You stand on the lakeshore, depleted. You’ve already biked from town, swam the lake, climbed the mountain and returned to the lake. To finish the deal you have to swim back then pedal home. There are hours more to go, and you’ve already been on the move for 20, maybe more. You’re pretty much completely over it, and won’t be doing this again.
The climb and descent were slower than anticipated, with more snack breaks than planned. Now the sun is gone and the lake is a dim mirror of the violet sky. The opposite shore looks comically far away.
You pull off your grimy climbing attire and pull on your wetsuit. Fortunately, after your first swim you left it hanging on a tree inside-out, so while you tug it back on, it’s dry for another few minutes.
Plopping onto a beached log, you eat a few last bites and drink the gritty end of the electrolyte soup in your bottle, watching the night settle across the water, which is calm, quiet, even inviting, if you can look at it that way.
You stuff everything into your dry sack, roll and snap it closed, and check the 8-foot line tied to your waist. Nothing to do but it. You step into the water, its cold clench working up your legs as you stride in, your bag lightly tugging at your waist as it bobs behind you. Just get it over with.
You dive into a flash of coldness and emerge an aquatic beast with an instinct for home. Icy water floods your wetsuit as you swim hard, first for warmth, second for propulsion.
Something’s amiss — when you put your head down to swim freestyle it jerks back up. You splutter and gasp. All those hours on the move have done something to your breathing, your heart rate, your head. Is it the cold? The sky is blackening now, the water darker still. Maybe that’s why you resist putting your face in — it’s just so dark and deep down there. At least you remembered to bring clear goggles this time.
You revert to a measured breaststroke, taking long breaths, calming yourself, focusing on where to aim for. Across the water, tiny lights twinkle as tourists who’ve lingered over the sunset return to their cars and drive off to dinners, drinks and cozy hotels. If only they knew where you were and what you were doing. That they couldn’t imagine it brings a smile to your face.
You test some freestyle again. This time the reflex to pull your face away has eased. The water feels a little less frigid. Stretch, you think to yourself. Long stretchy strokes. Nice ’n easy. 60 strokes.
The familiar movement and moment-to-moment refining of your streamlined self calms you. The dark of the lake beyond your goggles is not so bad, a friend even, as you’re buoyed and carried by the waters that have allowed this passage, this day, this experience, which, who knows, maybe you’ll do again.
You count strokes in groups of 30, as you tend to daydream and lose count otherwise. When you reach 60 strokes, you lift your face from the water, switch to breaststroke, and take in the dusky, drippy view. You’re out there now, with at least a half mile of dark water in every direction. You can’t believe what you’ve done and how close you are to the end.
Unfortunately, the dim, tiny trees on the distant shore behind you don’t appear any smaller than the dim, tiny trees on the distant shore ahead. Maybe you’re halfway. Maybe.
Not close. You turn back to the abyss for another 60. But closer.
Images by David Stubbs and Wade McKoy.