and cold.

            I could have stood up at any time though, so I wasn’t worried about getting too tired. I did make it back to Ian, who stood at the ready with a towel for me. “How long was I in?” I asked, breathless and jubilant, but starting to shiver.

            “You were in for 20 minutes. You could do another lap.”

            “Nah, I’m too cold now. I need to get out, dry off, get warm. Ian! I swam!!!!”

            My moment of ecstasy had passed and reality had set in. As I hurried to the car, trying to get out of my wet suit as I walked, I grinned to myself. I did it. I swam!

                        I hugged my red sweatshirt to my ribs, drinking in the intoxicating scent of the sea. Ahhh…. What a delicious feeling. What a wonderful day. When could I come back?

            I sure won’t wait another 91 days!

           

The Best Medicine

I hear it floating up and out into the late afternoon air, hanging in the shadows, surprising me. Foreign. Loud. Boisterous.

            Laughter? Could it be?

            And, I wonder, when was the last time I heard such free form joy spilling out into the neighborhood? We are living in such somber times. Not much to laugh about lately. Everything around us is serious, tragic even: the coronavirus pandemic, the shelter in place isolation, the violent (and peaceful) demonstrations for the brutal murder of George Floyd at the knee of a police officer.

            I walk through the neighborhood and see signs taped in windows, tacked to fences:

            End White Silence

            The Whole World is Watching

            Take a knee for George Floyd, Breonna Taylor….

            I see signs by children, “End police brutality” with crayoned sunflowers surrounding images of George Floyd.

            It’s not a mirthful time. So, when I hear this laughter, ringing out over the neighborhood, I can’t believe my ears at first. I’m disoriented and confused for a moment. Then, I smile. Someone’s having a good time!

            As I approach the driveway that the laughter is coming from I slow my pace. Three adults, a nondescript man, a woman in a strange beige turban getup, and a teenage girl, slim and gawky, are bent over, laughing uncontrollably. They see me and can’t stop laughing. I can’t help but ask them, “What’s so funny?” I want to laugh too. It’s been a long time.

            “Oh….” The woman tries to contain her giggles, “We’re just being mean!”

            Her two partners in crime bust up again, the teenage girl can barely contain herself and turns away from me, doubled over with spasms of giggles.

            I grin, “Being mean never sounded so fun!”

            The woman nods, tries to explain, “It’s about our roommate….” But then she’s convulsed with chuckles again, her two cohorts joining in loud guffaws.

            What mean thing could they have done to their roommate to illicit such mirth? I remember some roommate mean escapades of my own, with my housemate, Ryan Corfu. One of which stands out: He always left his dirty dishes in the sink. Not just one or two, but piles of pots, pans, glasses, plates, cups after creating elaborate meals for his girlfriend, Stiff Neck (a mean nickname). So, one night, after he’d made his mess and left the pile in the sink as usual, going out with Stiff Neck to the movies or a walk, I and one of my other roommates took all of the dirty dishes and carted them upstairs to his room. What did we do with these disgusting dishes? We put them under his pillow! We thought this was hilarious! It was even more hilarious when he came home and went to bed with Stiff Neck, and we knew they had certainly discovered the pile of dirty dishes when they went to bed. Did Ryan lay his head on the pillow? Hear the rattle and feel the lumpiness of wet, yucky hardness before he realized what was up?

            Yet, it worked. He never left a dirty dish in the sink again!

            Now, caught up in my neighbors’ mirth, I wonder what mean thing they did to their roommate. Was it as dastardly (and effective) as what we did to Ryan?

            I want to ask them, but they have forgotten about me at this point, overrun with another round of giggles that they couldn’t control.

            I walk on, waving goodbye, “Nice to hear some Mirth in the neighborhood!”

            The sound of their laughter dims. The birdsong taking its place. I smile to myself, enchanted by their joy, and think,  I’m gonna try to laugh more. I mean it. Cause as the saying goes, it is the best medicine. Will it cure all the pandemics of COVID 19, racism, and violence? No, but it may help just a little......  What if we all took a moment to be a little mean (just kidding) and laugh up into the sky.

      I turn my face up to scan the speckled canopy of avocado leaves and let out a huge laugh. A crow

 caws back and I grin. It did feel good. And I do it again.