My Fair-Feathered Friends

I look for them when I swim, lately. The birds. Since I moved inland from Astoria, they're not always around, but I spotted two or three circling above me just the other day. They used to be my companions when I first began to swim in the Necanicum River, behind the youth hostel in Seaside. (I have only met one adult who was ever daring enough to join me when I went for a plunge in icy waters; she is now my wife. But lately we are both busy with our challenging schedules, and she said she will not join me again until summer is here and the sun decides to stay awhile.)

When I began my twice daily swims, however, I had no company. The sky was often dark when I ventured out into the opaque waters. After weeks of confronting my fear of the cold and the dark--and most of all of my fragile health--it occurred to me that I was very lonely in the water, not far from shore, as I contemplated each tentative step.

But one day, as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, and I was halfway across the Necanicum in mid-stroke, I spotted one of them circling above me just as I turned my head to take a quick breath. During my next breath, I opened my eyes wide to verify that it was really a bird and not just a trick of my vision or imagination, and it was still there. I rapidly became aware of more of them, circling round and landing in the water, within a few strokes' reach of me. I'm certain that they would never had ventured this close had I been on land. It was as if they were studying me, wondering, Who is this nut? And what is he doing out here at this hour, alone, in our domain?!? And I continued to swim, and they continued to observe me in their way, not looking directly at me, but from the side, through the eye facing me, as if they were shy about being caught looking at me in case I looked back. After that day, it gave me comfort each time I spied them nearby during my early morning or late evening therapeutic aquatic routine.

I've continued my swims to this day. But when I look for my companions now, they're not in sight as often, and if they land on the water, they don't get nearly as close. I saw three the other day, glancing at me in that same indirect way, except these three were almost aloof. I also sawseveral tan, thin, well-provided-for young teenagers who tried their best not to notice me--and finally sped away in their glittering boats--as I stayed on the shore-side of the pier, trying to enjoy my water the old-fashioned way. Maybe inland birds are like those teenagers. But I know they still watch, and wonder. (Who is this nut? And what is he doing out here, this late in the season, alone, in our domain?!?)

The truth is, I'm more content to be left alone now. I'm much healthier, and my fear of the cold and the dark are diminished. And I do not fear being alone, even when I have no human companions--even though I'll never stop looking twice to see if I've seen another bird soaring overhead, or if it was just a trick of my vision. Now I just think of my wife and my two boys, who I know I will see after I've washed off the diluted pollution of the cold river with hot water, and that is all the help I need to conquer what is left of my fears.