Cedar River Swim no. 2 and no. 3

When I woke up on Sunday and saw the sunshine, I wanted to go get in the river again. By 9:15 AM I was at the bushy riverside entry spot S and I had spotted last week. 

Nobody was nearby — just the usual locals walking on the path, using the playground, or sitting on a bench, all in the groomed, green lawn-world of the park. The river itself is barely visible unless you go and peer over the shrubs and brush.

I shoved my way through the bushes to the water’s edge and put on my new neoprene socks. S had recommended them to keep my feet warmer in the water. Last time, my feet had been distractingly numb when we got out of the water.

This shady, hip-deep pool by the riverbank was a good entry point because the water was deep enough to float on, but shallow enough to step into. In the middle of the river, the water was only knee deep — too shallow to float on without my knees dragging the bottom. 

I went back to the deeper side, face-floated downstream for a short time (because I love looking down through water), and then swam/walked back: push off, two strong breaststrokes, plant feet (to avoid losing ground), repeat. Then I groped my way across the shallow center with my hands on the pebbly bottom and my body and legs floating — walking on my hands in the gravel. When my knees started to drag, I rolled over and sat, with the water up to my shoulders — crystal clear, with clear riffles flowing around me, deliciously cold. 

Being immersed in that cold, clear water, feeling safe and free and un-self-conscious, reminded me of my best dreams. I often dream of my aunt and uncle’s creek and swimming hole at their house in Arkansas. In my dreams, the creek is big and clear and multileveled, with waterfalls and fish and plants, and I swim in it without anxiety and show its beauty to my friends. 

On Sunday morning, the Cedar River was all mine. Nobody else was in this huge, fresh, natural “swimming pool.” I found that if I gripped the bottom with both hands, with my feet and body pointing downstream, the current would keep my legs afloat and I’d stay anchored in place. 

I decided to use that easy position to practice breathing. Staying put, I focused on taking an easy, natural in-breath to the side and having a natural and relaxed belly on the exhale, rather than pushing the air out or, on the other hand, restricting its speed for the sake of control. This was a fun exercise and I was able to concentrate on only the breath. If I practice that isolated breathing some more, it should be useful. I did find that I can’t turn my head to the right very well — my neck is more stiff in that direction so I have to rotate from the hip. A coach could help me with this challenge sometime.

I realized I was shivering, so I went back to my entry point — but then could not make myself get out. I rolled around, feeling like an otter. But I knew I was cold. When I got out of the water, I’d been in for 40 minutes.

With my goggles pulled up onto my head, I stepped out onto the dirt and grabbed my things. Without drying or changing or removing my red swim cap and goggles, I strode dripping out from between the unruly trees and the groomed shrubs and plopped down onto the sunny clipped lawn in the sunshine. 

I felt amazing, thought I’d dry off and write in my journal in the sun… and then I started shivering and shaking as if I’d never stop. 

I recognized this “after drop” experience from last year’s Alki swims. Somehow or other, the cooled blood from the limbs cools the core once you’re not exerting any more, so you get colder when you stop swimming. Or something like that. I don’t really understand it.

I put on my long-sleeved shirt, wrapped my beach towel around me, and draped my black shorts over my bare legs. I couldn’t get the tight neoprene socks off at first, with my weak, shaking hands. This was okay and I could be patient with that, as my feet weren’t cold. (The neoprene that kept my feet warm is what allowed me to stay in the water longer than I should have.) Eventually I got the socks off and put my wool ankle socks, my shoes, and my shorts on, and sat in the car. The car, which I’d parked in the shade, did not warm me, and I was shaking too much to drive. To raise my heart rate, I got out and did a couple of rounds of push-ups, running, and lunges, and felt warmer. 

All the while I felt amazing, invigorated and relaxed, inspired. I wasn’t afraid I wouldn’t get warm.

I was not shaking, or not enough to notice, so I decided to drive home. As soon as I turned onto the main road, I realized I was impaired. Everything looked colorful but remote and a bit flat, like on a movie screen. I drove the car more consciously, less automatically than usual — intentionally looking far ahead and telling myself about things I saw. Red light. Bicycle. Crosswalk. 

I had no mishaps. When I arrived at home, and started to tell Tom about my swim, it was exactly an hour since I’d stepped out of the water. I was still shaking a little. A shower and the blow-dryer warmed me the rest of the way. It occurred to me to wonder: does cold water stimulate the vagus nerve and relax us, or does it relax us by tiring us out from shivering? Ha.

I’ve been back to the river for a third swim since then, on a hotter day, and I brought more clothes with me and planned on waiting longer before driving. As it turned out, on this third river swim, my friend drove. The water felt warmer, and we stayed in for an hour, floating downstream and stopping to look at the many tiny fish on the bottom. (Salmon, we hope. I was so glad my friend spotted these little fish because I’m not sure I ever would have seen them.) 

I didn’t shiver at all after getting out of the water even though I spent 50 percent more time in it. Why was the river warmer on Wednesday than on the previous Sunday? Maybe because of a few more days of sunshine on the full length of the river; maybe because it was late in a hot afternoon instead of 9:30 in the morning. Maybe because the warm wind from the north pushed the warm lakewater farther up into the river.