Open Water

Mid-August, Big Bay Town Park, Madeline Island. A horseshoe shaped stretch of soft sandy beach on the big water side of the island. The water shallow enough here to walk into the lake a hundred meters or more away from the shore. The water so clear, I can see the edges of this island as it slopes into Lake Superior, and the occasional smooth stone carried here from some other place. I watch my feet as they cross the concentric ridges of sand formed by the action of the waves. Evidence of a physics I don’t fully understand.

Where the water is only as deep as my knees, a ledge. This is the place where the big rollers crest and then break. I move beyond. Knees, hips, waist, chest, neck deep. Until the bottom falls away, and there is nothing underfoot. Walk out, swim in. Walk out, swim in. Back and forth. Cradled by the lake.

Tread. From here, looking back towards land, the bay curves around like two arms coming in for an embrace. Turn. Out there, lake and sky meet. Blend, blur, become horizon. Now, enough distance between myself and the shore that I am able to disassociate from the land. I can hear no one. I am certain no one can hear me. Barely visible.

Suspended in the sheer volume of freshwater. Immersed in a wonder of the natural world. Humbled by the power of this lake. I am buoyant, lifted, then released. Small.

Float. I roll to my back, head pointed towards the island, feet into the waves. I watch the sky and let the rhythm of the lake gently carry me towards land, to trees, to my partner and dog who play in the waves closer to shore.

Back and forth. Back and forth. The desire is silence absolute. Solitude. Alone, a part of something so much larger than myself. The desire is to be held, my body of water in this body of water. Both bodies made of the same matter.

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