Showing posts with label swimmers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label swimmers. Show all posts

gifts for wild swimmers



























Endura's oversized insulated dryrobe, for quick changes in cold weather. (Voited's and Vivida's cozy insulated changing robes also caught my eye, as did Sand Cloud's terry poncho for warmer days.)

A Irish crofter's storm kettle, for brewing warming drinks.

Barbara Bosworth's Diana's Baths: a collection of photographs that "evoke the mythological ambiance of a woodland pool."

wooly Donegal hat, always useful.

Neoprene boots, to keep away the chill.

Extra-cozy and plush Pendleton x Snow Peak towels, for drying off. 

A lightweight chair with a square base designed to sit solidly on sandy and pebbly shores.

Charles Sprawson's absolutely mesmeric and singular cultural history of swimming (I love this book) or Waterlog, Roger Deakin's chronicle of swimming "the seas, rivers, lakes, ponds, pools, streams, lochs, moats, and quarries" of Britain.

jumbo nylon bag, for schlepping wet towels and gear.

A sink-or-float thermometer, for calculating how long to stay in.


A handy Geoffry Fisher brush, for knocking off dried-on detritus.

Delicious coffee toffee, as a reward for taking the plunge, if the endorphins are not enough.

A trip to Iceland to snorkle in the gap between two continents. 

imaginary outfit: october swim

 

My life is cozy. My street is quiet, and the only visible signs of tension are, in fact, signs: signs for Black Lives Matter, signs with black flags demanding "support" for police, signs for the disaster president and signs for Biden/Harris (there seem to be more of those every day, which is bolstering). Work is steady and seems stable, at least for now; my kid isn't in school but seems to be okay, and I get to see my parents. We are getting through the days. So much of this summer (the part within the circle of our family life) has been beautiful. And yet—and yet—coddled as I am, safe, spared from real awfulness, I'm moving through the days disoriented. Though the people and places in front of me look more or less the same, I can't shake the sense that everything has been nudged out of place and nothing is quite where it used to be.

Sometime in July, Hugh and I started spending every Friday at the lake. Mostly, we dig through banks of pebbles, looking for bits of weathered glass, periwinkles' pinstriped whorls, stones particularly pleasing in shape or hue, the secret patternings of fossils. Sometimes we just sit and watch the boats cross the horizon, or look at the clouds and the waves. I've become a beach maximalist and load up a collapsible wagon with folding wooden chairs and piles of towels and garden trowels and dry clothes and a sun tent and snacks to pull over the boardwalk and drag through the sand, so we stay as long as we want. My mom meets us sometimes, and when she does, I swim. Those moments in the water slap me back into myself, and as long as I am in the lake, the things of the world are in places I can understand. 

Last Friday, the air was cold, and the waves were forbiddingly frothy. We dug our pebble holes, wrapped up in blankets and sipped hot broth, felt the spray on our faces and the damp in our socks. I didn't get to go in, but tomorrow, we'll go back. For a little while yet, the water will hold the warmth of the late-summer sun. I hope I can sneak in one more swim.

*

Patagonia swimsuit (best thing I purchased this summer; not available anymore, I don't think) / Black & Blum lunch box / Stanley thermos / Battenwear mesh toteFilson wool cap / Champion x The Met sweatshirt (second-best thing I purchased this summer) / Casio B650WD-1A watch / Missoni plaid blanket / Tevas / ragg socks

Not pictured: heavy sweatpants and Voortman's sugar wafers.

shelf life



The kind folks over at Nasher Sculpture Center asked me to contribute a Shelf List—'an archive of nonperishable cultural sustenance from friends around the world.'  Mine features zany Instagram cartoons, William Steig, swimmers with a death wish, women sculptors, arty flowers, transmundane drawing clubs, and one of my favorite artist's unabashed enjoyment of my favorite carbonated beverage.

You can give it a peek here.

Fun fact: A while back I wrote a little piece for the Nasher about my 2018 trip to Kettle's Yard, one of the most perfect houses in the world (includes pictures, too, though it is worth an online image search because it is such a special space).

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Joseph Rudolf Witzel: Leander, 1897. From the NYPL Digitial Archive: 'Leander drowned when swimming across the Hellespont (Dardanelles Strait) at night, trying to visit his love, Hero, a priestess of Aphrodite.'

this weekend


Back in Ohio, so lots of eating, swimming and visiting.
Happy weekend.

this weekend

 And away we go:
In other news, you can find a partial chronology of my birthday cakes on the Etsy blog (thanks, Chappell).

Happy weekend.

Photo: Martin Munkacsi: In the Air, 1935. Via.

imaginary outfit: lap swimming


As a kid, I used to despise the lap swimming adults. How pointless and boring to go back and forth and back and forth. No splashes and jumps, no breath-holding contests and underwater races. In the end, there was no escaping it. To stay in the pool, I had to adapt. So now I swim laps, but I pretend I'm a crocodile. I rest my chin on the kickboard, with my eyes just above the water. The board protrudes like a snout, and I kick with reptilian smoothness, slow and steady, observing and thinking. Are the other people just counting laps and watching the clock? Or, like me, are they playing a game? Half the fun of swimming is pretending. In the water, I'm never just myself - I am a long-distance champion, a mermaid or whale or castaway or otter.

So I wonder about the other swimmers. They look staid and orderly, but maybe inside they are sharks and dolphins, Esther Williams or Gertrude Ederle. Or maybe not, and I'm the only crocodile.

floaters

LIFE.

dive








George Silk: photos of Kathy Flicker diving in Princeton University's Dillon Gym pool for LIFE.

plunges





1., 2., 3., 4.

keeping our heads above water

If my life means anything, it is that I am always forgetting just what it is that I want. How’s that for meaning? I have found a way to be unsatisfied by everything and always somewhat pleasantly excited . . . I want to know who has ever found anything as wonderful as being a strain . . . held tight between two eternities . . . you would think I wanted to die, if you didn’t know me better, it is more that in truth I would like to vanish . . . You always think I am kidding. I am trying to define happiness by what I have actually got and go on from there.
Kenneth Koch. From 'Reflections on Morroco,' published in The Burning Mystery of Anna in 1951 (1979).

Photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt (via).

swimmer (ii)


Vicki Smith. Quiet Surface. Oil on canvas, 24 x 36 in.

swimmer (i)


Grass Doe / Jonathan Levitt.

high summer


Grass Doe / Jonathan Levitt. I love this blog.

The top photo particularly reminds me of other favorites.