Blubber Boys
In her 60s, Josiane Chriqui keeps recommitting to open water swimming in the San Francisco Bay—and overcoming her fear of sea lions.
My cold-water life started with a dare in 2013. As a divorced empty-nester in my mid-50s, I would do anything to find love. I was fascinated by Eli’s OKCupid profile. The photo of him standing in his bathing suit next to his Dolphin Swim Club buddies looked enticing. All these brawny men with wet messy hair posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge looked like they were taking full advantage of what life had to offer. After we exchanged a few emails, he wrote, “I dare you to swim the bay with me on our first date.” I responded, “Deal.”
The next day, I bought myself a thick black Barracuda neoprene bathing cap. In my excitement, I took a picture of the swim cap and sent it to Eli with the caption, “I’m ready!” He didn’t respond, not even with the generic smiley-face emoji. Even though I never heard from him again, I was compelled to explore swimming the bay.
My nakedness in the water gave me a feeling of invincibility. Finally, my body received the full attention it deserved.
The following week, my triathlon friend Jennifer drove up with a trunk full of neoprene swim gear: wet-suits, booties, and gloves. She insisted on taking me out for my first Aquatic Park cove swim. Within a few minutes of stepping into the glacial water, my face, feet, and hands tingled. Weirdly curious for more, I tugged and unzipped my wetsuit and felt the cold-water trickle over my rigid body, down my neck, spine, and bare legs. My nakedness in the water gave me a feeling of invincibility. Finally, my body received the full attention it deserved.
For years, I assumed only the “elite” were accepted into the Dolphin Club, a historic open-water swimming and rowing club founded in 1877. Like so many private memberships in San Francisco, such as the exclusive Bohemian Club for men or the Metropolitan Club for women, I believed association was passed down through the generations. A few weeks after my swim, I nervously stood in front of the Board of Directors during their new members initiation. As a thirty-five-year resident of San Francisco, I explained how I had driven past the secluded Aquatic Park Cove, flown over it, and even paddled through it, and now wanted to plunge into this tiny quarter-mile refuge and call it home. I heard the sound of the gavel officially welcoming a dozen new members and me that first Monday in July 2013. When they asked if I knew any of their 1500 members, I responded, “No.” They would never know that dunking my entire body in the bay felt much safer than dating.
“Are you one of those crazy bad-ass women who swims the bay without a wetsuit?” a friend asked at a dinner party. I’ve never been the type of person who joins clubs, but my Dolphin Club membership became a badge of honor I constantly bragged about. I even included a swim photo on my online dating profile. I felt like a celebrity when the San Francisco Chronicle referred to us as “cold-blooded” swimmers who plunge into this “shady nook of an iceberg.” In the water, I fantasized about receiving a standing ovation from the swarms of tourists who lined up along the shore photographing us. Little did I know that a few years later, the sea lions would take up residence in the cove and put my mettle to the test.
Swimming is my raison d’etre. I grew up swimming in the Mediterranean Sea every day after school. This was my playground. I dunked in the water, floated over it, and somersaulted underneath it. I learned the secret language of the ocean—and respected its majestic power. My body understood the offering of water’s fundamental miracle: when I was tense, the water was distressed, surrounding me in crosscurrents; but if I could remain calm, the water swaddled me like a newborn. When my family immigrated to the US from Italy, we reunited with the Moroccan community in Southern California. Every Sunday, families gathered beachside in Marina Del Rey. With Arabic music thumping, our parents danced in the sand with joy. When it came time to swim, we ran towards the water as though we had just been set free.
Thirty-five years later, recovering from an itinerant life of business travel, my back and hips ached from the heavy baggage I'd hauled and all the hours I spent scrunched into tiny economy seats. Swimming in the open of the San Francisco Bay became my salvation. Frolicking over the soft waves, I was a child in a giant bathtub with toy boats, my body weightless and unencumbered. Stretching my arms like an airplane’s wingspan, I felt like I was flying underwater. My legs kicked up bubbles, and I hauled myself towards the classic historical boats such as the Balclutha, Bad Becky, and Alma. Hypnotized into a deep trance of pure silky splendor, I pushed myself to swim out farther beyond the buoy line. As I experimented with different strokes, raising my chest and arms for the butterfly, and then flipping to a back stroke, my swims became more competitive. Zig-zagging my way through the water, I traded all the years spent confined to a metal bullet for the privilege of floating inside this aquatic universe.
“Are you one of those crazy bad-ass women who swims the bay without a wetsuit?” a friend asked at a dinner party. I’ve never been the type of person who joins clubs, but my Dolphin Club membership became a badge of honor I constantly bragged about.
By 2016, I was approaching 60 and I desperately needed to freeze time and defy aging. I decided to swim the Bay every day for a month as my countdown towards a new decade. I was inspired by the “old goats,” the club members in their 70’s, 80’s and 90’s, whose exuberance I envied. Watching them slither through the water with the most graceful, relaxed, and rhythmic strokes, I wanted their youthfulness. In the water, I didn’t think about my aging body—its aches, pains, saggy skin, sounds and smells. My muscles, joints, and bones felt supple and strong. My daily swims made my regular life feel less complicated, more grounded, and committed. I fell in love with myself all over again. By the end of the month, I emerged from the briny water a fiercer and braver new version of my 60-year-old self.
My world was jolted the following year when a sea lion popped his head out five feet away from me in the water. We both startled each other. Shocked, I took in his pointy whiskers, shiny brown furry body, and imposing size. He was a bull male sea lion with a protruding sagittal crest bone on the top of his head, and dark, enlarged pupils. His powerful jaw had the strength of multiple Dobermans, but he didn't attack. He simply ignored me, blasé, and kept swimming along, leaving me shaking uncontrollably. My body sloshed around, and my arms thrashed while I struggled to inhale a full breath.
A few weeks prior, he was probably the one to make headlines, “Sea Lion’s Attacks Prompt Swimming Ban at Aquatic Park Cove” in The Los Angeles Times. He might have been responsible for the three sea lion attacks which took place in our protected cove over the course of a few weeks. Since that benign encounter, five years ago, sea lions have become a source of terror that lives in my body. Now, I hug the shore and hide my shame behind my goggles each time I swim in the cove.
Admiring sea lions from a distance is usually very enjoyable. Non-swimmers have a soft spot for an 800-pound black blubber boy because its muzzle reminds them of their cute childhood pup. Thirty years ago, they were a source of delight and entertainment for my daughter and me. When she was a toddler, we gawked at the hundreds of blubbery sea lions lounging on the Pier 39 wooden docks. Fascinated by the cacophony of their barking, I made up elaborate stories about the sea lion families and pointed at the enormous size of the daddy who proudly held court on his front flippers. My daughter giggled at the babies next to their mommies who sunbathed, waddled, and slapped their stomachs. These furry families even gave me hope that I might someday expand our small family.
It wasn’t until I began swimming in the Bay that I learned the dark side of these cute creatures. While I should feel lucky to share the open water with the wildlife—after all it is their turf—I am petrified. During the club’s happy hours, veteran swimmers would trade harrowing tales of sea lion encounters like stories from a battlefield. We are all a hearty bunch of renegades who swim through chemical spills, algae blooms, rip currents, and pesky sea lion attacks. We are unstoppable, but that doesn't mean we're not scared.
Peacefully swimming in our protected cove for years and later experiencing a sea lion encounter feels like falling in love with a man and later finding out he’s married. There is a sense of betrayal. In the water, I am haunted by the inevitable moment when I will come into contact with one of these shiny black rubbery creatures bobbing its head.
Peacefully swimming in our protected cove for years and later experiencing a sea lion encounter feels like falling in love with a man and later finding out he’s married. There is a sense of betrayal. In the water, I am haunted by the inevitable moment when I will come into contact with one of these shiny black rubbery creatures bobbing its head. I look around, under me, beside me, in front of me, behind me, and feel like a raw nerve. I obsess over what I would do if one charges at me. I already know the type of antibiotics I would need.
Quitting isn’t an option, though. Co-existing with sea lions in the cove has become a test of wills—who will stay and who will go. Someone who knows how to claim the water is Kim Chambers, one of the best marathon swimmers in the world. She started swimming as an adult to rehab a leg she’d almost lost to amputation after she fell down her staircase. I approach her one morning in the women’s shower and ask how she deals with her fears. As the first woman to swim thirty miles solo from the Farallon Islands to the Golden Gate Bridge, through the largest concentration of Great White sharks in the world, she stares at me with her piercing blue eyes and says, “When you see that fear is when you have to go for it.” The difference between world-class athletes and amateurs is that the professionals refuse to let fear control their swimming.
Watching other swimmers in the water, who seem to have mastered mind control and found a way to wrangle their fears, motivates me. Chanting “Yoga Citti Vrtti Nirodha,” a Sanskrit Yoga Sutra, helps reduce the fluctuations of my mind. These prayers summon me back to myself. I matter, I am here, I am alive, I’m not going anywhere.
Now my work at sea level begins. The water temperature is in the low 60’s, I grind my feet in the cold sand and slip on my earplugs and tuck my curly hair under the orange thermal cap that makes my head look like a warning signal. I put my goggles on as I gradually ease into the water. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. I realize my life, at sea or on land, will always have real or symbolic Blubber boys who will block my path and test my place in this world. They won’t win. I listen to the gurgling sounds of freedom and respond, “Deal.” The water belongs to me today.
Eli's lose! Great article.
Lovely ode to the joy of open-water swimming. I like to body surf down on the Central Coast (fully neoprene-clad), and have often been checked out/near-visited by curious sea lions. I know they can be dangerous but I am delighted when one pops up its shiny head a few yards away from me, then sinks, then pops up again a few yards on the other side. Cold ocean swimming is like returning the the Great Mother for me.