The Second Buoy

In preparation for the Danskin Triathlon, I've been swimming in Lake Washington. Unlike most competitors, I love swimming in the Lake. I love being surrounded by something larger than myself. I feel like a fish in the ocean, an insect in a rainforest. A speck. Insignificant in a world of significance.

While training, many swimmers practice their open water swim at Seward Park, a beautiful park at the south end (though not the farthest south) of Lake Washington. There's a protected beach just beyond the designated swim area (where technically we're suppose to swim, but no one does) and a buoy about a tenth of a mile past shore.

For the triathlon, the swim distance is half a mile so technically if you want to swim the equivalent distance while training you go out and back to the buoy 4 and a half times. Yes, the half leaves you stranded away from the shore, but swimming back is either a cool down or some people just swim half way out and then come back.

But there is a second buoy farther out in the lake that I have always eyed with envy and doubt. The Ironman triathletes swim out there all the time trailing a bright orange swim buoy behind them and wearing swim caps of new green or yellow. These are elite athletes, dressed in their full body wetsuits (I wear what is called a shorty -- short legs, tank top arms) and their bodies are tall, lean, and sinewed with well-defined, but efficient muscles.

The second buoy is 4/10 of a mile out into the lake and while that may not seem far, swimming is nothing like running or even walking for that matter so it takes quite a bit longer to reach a swimming destination versus a walking destination. Hence, the reason why many competitors hate swimming and particularly hate swimming in a large open body of water.

Tonight I went for the second buoy partly because I was feeling the need to challenge myself (after sitting in meetings for hours these past few days) and partly because, contrary to most days at the lake, there weren't any boats in the inlet where everyone swims. Boaters tend to be idiots never fully comprehending that their large power boats are actually weapons. But that is perhaps a generalization (or not).

I knew I could swim 8/10 of a mile (out to the second buoy and back) because I've done it in training in the pool, but training in a pool is significantly different than training in open water and there was a wee little part of me that wondered if I'd fall into the fear zone once beyond the first buoy.

But I'm a strong swimmer and better still, I'm fairly good at "sighting" a straight line in open water (unlike some competitors who weave their way from one point to another). So I squeezed into my wetsuit, donned my googles, and dove in.

Today was significantly cooler in air temperature than it's been the past few months. A fall chill is in the morning air and even this afternoon there was a stiff breeze from the south. When I plunged in, I could feel the cool water seep into my wetsuit and with the wind behind me, it took a bit of time to warm up.

The first buoy came quickly and as I passed it, I treaded water for a moment to set my sights on the next buoy, which all the sudden looked signficantly farther away than it had from shore. "Of course it is, " I told myself as the first buoy is only 1/4 of the total distance from shore -- I still had 3/4 of my swim left to reach the second buoy.

So I kept swimming.

I wish I could describe how beautiful swimming is even in a not so clean lake (lots of weedy vegetation at times and certainly not the clearest water I've experienced). I like the rhythm of swimming and the constant rush of sounds -- water, breath, strokes -- that add to the rhythm. I like how, when I take a breath, I can see the sun reflect off the water or the houses on the shore fuzzy in the distance. It's meditative and I have to swim with intention or I'll drift off into this nirvana and lose sight of where I'm going curving off track to some point even farther out into the lake.

And every time I looked up to spot that second buoy, I realized how much farther the second buoy is from the first. "Ummm," I thought, "It doesn't appear to be getting any closer."

Many years ago I flew in a small plane from Port Townsend to San Juan Island for a workshop that took place once a month for about 6 months. To get to San Juan Island requires about an hour drive to the ferry, an hour wait for the ferry, and a 45-minute ferry ride to the island. It's long, expensive and a lesson in hurry up and wait. But to fly to San Juan Island takes 15 minutes because unlike the ferry, the journey is a straight shot -- as the crow flies kind of thing.

Sitting in a small Cessna suspended over the watery distance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca is very similar to my experience of swimming to the second buoy. In the plane, I knew we were flying by the roar of the engine, the diligence of the pilot, and well, the height at which we flew, but when I looked down at the water far below me or off into the distance at San Juan Island, it felt as if we were just dangling there not making any forward movement at all.

That's how I felt today. My arms were moving, my legs were kicking, my heart was pumping, and my lungs were breathing, but I felt suspended, trapped in one place in a rather large lake.

I can see why people panic. It's a weird feeling. Really weird. All of the sudden the beautiful water feels more claustrophobic -- you're no longer just "in" it, you're surrounded by it. The only thing keeping you from drowning is you and your ability to just keep moving your arms and legs and trusting that despite all outward appearances, you are getting closer to your destination.

I didn't panic today and I doubt that I ever would because I am confident in my swimming abilities, but still, I understood the possibility of panic and while I had no great epiphany about it all, I now understood why I always looked at the second buoy with such envy and doubt.

Once I got home, though, I did sort of see the metaphor of it all as lately I've been feeling like ... well, like an old fart. I'm starting my 21st year of teaching in September. Our staff is amazingly young and energetic (only one other teacher has more experience than I do) and there are times when I feel stuck between buoys, so to speak. I know I have experience, I know I've done some great things in my career, but there are times when I think that maybe I've lost a bit of my mojo, maybe I've become bitter or cynical about the possibilities.

By possibilities I mean lots of things, but mostly the possibility that we can do all the things, achieve all the goals we set out for ourselves at the beginning of the year. I found myself today thinking, "Yeah, but when September hits, we'll all be so overwhelmed with the day-to-day aspects of teaching and all our brilliant plans and ideas will fall by the wayside."

I don't want to be that kind of teacher -- negative, discouraged -- but I also want to be a realist -- that second buoy is a helluva lot more work and effort than the first. Are we sure we can swim that far? And what if we can't? Will we have the courage and intelligence to turn back?

Perhaps I am the voice of reason with such a young faculty, but even that role scares me a bit as I'm not sure I'm ready for it. I liked being the innovative dreamer, the idealist who worked to achieve amazing things in my classroom, but frankly, I just don't have the energy for it anymore. Okay, I have some energy, but that energy needs to be balanced with the rest of my life, over a long year, with sufficient supplies held in reserve for the tough times of the year -- like September and October, like March (a long month without a break), like April post Spring Break when June still feels so very far away.

Tonight swimming to the second buoy, I felt good about the energy supplies I held in reserve. The trip back from the second buoy (yes, I made it) was more difficult than the trip out there, not because I was tired, but because the wind that had been at my back on the way out was now a not so pretty headwind that made the water choppy and my straight line swimming all the more difficult (I kept veering away from going headlong into the waves, which was the direction I needed to head to make it back to shore).

Still, I'm tired tonight -- my arms are a bit rubbery and my stomach muscles a bit sore -- and I know my weariness is not just from swimming to the second buoy. It's also from swimming into my 21st year of teaching -- the school year is long and once again I must not only swim out, but I must swim back.