Pelican Dive

The loud collective sound of the waves overpowers the chatter in my head. I feel the sand shifting under my feet with every step. I’m wearing a warm jacket that blocks the cold wind from finding a way through my body. The waves catch my bare feet in the water. Their coldness holds a grip my whole body. But after a few more waves, that same coldness is turning into refreshing comfort and something in me awakens.

I want to submerge myself. I can feel myself craving a kind of surrender to the ocean, to show me how it can turn my skin into a burning layer of heat. “I’m not even going to think about it too long!” I tell my partner, as I unzip my jacket and take off my sweatpants. I’m the only one in a bathing suit now. He knows I’ll go in. I always do. Mostly because by the time I’m in a bathing suit, I’m more comfortable suffering the cold water than being the only one in swimwear on the beach.

As I walk further in, the waves grab my knees and then my midriff. My breathing shortens. “This is insane,” my brain tells me. “This is you,” my heart replies.

Then I start to run, and every pinch of cold makes me want to fight harder until I’m completely in. The water takes over the weight of my body, and now it’s just trust. Just keep swimming. Let your body adapt. Quite like when I moved to California and so many other times in life.

I bring my head underwater. My brain freezes—and with it, all my thoughts. I come up and scream a little. I feel alive.

Now that warmth—my body’s motor—kicks in. The waves are lit by the low-hanging sun. They’re brutal on Ocean Beach. They pull me under and push me back. The strength of the waves moves through me. I’m constantly seeking balance in their force. There’s no thinking needed—just my body’s natural instinct to find stability. And it gives me thorough enjoyment. Life is movement. 

I belong here now. It's hard to imagine imagine ever getting cold.

The sun reflects off my white skin, and I can feel it absorbing energy from the light, the drops of water sticking to my body like little diamonds. I never used to swim in cold water. I know I’ve gotten tougher here. I know what I’m capable of. I know the pain comes early for me and always with more intensity than I can imagine, but resilience is what comes after. Resilience is what lasts for me. I know that now. I trust it. 

I feel deeply grateful to feel life everywhere in my body. I feel connected to everything around me. The sand, the water, the sun.

As I look up at the sky, I see a row of brown pelicans flying in perfect unity. They’ve become my favorite bird on the California coast. They slide through the sky effortlessly, in a purposeful, dutiful rhythm. They’re hunting for fish. About to make their own cold plunge.

My heart stops with joy when they do. I don’t know whether to look at my partner to make sure he sees it or to keep my eyes locked on these extraordinary birds as they fold their wings and spear down into the breaking waves. They’re so instinctive—free from the constant human questioning.

And I feel much more like them at this moment. I’m not questioning anything either.

I let my whole body float in the water. The water that once shocked me is now the one that holds me. My skin is still burning warm, but I can feel the cold has reached my bones, and they tell me it’s time to come out.

My partner holds out the big soft towel and wraps it around me, rubbing my back. It’s an incredible contrast, the joy and strength I get from my individual courage, then to submerge myself in his love, like a five-year-old coming out of a warm bath.

As I snuggle into my partner’s arms, I watch the pelicans rise again into the sky, slipping into formation intuitively and effortlessly.

My brain is still crystal-clear, and through that clarity, I feel my own instincts. A pull to migrate back, closer to my original home—this time with him. Home is a strange concept after a decade. But I don’t think birds question it.

I think they just know. Instinctively.