I took care, when I waded into the lake this morning along the side of the rowing boat, to note where I’d got in. It’s skirted with pines and I could imagine the boat becoming hidden the further I swam out, and mistaking one clump of trees for another, or one of the scattered houses, painted the burnt red colour which is traditional in Sweden, for its neighbour.
I was swimming the lake, little Nörrsjon, for the first time. My way in through reeds and water lilies was easy. Soon I was breast stroking, my gaze level with the water boatmen skirting across the tensing surface.
I felt safe and held - the water clear and regulated to a perfect temperature by the recent heat, my swimming confidence sufficient, the weather calm.
When I reached the other shore’s lily pads, and at the moment of my turnaround, the water surface began to pit and ripple. It was rain, and each droplet was defined by its landing. It was rain in close up, and I began to see each drop as an entity. One landed on my nose as if providing evidence of a wetness additional to the lake’s.
I thought of the paperback I’d left out with my clothes and sped up my strokes, soon arriving back among lilies. As I approached the green pads, I noticed a strand of bubbles: a watery contrail delineating my earlier route through their rooty webs.
It surprised me that the traces of my way into the water had survived what was a thirty-or-so minute swim. Although I didn’t need the way marks, I retraced the line back to the water’s edge and my stuff.
I’ve not always been able to trust my literal or metaphorical sense of direction, and so this happening - the persistence of the pathway I'd created underlining my trajectory - affirmed to me that I've arrived in a place that's intended.
