It’s getting close to 11:30 when I leave for the beach. Skies are largely cloudy - mostly just a thin haze so it still feels like there is a good bit of light. As I pass Doheny I can see the surface of the water has just a little texture on it. The sky is a bright solid silver that reflects on the water and its countless thousands of little wakes each capture the light like a small tilting mirror. I get to the Strand parking lot, grab my pack and go. As I walk down the stairs I can see the small waves breaking a good ways out. It’s low tide - about 0.3 feet. It’s been a while since I have been here at low tide and I am curious what the inshore rock layout is like since we lost our sand over the holiday week in December.

Thankfully due to the tide situation, there is some sand to walk on but still not much. The entire northern stretch of the beach is a row of triangular cobble rock peninsulas that stretch from the shore to the bluff. I manage to find a path from the concrete ramp through the cobble to the nearest sand and then stick to the water’s edge until I get to my usual starting spot. There is a woman lounging right about where I typically stow my pack. I’m such a creature of habit that it takes considerable effort not to walk right up to her and lay my stuff right next to her but I manage to adhere to social norms and adjust a few feet south.

I’m happy to find the shallows, at least right here at my usual spot, is pretty much rock free and still just friendly sand. As I look up both ends of the beach I can see that this is a unique spot and it is mostly pretty rocky all over. That’s really why I have chosen this spot as my start and end location. Last year was the only time in the four years of doing this that I had to scramble through large rocks at lower tides to get to swimable depths.

I walk a fair ways and then the water gets deeper and I start to swim. I swim for a ways and reach the white water and swim through the soft breaking waves. When I finally get to where the waves first break, I notice that I can clearly see the bottom and the bottom is not far. In fact, I’m now in waist deep water and this is after making my way out about a hundred feet.

I swim south. Let me just say that the water does not feel like it is getting any more warmer. It’s probably the same as Wednesday but it feels a world away from two weeks ago. I stop just in front of the wooden boardwalk to clear the fog from my goggles. I can see well enough but there is something to be said for seeing clearly. As I wipe the fog, a Cormorant takes off from a resting position on the water. It flaps its wings which splash the surface and then it gains lift off and flies in a couple of wide circles right in this immediate area.

I continue my swim. Somehow in that brief pause, my body normalized and found some semblance of warmth. That feels like the wrong word but its the closest thing I can find to articulate the easing of that initial cold shock. I rest upon this sensation like a cloud that sems like it could evaporate any any moment. The comfort I feel right now feels so out of place with what I felt moments ago and what I know awaits me in another half hour or so. I grasp it tight and enjoy it while it holds.

When I get to the south end of the Strand, there are several nearby rocks exposed by the low tide. The larger rocks offshore look more dominant than usual. The sun looks like it wants to come out. The water looks brighter and charged with an electric shimmer growing more yellow than silver.

I’m heading into the current now. In this colder water, the wakes of oncoming wind swell feel aggressive. It seems like someone is turning a dimmer switch brighter and then dimmer and then brighter and dimmer again and again. I swim through patches that feel like they have less bite than the water I was in just before and this makes it feel almost warm (almost). Then it’s gone and I wonder if the cold will consume me.

I watch how I react to the cold. I admit that I am fascinated with the cold and how my body and my mind reacts to it. Where does the objective sensation of the cold end and where does my internal reaction to the cold begin. Is there a distinguishable line? Is my reaction and feelings just an extension of what is happening outside of me? I wrestle with a fear of the cold, but I wonder how I would feel if there was no fear but the sensation otherwise remained the same. Would I find the cold much more palatable? I remind myself that this is no colder that the average cold of previous Januarys. Soon I am nearing the northern end of the beach. I just have a little further to go. I stop at the end and find that my camera has turned itself off. Perhaps because I did not use it at all between here and the opposite end of the beach. I turn it back on which is no tiny feat given the loss of dexterity in my fingers.

Now I head back south and it seems like I assume warp speed toward my finishing spot. I enjoy this stretch. I swim fairly close to shore, just past the breaking waves and stare at the sandy bottom. The sun has come out in earnest now and I delight in the bright blue sky overhead. I head east now and encounter a few small fish here at the edge of the white water. I swim and swim and swim until I feel my finger tips brush the sand beneath me. I lift myself to my feet and struggle to find balance after being afloat for the past hour.

I raise my goggles off of my face and savor the walk to my pack and then up the stairs. I’m really not that cold now. I’m certainly less cold than I remember on other mornings. I shower and get in the car and note that I’m not in some shivering frenzy like I have been on other drives home after a cold water swim. So just how cold was that water? Is it even something that can be measured in degrees?