There was a time, not long ago, when waking up was inevitably with a hangover, when the morning shuffle to the bathroom was inevitably followed by a cup of strong brew and a cigarette hovering over the morning paper. So normal had this routine become that I had even convinced myself I liked it, that it was somehow an extension, or at least reflection, of my own character. It’s not that I was ever addicted to smoking or even enjoyed the habit. Mostly those white and sand colored Camel Lights hung from my lips like dancing smokestacks while I mumbled grumpily about this and that opinion piece in our conservative local.

Yesterday morning: Dave knocked at the door at 7:15 a.m. I know because the first thing I did when I heard it was look at the clock thinking why am I looking,, it doesn’t matter, I’m going to get up anyway. Laura’s eyes opened and she looked briefly confused, then content, and she tucked her head into her pillow while I threw off the sheets and opened the door. I think Dave started to say something, maybe he didn’t. "Two minutes," I half pleaded, half announced and brushed my teeth, gathered my things.

Though it was only our second time, I say that Dave and I have begun to go swimming on a regular basis at La Jolla Cove. At 7:45, after parking and slow tired morning conversation and still gray marine cover, we were hardly the only ones. La Jolla Cove is one of the few beaches you will find in San Diego that is more a Mecca to swimmers and tri-athletes than surfers and white-ankled Midwesterners. A quarter mile out is a round white buoy. Harder to see is the half-mile buoy, also white, which sometimes hides behind the rolling sets which will eventually break on the coastal reef.

We’ve been - both times - swimming to the first buoy and back. We’d like to swim to the second. Swimming half way between the first and the second would seem the reasonable solution, but such a lack of destination makes it no more rewarding than turning around at the first.

"Looks like there’s more seaweed out there," said I.
"Yeah, yesterday there was really no way to avoid it. We would either have to go around [pointing North] or just go through it."
"It looks like there’s a break right there." I pointed out to what seemed like a hallway between the thick beds of kelp while taking my shirt off and feeling the fresh morning air brush up against my skin.

The water felt warm compared to the cool morning atmosphere above it. We dog paddled out a little trying to warm up and catch our breath and then Dave was well out in front, his muscular lanky body outpacing mine about three strokes to two. The first fifty meters my body was still stiff and achy from the monster run that Sparsh and I had gone on the day before, but then I started to loosen up and fall into rhythm.

Finally I reached the shore and staggered out of the water, my skin taut with salt and my muscles swollen. Dave was already changing into his clothes. We talked about where we would go for breakfast and how we both are still thinking about sharks out there. Ten steps above us, in the wooden life guard tower hangs a black and white photograph of a twenty-foot plus Great White that was caught off the shore in the 60’s.

"Did you hear about what happened in Australia?" he asked.
"Nah, what?"
"There was this guy in his like late-twenties, surfed every day, total water man …" He trailed off for a second. "Anyway, these two kids, both teenagers, they see him floating out in the water in this pool of blood. They swam out to him and there was blood everywhere, his legs were totally mangled …"
"No shit. Did he die?"
"So one of the kids tries giving him CPR and hauling him back to the shore, but, uh, yeah, he died."
"Damn." I looked out to the water. "Would you do that? I mean, if you saw a body out there in a pool of blood and it was obvious that it was a shark … I mean, would you go swimming out there?"
"That’s what I was thinking, ’cause … well, I’d like to think that I would, but I don’t know … But I’d like to think so."
"’Cause if you really think about it, like objectively, it’s probably not the smartest thing to do. I mean, chances are the guy’s already dead, plus he’s only attracting more sharks with all that blood."
"Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, all that blood out there and your legs are the only things kicking. Your pretty much bait. But still …. I’d like to think that I would."

This conversation isn’t gonna help me stop thinking about sharks I thought to myself.

Let me tell you this: there is no better way, nothing else you could do, to start your day off better than going for a long morning swim in the ocean. You can convince yourself otherwise, you can be fooled into thinking that a hangover, cup of coffee, cigarette, and the skitters that follows is charming, but until you feel your body overcome by that content, resigned exhaustion, you won’t realize what you’re missing.

Dave and I grabbed some coffee and breakfast at the La Jolla Pannikin and we agreed to go out again on Saturday morning, trying to maintain an every-other-day outing. Back at home I crawled back into bed with Laura who sorta blushed embarrassedly that she was still in bed.

Something about the sea is that it stays with you. You can pick up a conch shell in Ohio and the sea is still in it. You can move to the mountains of Northern Arizona and the sea will still be in your heart. You can crawl into bed with your girlfriend an hour after getting out of the water and your skin will still be 68 degrees:

"NO MAMES GUEY! Quitate, quitate! Estas bien frio Sansuki," cries Laura when I try cuddling up to her warm dark skin."
"Oh pobrecita, qué vida difícil tienes aquí en la cama caliente, bien dormida a las nueve en la mañana." She didn’t appreciate my sarcasm and kept pushing me away every time I tried to hug her to warm up. I made us some tea and she asked me how the swim went. I explained about the thinking of sharks and the swimming through yards of slimy seaweed. Except I couldn’t think of how to say seaweed in Spanish and had to describe it to her.

"Yerbitas," she said. I couldn’t stop laughing. The direct translation of yerbitas is "little herbs" which just didn’t seem to do justice to the long slimy strands of thick green mucous I had to swim through to get to the buoy and back.

We read for a little bit in bed, our pillows propped up high, and then fell back asleep. By the time we woke up blue was poking out of the sky and a sort of constant buzz of children drifted in from the beach. I looked forward to my first day off since Laura arrived into Tijuana.

To be continued …