King Tide Wrecks the Beach

But that won't stop us

A king tide erased the beach where I swim recently. It was shocking to see. But it’s a good metaphor for what’s happening to our country right now. It’s indescribable to watch democracy swept away and replaced by a club of rich men none of us elected. Who all stand behind the catastrophic one who was.

When I arrived at the literal beach, days after the water had risen so high that it sloshed up against the metal barbeque stand on the lookout where people sometimes fish, all I saw was a mess. The ground was saturated with debris. Pieces of wood of all lengths were strewn across the sand scattered like chopsticks or kindling. A lot of it was bunched up by the wall where we placed our swim bags. The hillside rose up behind the wall toward the bathroom and benches above. Thankfully it stopped there because there was no place for more water to have gone.

I stepped carefully onto water-softened bits of wood and dropped my bag onto a debris pile. The water was still high as I looked out appraising the situation. A flood tide was still sweeping towards us which meant we’d be swimming against the current at the outset.

But I forgot about that when I stepped into the frigid surf.

Last winter the temperature hovered around 54 degrees. We talk nostalgically about those days, and how lucky we were. Now it’s 52 and dropping. My skin burns a bit every time I wade into the wildness of the bay.

But I like the burning. Or I need it. It took me a minute before I started to wheel my arms overhead. My forearms felt on fire. Maybe that’s why I like it. It demands my attention. The cold pricks me awake and keeps me aware.

I took a quick survey. My goggles felt snug but were starting to fog up a bit. That wasn’t worth stopping to clear, not just yet. The day had started out sunny but then the world turned into a cold fog. It was as if there was no metropolis a few miles east of me. As if I were swimming in a freezing pond somewhere in the north of England. I felt encapsulated in the chill. There was no view, only clouds dipping down, my arm swinging around. My orange buoy bumped my right foot.

Thoughts cropped up. Tasks from my to-do list: call the insurance broker back about switching to Covered California and arrange a pest inspection at my sister’s house in Massachusetts. A house Susan and I have owned for nearly five years now. Her death was another of my life’s king tides. A water that rose up and rearranged my life. It stranded me.

Now my sister’s house has a nice artist couple living in it, a new roof, and is mostly cleared of her belongings. Her art and boxes of letters and journals sit inside a Berkeley storage facility not far from this beach. It feels good to have her nearer to me.

Susan and I went through some of the boxes recently. In one I found a letter from my sister to our dad. It struck a strident tone. In it, she expressed disappointment that he hadn’t come to my commitment ceremony with Susan back in 2005. There were other disappointments expressed too. I thought it would unsettle me to read her words, now that she is nearly five years gone, but it didn’t. It was reassuring. That’s who she was. The words sat typed on the page. Her anger and hurt plainly revealed. It used to jar me when she expressed something she felt so passionately. But I understand intensity—feeling it, being encapsulated by it.

Back at the beach, I made my way up to the benches to dry off and change into warmer clothes. The beach was a wreck but my heart was full. I had managed the terrain along with my intrepid swim community.

My to-do list for today? Call my senator’s D.C. office to express my outrage that Russell Vought is about to be cleared as the country’s new budget director—a man totally on board with last week’s federal freeze. I’ll think of Evelyn who would be doing the same thing if she were still here. I’ll raise my voice for both of us. I also made a small donation to the Bay Keeper’s for working to keep the San Francisco Bay clean. That felt good too.

Then, in a few minutes, I’ll grab my swim bag and head out in search of renewal.

Here’s to healing the wreckage together.

Leslie

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If you haven’t been to Book Society, the fabulous new bookshop/wine bar in Berkeley, now’s your chance. Writer and editor Johanna McCloy and I will share stories and speak candidly about growing up with CIA dads. Her father worked under deep cover—not sure what that means exactly? It’s definitely different from my dad’s version. Come hear Johanna and I break down what we know about her fathers’s work, and what it was like growing up with spy parents. It should be eye-opening. We’ll also talk about our unique paths to publishing our stories. Bring your questions!