My $75 swim

It's true, I think, that my head is made of stone. Maybe one day, after banging it into enough other stone heads, it will crack open and reveal diamonds. Or not. No matter: I've really got to get a handle on this, because it's costing me money and, if the truth were to be told, a lot more than that.

I'm talking here about stubbornness, a trait I possess in abundance. You want some, come see me. I'm happy to share. Most days, I think this is a perfectly fantastic trait. It means I am determined, I don't give up, and I will work until the work is done. All good.

But when you have more in common with a mule than even you're willing to admit, perhaps things have gotten out of hand. Perhaps that asset is turning into a liability.

It started simply enough. I brought my wetsuit with me on a visit to San Diego for the Ironman, certain I'd be able to go swimming in the ocean. I was excited about this because, let's face it, the water here in my nook of northern California is, right now, best described as frigid. It is so cold these days in the southern Monterey Bay, where I am, that it takes an entire hot-water-heater's worth of showering before I can feel my feet or hands after a dip. Usually I'm at the group Friday Night Swims by now, but I am stalling until mid-June because, well, I just like to be able to move my lips to speak when I get out of the water.

But I vividly remembered my last swim in San Diego, last September, and how my fullsuit actually seemed a little much. I couldn't imagine such luxury, and I was excited to have another swim in the warm end of the Pacific.

I'd been thinking about La Jolla Cove because I've never swum there and because I figured I'd be alone, so a sheltered place would be good.

(Stop. I know you shouldn't swim alone in open water, especially unfamiliar open water. Don't worry, you can tell me again in a while. Just remember: I know already. It's the stone-headed thing that allows me to persist in breaking rules I know I shouldn't.)

But then a friend offered to swim with me near the Ironman course after we visited the expo. Cool, I said, and schlepped my wetsuit along. Only after we arrived did I notice that he had not brought his. He laughed. I did not because I was ready to swim.

Now, swims in the sheltered cove where the race would start were allowed only in the mornings. It was now almost 5 o'clock in the afternoon. So Del Mar Beach was my only alternative, given the other constraints of our schedule.

Oh, my friends offered, we can swim later, in a pool.

But I didn't want to swim in pool. I'd been toting my damn wetsuit around for hours. The ocean was warm! I had my wetsuit! How could I not swim?

Perhaps you know what's coming. I'm sure I did, but I kept going anyway. (Just remember: Head is stone.)

The waves didn't look that bad. Really, they didn't. So my friends set off on the rest of their evening and I tried to cram my swim into the last available portion of my day. I pulled on my wetsuit, traded my glasses for prescription goggles, jammed silicon earplugs into my ears. I was ready.

Understand, too, that my husband was going to be on the beach. What good this does for me I still don't know, since he doesn't really swim. About all he could do, should I ever get into trouble, is call somebody else for help. No matter that there was nobody else around.

The thing is, I possess little fear of the ocean. I grew up around it, and in it. When my family lived on Kauai, I used to go swimming with my then-65-year-old stepfather. We had one beach that was a favorite, and we'd frequently head down there in his battered beachmobile for a few hours of fun. After months of this, my mother came home from work with a horrified look on her face. She'd been talking to a local guy she knew, telling him about how we liked to swim at this beach. He was aghast. It was notorious among locals who knew its riptides and undercurrents and stayed away.

My mother would not believe us when we told her that sure, it could be a little rough, but really, we were fine.

God keeps a special watch out for the those who don't know any better, or so they say. Surely He was watching out for us, the dumb haoles who didn't know any better.

Ah, but let's go back to Del Mar. I assess the local conditions, or so I think, and start swimming. Just get beyond these first few waves, I think, and I'll be home free. The water is warm. Wahoo!

There's just one tiny problem: I don't really know diddly about the local conditions, do I? Not really. The undertow is strong. I dive under the waves, which suddenly seem to be coming in fast and furious, and the current whips me around like a rag doll. I can't seem to get beyond the break no matter how hard I try.

(Yes, I know I am alone, and in unfamiliar waters. I know these are big No-Nos. I am not frightened of this. Remember: Rock=head.)

I am not a panicky person, and I'm really not a panicky swimmer. I respect how dangerous panic can be. But after I got whipped around the third or fourth time, I decided that this was, for sure, truly one of the stupidest things I'd ever done.

It was then that I lost my goggles. Ripped right off my head, no doubt because the ocean wanted to know if rock-headed people could see without their glasses.

I looked a little, in vain, in the swirling current, then laughed at myself for even bothering. Another wave was cresting just ahead of me. I dove under, got whipped around again, and decided, Enough! I hied it back to shore as quickly as I could, doing my best imitation of Chris McCormack body-surfing through crashing waves to the shore. But, of course, I am not anything like Chris McCormack or any other half-dolphin Australian triathlete, so the ocean tossed me around a few more times for good measure.

At this point I was bargaining with God. Yes, God, I understand the error of my ways. I know that I should not be so dang stubborn. I promise I will try to be better. Yes, I know we have had this conversation before, and on this very topic. Yes, for years now. Yes, I know.

Somehow I beach myself, and all my limbs are still working. One hip hurts, no doubt from my flailing around in some unnatural way underwater.

There's only one more problem, of course. My husband is somewhere at the top of the beach, my towel and glasses are somewhere else, and I am horribly, horribly nearsighted. I start walking in the direction I think my stuff might be, but of course the ocean has also pulled me a long way from my original entry point. After a few staggers up and down the beach, I finally find my things. Still shaking with fright from my five-minute swim, I then find my husband. He's a little surprised by my quick exit, but his surprise quickly turns to alarm at my story.

Changing out of my swimsuit, I inadvertently put my thumb through it, ripping a nice little hole a few inches from my hip. (The suit was old and needed to be replaced, but that is beside the point.)

So now I am in San Diego, land of the warm ocean, with no goggles and no swimsuit. Is someone trying to send me a message? This time I took the hint and stayed out of the water the rest of the trip.

The tally? $25 for the goggles, $50 for the suit. That's $75 for five minutes of terror and, we hope, a healthy portion of the commodity that manages to be both priceless and dear—wisdom.

Hey, give a rockhead a chance. Sometimes even we get the picture.

TO LANTERNE ROUGE HOME

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