We wait all year for this
A moment before the wildfire smoke came to northern Michigan.
The day before the wildfire smoke arrives, we hit high 90s and I can think of nothing but getting myself to the water. An-end-of-day doctor appointment is all that stands between me and a dip in East Grand Traverse Bay.
Not even 24 hours later, I would stand barefoot in my front yard, dog leashes in hand as Junie and Dottie sniff the grass, and take in the low-slung, white-gray sky overhead, an eerie golden glow casting everything in a hazy orange tint. I wouldn’t be able to see the sun, though it had to be up there somewhere.
But that sweltering early-evening before, moments after stepping outside my dermatologist’s air-conditioned office, I immediately break out in a sweat. The air is thick, not yet with smoke from the devastating wildfires in my beloved Minnesota and Canada, but with humidity. I run-walk to my car, eager to blast the AC for the short ride to the beach.
I’d missed a call from Emma as I sat waiting for the doctor after the nurse took my vitals and we made small talk about the weather: “No complaints about how hot it is, summer is too short in northern Michigan,” “Why does summer always speed up after Fourth of July?” and “Can’t wait to get out on the water this weekend.”
On the way to my locals’ spot on East Bay, just a few miles away, I return Emma’s call. We have a lot to talk about — she’s in her first weeks of residency and adjusting to life in NYC — and it also has been some time since we’ve really been able to chat. I don’t want to miss this window of time when she’s available.
Pulling into the parking lot at this particular “beach” — it’s really only a launch spot for fishing boats, with a sliver of sandy shoreline — I discover I’m of course not the only person to have thought to escape the heat by jumping in the Bay.
I also realize that the reason I’ve begun to sweat profusely is that the AC is not working — it’s just blowing out lukewarm air. Alex, who has been driving this vehicle to and from his summer job five days a week, had mentioned it appeared to be on the fritz. He’s indeed right.
Just like the hot-water heater that breaks down on the most frigid of days, AC likes to call it quits on the steamiest days of summer.
Still, I’m parked with a view of Lake Michigan and I’ve got my girl on the line. I roll down the windows and a just-enough breeze off the water whooshes into the car. It feels amazing.
A small group of older adults, two men and two women, are waist-deep, bobbing in the water not far from shore. I can practically feel their relief. I want to keep talking with Emma, and I also can’t wait to wade in and dive under. My arms and chest are slick with sweat; I can feel it dripping down my forehead and back.
We keep talking — I need and want to hear all that is happening with ther hundreds of miles away in the city — and thank god, the breeze keeps flowing through my opened car windows. Still, I can’t help laughing to myself despite the great conversation — get out in the water already, Heather!
More people are arriving, their cars filling this tiny parking lot that also has a couple of boat trailers parked and waiting for their owners’ return. It’s rare to see this small boat launch so busy, but it is nearly 100 degrees after all, and if there’s one major, unbeatable perk of living in the Great Lakes State it’s that you are never more than 6 miles from a body of water. Lake Michigan’s East Bay happens to be about three miles from our house.
Soon enough, Emma and I say our goodbyes. She wants to unwind and I tell her I’m beyond a hot, sticky mess sitting here in the car, as much as I want to keep talking. I flip my camera so she can get a quick glimpse of the Bay — “It’s so pretty, I want to jump in right now, too!” — tell her how much I love her, and we hang up with promises of talking again very soon.
I’m walking toward the water moments later, yanking off my t-shirt and shorts and dropping my towel and keys near a large pink-blue marbled rock. I wore my suit knowing I’d get to this point eventually, after all of the day’s to-dos.
I sink into the cool water, and once it’s deep enough, dive under. I hold my breath for awhile, opening my eyes to take in the clear-blue quietness like I’ve done since being a little girl swimming at this very same boat launch beach.
I come up for air, swiping the freshwater from my eyes and I instinctively look up at the bluest sky, then out toward Old Mission Peninsula in the distance, the sun-kissed water sparkling like diamonds.
We wait so long for this. I’d read in the newspaper this week that Lake Michigan is at nearly 70 degrees.
I’m going to stay here for awhile.
I turn on to my back, floating beneath the late-day sun, the water drowning out any sounds but my slow, even breathing. I wiggle my toes, stretch my arms wide.
I am home.
I’ve been thinking so much about the wildfires and, yes, what it has meant for communities like mine that are affected by the smoke and poor air quality. But most importantly, I am saddened by the heartbreaking losses — human, wildlife, landscape. If you are affected in any way, please know my thoughts are with you. I wish I knew what else to say. As someone who deeply loves and respects nature, I am still processing it all.
If you’re here in Michigan, too, before heading outdoors, get information on current conditions and alerts at Michigan.gov/MiAir, and learn about the state’s response to inform and protect the public at Michigan.gov/EGLEWildfireSmoke. Visit the American Red Cross website for more national information.
Thank you for being here with me today. I love hearing from you — please let me know how you’re doing right now and lately, and if anything here resonated with you.
I will be back here soon, possibly with something especially interesting to share (I’ve been thinking about an offering for this fall sometime … more to come! )
Until next time,
XO
Heather