Tomales Bay

The town of Inverness has been around for some time, and while the trans-bay swim does not have the 98-year history of the Fourth of July road races after 28 years it has its own traditions. There is a pancake committee that creates post swim hotcakes, and the kayak escort will give you a swig of tea during the swim.

Everyone seems to know each other's first name. My mom, who invited me, was invited by her friend Nancy Jo. It was in general an earthy crowd.
Inverness did not have the traditional immigrant waves like the rest of the country, but was settled by Czechs, hippies, bikers, and John Carpenter - horror movie director. The fashion was less from Paris more of an Advance Studies in Pottery Class mode. The group looked like it could be quite happy bird watching.

There was a range of swimmers from nouveau dog paddlers to a guy who qualified for the Hawaiian Ironman. Having far more swimming gear than actual technique, I put on a full wet suit, body glide, and swim cap. I began to think that I might be over dressed for the 70-degree water, and looking around I notice a few who had a different view of their bodies.

Freedom, baby, freedom.

Apparently there was another tradition besides the pancake breakfast. A woman a few feet over from me completely shed her clothes while remarking, "I guess I forgot my suit." By the looks of things she was more Woodstock than Burning Man. A couple others joined her by going topless. Maybe it really was closer to Paris after all.

I do have to say on that list of things for which I am truly grateful, somewhere near the apartment with a hot tub and that I still have all of my teeth, is the fact that my mom and her good friends decided to wear their suits. There is only so much family history I want to know. Even now I shudder.

The nudists did go to the front of the group picture - important to keep a memento for the yearbook.

The shots were taken and we headed out across the bay. The dangers are more legendary than real - the bay is on top of the San Andreas Fault line and great white sharks breed at the northern most part, but the difficulties are more with mud and sea grass. The distance lies the vague small town scale where the fish that got away was always a yard long - the route was claimed to be a mile and a quarter but was most likely less than a mile round trip. The day had flat water, sunny skies, and the swim was soon over.

No one has ever asked me to be a godfather (I think my friends expect me to give no more guidance than "pull my finger"); I have not had a close seat at a baptism in a while. And while the event did not have a religious slant, there is something more than just exercise when a town goes down to the sea. Places have their traditions whether they are pagan or brought to you by greeting card companies. Perhaps it is that realization that when you are swimming across tectonic plates it is better to do it in the company of neighbors than to struggle at it alone.