The Floaters

by Janet Waldo

When we began swimming together, two of us were married, two single. We swim in the Pacific, or Lake La Jolla, as we call it on calm days. Marilyn was just about to get a divorce when I met her. Her husband had left her and moved in with a woman in Idaho. Cindy's husband left also, years ago. Same scenario except she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer when he decided to announce in front of their two children, "I've never been happy so I'm leaving."

Charisse was married then. She had three adorable children and a smart, successful husband. I had gotten out of college five years before and was in the process of growing up. My goal was to become a woman I loved, so I spent time with women I loved.

In the ocean we would paddle out to the half-mile buoy and back. The more hard-core swimmers called us "The Floaters." They were the ones getting out just as were wading in. "In the water by 6:30!" That's how we used to say goodbye, or see you tomorrow. We wore fins and kicked out, talking the entire time, every morning for a year. We bobbed in the swells as we heard Charisse's marriage fall apart. I don't think we realized how bad it was or how difficult for a while. She would swim the entire mile without saying a word. We should have known.

We used to call the ocean our West Coast lover. One would think we were doing unspeakable things out there as we sighed from complete wholeness. We often threatened to call into work happy and stay all day in the water. We'd swim to wash away yesterday or to celebrate today. We'd swim because as soon as we jumped into the water we became part of something giant and changing, something passionate, refreshing, risky, welcoming and uncontrollable. Swimming reminded us of what true love feels like. There was also something beautiful about being a woman when we were together. We felt more woman and more beautiful in the ocean than just about anywhere else.

Nearly twenty years to the day after Marilyn's marriage began, her divorce went through. We got together for a celebratory daytime swim that weekend. It wasn't really a celebration of her divorce. We were celebrating that she was happy in spite of the divorce, and in spite of being alone. Actually, I think we were celebrating because we weren't alone. Women friends are a wonderful thing.

So Charisse moved out with the kids. For about three weeks we all four were single, then I got engaged. This was my first time getting engaged. I intended for it to be my last, but the ocean stories of marriages done worried me. When I began to talk about loving my man, though, my beautiful women friends remembered for me their beautiful times, and they encouraged my engagement to a beautiful man. "Never isolate yourself," they told me. "Your community keeps you married," they said. Wise advice I plan to live by.

It's not often that the four of us swim together lately; our lives have just gotten less flexible. It's as though we have married our ocean lover. Our swims are less necessary. Our eagerness has waned some. Our commitment, though, is permanent. We'll always return to the luxury of the water. We'll keep swimming through the winters and we'll always find some occasion to celebrate with a swim.

There are rocks in the ocean which have been worn smooth by the laps of salt water over so much time. The rocks change shape quicker than one might imagine, depending on how the ocean washes over them. It has happened to us too, of course. The swells of four seasons, the crash of so many waves, the days and days of forging through the currents and seaweed, and all that floating beneath the sunrises have smoothed our minds. It has changed the shape of us. The only thing the same now is the water. Even our reason for swimming is changed: when we began swimming it was to wash away the grime of endings. Now my beautiful women friends and I swim to celebrate beginnings.