Excuses and Intentions

I haven’t been writing recently. Evidenced by my lack of activity here. There are a lot of reasons why, which I’ll probably attempt to work out as I ease back into this love-hate, deeply personal hobby of mine. For now, I’ll share that I have been making excuses. 

I’ve been living in San Juan, Puerto Rico since June of last year. Though, I’m rarely in the same place for more than a few weeks at a time. I’m deeply grateful to have spent time in so many places with so many people but the lack of routine and stability in my own space has been chipping away at me for some time now. It’s both an explanation and an excuse for why I haven’t written much. 

I finally made myself sit down the other night, open a blank document on my laptop. And then I found myself writing about something else I had been making excuses for not doing. 

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I woke up around seven on Sunday morning. Before I could curl back up and spend the next hour on my phone, I hatched a plan for my day: go swimming in the lagoon. I’d walk there, swim, dry out on the beach, and walk back. I had nothing to do today and this was something I'd been meaning to do since I moved here. I ate a quick breakfast, coated myself in sunscreen, stuffed a tote bag to the brim, and left before the sun got too high in the mid-morning sky. 

I walked the roughly two miles to the little beach – playita – on the lagoon. Just off the walking path, shrouded by a canopy of palms and other trees. It’s not hidden, many people drop in or hang out there for the day. Kayakers and paddleboarders wash up onto the tiny, curved coastline to take a break before heading back across the lagoon to wherever their excursion started. Even so, it never seemed to be too crowded. All these times I’ve walked by it and seen people enjoying the sanctuary-like space and had yet to do so myself. 

I stepped off the path and onto a patchy, uneven, declining slope of grass down toward the sand, careful not to kick up too much of it in my tennis shoes. The sand was damp, likely from rain overnight. I immediately noticed the shells. A band of them all the way across the small stretch of sand, its width marking the highest and lowest points the gentle tide of the lagoon pushes throughout the day. Before setting down my things, I went to inspect the array of shell, stone, and seaweed debris ribboning across the sand. I immediately found two shells to take home and add to the little display on the built-in shelf in the apartment. Both small, both shades of brown and pink. One of those long, slim ones that curls over on itself, somewhat hot dog shaped. The other round with a spiral, that familiar geometrical shape winding into the slight point on its top. They would sit amongst the dozen or so other little pieces I have pocketed. I clutched the two shells in my hand as I loosed my arms from the straps of my bag and freed one of my towels. I unfolded it partially and laid out the square, just big enough for me to sit on, placed so that my feet nearly reached the top of the band of shells when I dug them into the dense, grainy sand before me. Two women to my right were leisurely moving through a yoga practice. Not a minute after I sat down did a family come to make camp just over my left shoulder. Four adults, three kids. Speaking something eastern European, I think I made out over the music still coming through my headphones. I watched the kids – four, six, and ten if I had to guess – immediately stumble down to the mess of shells as I had done moments before. One of the adults followed, fussing over the younger two, attempting to slather their white-pink skin in sunscreen as they picked around at their feet. 

I let my music play and gazed out at the water. I was wearing a one-piece suit meant for lap swimming under my shorts and tank top. I had goggles (not the face mask kind that cover your nose) and a snorkel in my bag. No nose plug though, I had forgotten about that bit. Realized the one I have is likely in my old swim bag in my childhood bedroom in Ohio. Wind rippled across the water so that what lay beneath it became less discernible. Beyond the clear, sand-only bit in the shallowest part, there were splotches of darker greens and blues that I knew to be grasses and rocks. I wanted to swim. But as I sat and looked out over the lagoon, I was reminded of my mild fear of open water. Just a general uneasiness at not knowing what’s below me. I wondered if staring straight down at all of it with goggles would make it better or worse. I scanned the water for any other swimmers but did not see any. A handful of paddleboarders and kayakers though, muscling through the breezy morning. I frequently walked the bridge that splits the lagoon and I tried to recall if I had seen more swimmers on this side or the other, hoping for some sense of security to ease me into making my move toward the water. I often spotted more wildlife on this side of the lagoon, this innermost curve of the body of water farthest from – but still connected to – the expanse of ocean just beyond. Lots of fish, large red starfish dotting the rocks, a pair of spotted eagle rays, and just last week, three manatees grazing the floor. The thought wasn't exactly comforting.

I kept my music on while I contemplated my next move. “Dogs” by Pink Floyd was playing, and I let the song run its 17-minute course while I admired the bright blend of blues and greens before me. When the song ended, I pulled out a book from my bag. The fourth in a series I’ve been reading, ready for me to tear through it as I had the first three. I read the first few chapters while I further delayed what I came here with the intention to do. When my lower back started aching from lack of support, I closed the book and straightened my legs, leaning over them to give my hamstrings a slight stretch. To the left of my shoes, I spotted a crab. Tiny and sand-colored, the black stalks that were its eyes standing out against the tan, gray, and brown grains. Even with my feet so close by it did not move and I thought it might be dead, washed up on shore with the other bits. But one of the children scampered by and in the second I shifted my gaze, it had disappeared. I looked at the space where it had been and then the surrounding couple of feet. There was a small hole in the sand and a moment later, the little crab jutted back out, its right-side legs planted on the surface, the left-side ones still underground in its den. I watched as it tentatively poked in and out of the hole before settling once again, getting a feel for the vibrations all of us in the sand around it were surely causing. Scanning to determine any threats, meals, or just the general movements of life around. I studied the crab for a few minutes before looking back to the water. I had concluded I would scope out the playita on the other side of the bridge as my swimming spot. If I didn’t like it, I could come back here and force myself to get in. 

I restuffed my bag and treaded lightly back up the short length of sand toward the walking path that wrapped its way around and then across the lagoon. I strolled the bridge, peering down at the water as I went. The other side, where the lagoon opened up to the ocean, was certainly the more intimidating half. The water was deeper, more exposed to the currents and creatures of all the water just beyond it. But a jagged line of dark brown rocks like a tiny mountain range shielded the lagoon. Its gates. Waves crashed into them from the open water, forfeiting into a foamy white spray that spilled down the crevasses, having lost all their power. No swimmers on this side either, but there was a tour group of snorkelers stuffed into red life jackets. They bobbed by the line of buoys that extended across this half of the lagoon. I assumed a net lay beneath. I hung a left coming off the bridge and onto the other little beach. It was bigger and less sheltered than its counterpart across the lagoon but still intimate. People pulsed in the shallow water in the feet just off the shore. I looked out beyond them. I could swim straight out toward the net and back. I piled up my belongings, grabbing my goggles but leaving the snorkel behind. It would be no use unless I planned on plugging my nose with one hand the whole time. 

The water was only slightly cold at first and I adjusted quickly from many years diving into frigid lap pools. The sand at my feet was coarse, shifting easily to swallow my feet and causing me to stagger a bit as I made my way in. When the water was up to my ribs, I placed my goggles on my forehead. I swished my arms forward and back at my sides, getting a feel for the water moving around me. A noticed a narrow, blue-gray fish whose head came to a point hovering near my outstretched hand, which I quickly brought to my side. Very close to the surface and the shore. I watched it move through the water, unbothered by the bodies around it. Harmless. I slowly motioned to move my goggles over my eyes, taking another few steps deeper, the water lapping around my shoulders and neck as I lowered my upper body and let my legs lift up behind me until I was horizontal, floating on the surface. No other fish below me, just some larger rocks and then up ahead, a patch of sea grass, swaying with the push and pull of the current. I moved my arms in small, intentional circles at my sides to hold my position in the water, eyeing the field of green wisps that would be so close to grazing my front when I passed them over. I could imagine the slimy tendrils and grimaced internally, but I was already here, face in the water. I might as well go. So I wound one arm back, out of the water behind me and over my head into water in front of me, my other arm quickly following suit. And I was swimming. 

The grass came up fast and I made my strokes shallower as I passed over the patch to avoid my hands grazing the blades. A few more strokes and it ended, dropping off into a deeper pocket of sand. The movements of my arms and legs were second nature and I felt a bit of relief. I hadn’t been swimming in months and there’s always a part of me that wonders if the naturalness of it will ever go away as I get older and practice less. So far it hasn’t. I felt light and smooth, cutting through the water easily despite the mildly choppy surface and rolls of the current. I just had to be careful when turning my head to the side to breathe not to send salt water down my nose and throat. I kicked a little harder each breath to propel myself enough above the surface to catch air before angling my head back down. Clusters of fish began to appear below me as the water deepened. Some little schools of the same species, others mixed. Also unbothered as I pounded the surface above them. My eyes darted back and forth, still anxious about my surroundings. I spied a larger fish, speckled in red, white, and brown scales, and I stopped my stroke just for a moment to admire it, hovering above the sandy floor. And the anxiety subsided slightly as I realized this was basically just snorkeling. I wondered why the swimming element was more stressful. I carried on out toward the buoys, spotting numerous other fish along the way. All small, all minding their own business as they scavenged patches of sand, rock, and grass along the lagoon floor. 

I stopped far enough away from the buoys that I couldn’t see the submerged net I assumed was there, solely for fear of chancing coming into contact with it. Surely the coarse, brittle rope would be covered in an algal smile that would make me squirm. I treaded for a moment, surveying the space around me. I glanced at the vast ocean to my right, forever in awe of all its might. Before thinking too much more about it, I whisked my legs behind me in one easy movement, simultaneously flinging an arm overhead to start my stroking back toward the beach. 

Once my fingertips were in reach of the sand below me, I planted my feet, staying somewhat crouched in the water as I removed my goggles and let the water slosh around my shoulders. My heart was pounding but I wasn’t out of breath. I was a little surprised at how easy the “lap” felt. Maybe the salt water impacted buoyancy that much. I took a moment to process. I didn’t feel completely at ease. Still something about the chaos and unpredictability of not being in a pool was prominent in my mind. Control issues much? But I also felt good. Proud, even, that I made the trek, swam the lap. And confident enough to do it again. 

I swam four or five more laps, still a bit on edge and carefully monitoring the space around me as I went. But pulling my arms through the cool water, my feet fluttering behind me, the comfort in that familiarity was what I wanted. Needed. And I smiled something small and innocent to myself for the win. Then finally stumbled up through the shallows back onto the beach to lay out my towel and dry off in the sun.