It Just Was. . .

The other day
with three other swimmers,
I swam five miles

It wasn't an ironman
or some other superhuman feat

I am no Diana Nyad
or Craig Dietz

But much of the swim was against current,
and at times, the current was "endless," and more than tried me,

and, other than a gracious kayaker or two around me,
for most of the swim, I was alone.

The other day,
unafraid and undoubting,
I swam five miles in the open water,

a feat, three years ago, I would never have dreamed I could have done.

When I reached the shore, there was no one cheering,
though the two other male swimmers, already back,
said, "good job."

When I stepped out of the water,
there were people on the beach
sunning, being, enjoying the end of summer.

My legs wobbled as I walked out, and my tired arms shook a little
as a father, unaware of what I'd just done,
asked me to snap a photo of his family.

The other day, I swam five miles,
without crowds or hype,
or fanfare,

and, so far, without any photos to prove it.

It just was.

Something more I did
one day
to prove to myself that I could.

- gae

p.s. thanks to Rob Martell, Rob Ripp, and Annmarie Kearney-Wood for making the swim with me, and to the amazing kayakers who spent their Saturday watching out for us. <3 p="p">

p.p.s. If you'd like to read a more detailed account of the swim, Carol Moore did a lovely job here on the water-blog.

To Dream, Quiet or Extreme: Inspiration is Contagious, a Thank You

I've spent the past two days obsessively following Diana Nyad as she made her fourth attempt to be the first person to swim without a shark tank the 103 miles from Havana to Key West.

You heard me: 103 miles.

She didn't make it.

I know she cares, but I don't.

She swam in shark and jellyfish infested waters for over 51 hrs, no wetsuit.

Oh, and did I mention tomorrow is her 63rd birthday?

Diana, swimming through her second night in shark and jelly-filled waters.

Me, a few summers ago,
trying out my new wetsuit

This Saturday, I attempt my first five-mile swim. And, yes, it seems piddly next to such an accomplishment.

I have to remind myself that it is an accomplishment. That merely two summers ago, I was fearful of the unknown -- of even stepping in.

And that I barely finished my first 5K.

Honestly, a 5K is easy for me now. A no-brainer. I do them -- or close -- on my own (with Pod friends) recreationally now, all the time.

But there's a big difference between a 5K and 5 miles (er, 2 miles, to be almost exact).

Still, absent some unforseen circumstance (weather, cramps, bites (um)) I have no doubt I will make it.

In fact, I'm both excited and already feeling like it's not enough.



And, yes, I know that last sentence might be a bit skewed, but it is me. It is how I feel.



Me, this summer in mynon-wetsuit longsuit

Maybe it's not always the best way to be, but it also keeps me striving.

It's the voice that pushes me to try new things and do more.

Do I want (need) to swim 103 miles? No, of course not (well, not yet ;)), but I do want to keep pushing myself. I don't want to become complacent.

And I do want to be brave.

And bravery hasn't always been my strongsuit.

So, thank god for Diana.

She's a personal hero.

She's a constant source of inspiration.

She's proof that age is just a number; that you can always
dream big and do more.

- gae

*not sure of exact mileage. Will amend when I find out. It's over 50... I think close to 55.

Holding On for Dear Life

with my West Neck Pod family (I am behind the camera)
hanging a wreath and saying a prayer. . .

Last night, I attended a boating safety meeting at Town Hall in Huntington. My motives were mostly selfish -- as swimmers, we are often terrorized by the speedboats and jetskis that come zooming toward us inside the speed marker lines, hulls raised, completely oblivious.

The meeting itself had a different purpose. It had been called to try to "do something" in the wake of the tragedy that had occured on July 4th in our harbor, a tragedy that took the lives of  three little children, Victoria Gaines, Harlie Treanor and David Aureliano.

What I hadn't expected so soon after the tragedy, was to see a mother of one of the children, Lisa Gaines, sitting there two feet from me, clutching a framed 8X10 photograph of her daughter.

Throughout the meeting, I studied her pained, exhausted face, feeling her grief, and wondering how she had gotten herself up and dressed to attend, let alone walked, talked and breathed in the four intervening weeks since she lost one of her children. As a mother, I knew at least part of the answer was that she still had a child at home.

At any rate, after the meeting, I had a moment to speak to her. Everyone was talking to her about boating safety and new laws, all of which is why she was there. But I wanted to tell her something else.

I wanted to tell her how peaceful the water is, how blissful, and comforting on a July morning, to assure her that, as terrifying as it can be, she could hold on to another truth now: that it is also gentle and lulling and calm.



The waters of the harbor on a July morning

And I promised her that we think of those children every single time we swim and offer comfort, and hold them in our hearts.


This morning, when my alarm rang early at 5:30, I truly intended to swim. But one of my children had crawled into bed beside me, warm breath, golden hair.

Suffice it to say, I turned off my alarm, wrapped my arms tightly around him, and went back to bed.

It's okay. I know Lisa would have understood.

- gae

p.s. here is the beautiful blog post my friend, and Fairy Pod Mother of the West Neck Pod, Carol Moore wrote for The Water-Blog recapping our memorial service.



July view, looking up during a swim.

- gae

Summer Redux: Please?

With the West Neck Pod this past Saturday,
honoring the children who died in the harbor
on July 4th, 2012. More soon on this from the Water-blog.

I'm trying to milk the best out of August -- or the best out of me IN August.

It's not easy. My life seems to lack a certain flow.

Plus, much as I scramble, there's no way I can cram accomplishing everything I wanted to all summer, into the remaining 24 days of one month.





My bad.

I want June back.

I want July.



My handsome hubby signing at a little get together at our house
for my birthday this July.

I WANT A SUMMER REDO!

I feel panicked as, around me, friends in warmer states (actual states, I mean, like Arizona and  Florida) tweet and facebook about returning to their classrooms, about their kids going back to school.

BACK TO SCHOOL. ARE YOU KIDDING?!?!?!

*covers ears*

*covers eyes*

*searches frantically for healthy denial*

I need summer.

I need warmth and open water,

This was me in June.
Don't I look accomplished and hopeful?!

and daylight hours that extend until 9pm.

I. Need. Time.

I know, I know. I'm starting to sound like a broken record. But I'm trying. I'm really trying.

I'm doing my best to keep my time on social networking limited.

Facebook, you know I LOVE YOU, but you won't get these manuscripts revised.







In other repeated news: I'm doing THIS SWIM on August 11th, to raise money for cancer research. For those who don't already know, I'm swimming in honor of a little boy named Lane Goodwin who's been battling a rare and ugly form of cancer for a few years. He's my hero. If you can donate a buck or two to my swim, I'd be grateful. EVERY DOLLAR RAISED goes DIRECTLY to the cause.*

My "Frankie" revisions are turned in to my agent. They go to my editor on September 1.

And, on August 25th, an attempt at a five-mile swim.

I already know, none of it will be enough. I already know, there will be loss and regret and longing.

If only I could get a redux.

If only I could figure out how to embrace the fall.

-gae

*according to information from the Swim, due to adequate corporate sponsorship, all admin costs are covered and all donations go 100%  to the cancer research orgs.

How Dare it Be August?

Summer wanes.

How dare it be August?

To tell the truth, I'm not sure I've made the most of it.

I know compared to some, I've done a lot. But compared to others I'm a sloth, and anyway, the only thing that matters is if it feels enough to me.

It doesn't.

I know in my heart what I've done and haven't done.

I've swum less.

I've written less.

I've read less.

I've been less.

I shouldn't be wasting hours and days.

Partly, it's the usual distractions. facebook and twitter, I mean YOU!

And, partly, I've been lazy.

And, partly, things hurt more than they used to. *shakes fists at hip and lower back*

This photo pains me, as much as fills me
. . . why must everything feel symbolic?

But it's August.

And I need to get on the ball.

I'm swimming Swim Across American's 5K on August 11th to help raise money for cancer research and am going to attempt a 5-mile swim with the West Neck Pod on August 25th.  So there's that.

My Frankie revisions are due September 1st and I'm still working on them. I have the right to turn in my next "option" manuscript four months after that. I should have already been on that project instead. Plus, I have a wonderful independent publisher interested in my women's fiction piece Swim Back to Me, which needs to be rewritten.

I long to have my women's fiction published.

And, yet, I've wasted time.

I'm wasting time.

I squandered away too much of July, and I'm feeling it.

So, tomorrow is August.

And, I plan to milk it for all it's worth.

Let's see what I can get done.

- gae

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

West Neck Beach yesterday, where I submerged & felt carefree

So far, I've lived a fairly tragedy-free life.

Sometimes, I'm terrified this means

that

any day now, 

Maira Kalman shoe drawing. Oh, how I love Maira!

the other shoe

will drop.

Why would I get to go unscathed?



That's not to say my life is easy.

We each have our trials and tribulations.

I constantly face the small battles we all face:

tight finances,
marital woes,
injustices done to our children.
Our parents' aging,

my own slow demise.


But here's this boy, Lane, and his scans keep coming back "hot."

His whole life is one big, nearly- insurmountable battle.**

I have friends who have lost parents young,

or lost spouses at their peak of life.

I have friends who have battled cancer.

Friends who lost jobs, lost their homes.

Why would I get to go unscathed?

Or maybe that's the cruel trick of things. That even when we're unscathed, we wait for that other shoe... we know it's only a matter of time.

So, we make bargains with invisible powers,

and remind gods we don't believe in

that we know how truly blessed we are.

**I am swimming in Lane's honor on August 11th.

If you are able to donate . . . any amount NO MATTER HOW SMALL is appreciated.



Here's the link: http://www.swimacrossamerica.org/site/TR/OpenWater/NassauSuffolk?px=1134312&pg=personal&fr_id=1526

Meanwhile, sharing this magnificent poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, from my friend Stephanie's moving blog, Live-Blogging Love and Loss,

and truly am counting my blessings.

- gae

Before You Know What Kindness Really Is

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness. . . .
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

Pining for the Young Me

Fuck.

Yesterday was my 19th wedding anniversary - and 24 years together.

We met in law school when I was 24 (yes, yes, honey, you are still a year younger).

He was way different than the guys I was dating and, in truth, I can't tell you what first attracted me to him. I mean, clearly he is cute, but I tended to date older, more sophisticated, more ambitious and self-assured guys.

But, something about him called to me (which is funny, because he was really a bit of a mess back then). He was smart, and funny sure, but something else: he was genuine. In truth, I was head over heels with him. There was tons and tons of chemistry.

We went through a few big bumps before we got married (including several break ups) and a few big bumps afterwards. Did I mention big?

And, yet, here we are.

Marriage isn't easy. And it isn't always exactly what I want. I imagine he feels the same.

But I still love the guy. I still admire him. I still want more than anything for him to be happy.

But here's the thing: I don't know where the fuck those 24 years went. And I'm pissed about it. And i want them back.

And, while you're at it, I want that waist and neck back.

I want that perfect, smooth skin, and my future stretched out ahead of me . . . even though, I am actually the happiest I've ever been at this particular point in my life. I want my future stretched out FROM HERE.

If only we could keep those lovely superficial externals as we gain the wisdom and contentedness that comes with middle age.

But we don't, and we can't, and I see this photo and pine for that external youth so badly it physically hurts.

I look in the mirror and see only the sags and the lines and find myself calculating the costs and risks of Botox and eye lifts and such.

I'm about to turn 48.

If I don't get a grip, what will I do ten years from now?

Twenty- five?

Thirty?

I should be so lucky, I KNOW.

Norah, you will be missed.

The talented, funny and beautiful Nora Ephron died this week. In her book, I Feel Badly About my Neck, she wrote:

"At the age of fifty-five you will get a saggy roll just above your waist even if you are painfully thin.
This saggy roll just above your waist will be especially visible from the back and will force you to reevaluate half the clothes in your closet, especially the white shirts."

I bet you're all thinking how, faced with death, she probably didn't worry about such things.

But I bet you she did. And, I bet you I would.

Even after surgeries and during illnesses, women want to look good. We may feel too sick to try, there may be a level where we say, "fuck it," but it doesn't leave our mind.

It's not vanity. It's what we know. So much of our identity -- of feeling loved and wanted -- is tied to being attractive and young.

I want to be bigger than this. I want not to pine for that old waist and smooth neck, but I do.

I want to toss out the white shirts instead of fretting that my back fat will show.

But, I'm not there yet. I'm not there.

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Even though my internal life is as happy as it can be.

Even though, aches and pains aside, I am stronger physically now, than I've ever been.

Even though I feel lucky and blessed.

Maybe, instead of botox and tucks,

I just need to have faith that the internal truth of this shines through, bigger than the wrinkles and folds.

Or better yet, really figure out how not to care.

- gae