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My ecstasy was cut short by a Hitchcock-level infestation of lion’s mane jellyfish, the largest in the world.
This story takes place in the Atlantic Ocean on an August day when the sea was so turbulent (the opposite of the conditions pictured above), we swimmers competing in 3rd Annual Boardwalk Mile Open Water Ocean Swim could not even see each other above the white-topped swells.
This is a story about mojo.
I lost my mojo gradually, as people often do.
I found it gradually, too. Looking back, I can see that the first turning point happened three years ago during a painful descent of the sacred Pyramid of the Moon in Teotihuacan in Mexico, when this revelation came to me like a message from on high: After 40 years of limping, it was time for a knee replacement.
Two years ago, I healed a chronic back problem thanks to pain reprocessing therapy.
In February, I began to wonder: Could I become a competitive athlete again? In a quest to find out, I took up cornhole and documented my journey in an eight-part series culminating in a silver medal and fourth-place ribbon at the National Senior Games in Des Moines, Iowa early August.
This summer, I discovered the Open Water Swimmers of Southern Delaware and joined this welcoming group for a few glorious one-mile swims in the Rehoboth Beach ocean and the nearby Delaware Bay.
Our ecstasy was cut short by a Hitchcock-level infestation of the world’s largest jellyfish, known as lion’s mane for their thirty-foot-long tentacles — and yes, they sting. These orange terrors can wrap appendages around your legs, chest, and even face, searing any exposed skin. Sometimes you have to unwrap them before continuing on. (Or not).
Related story:
“We are who we are because of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.” — Thomas Spanbauer
After three horror-swims, I kept tabs on the situation via daily Facebook updates from my more intrepid new friends. Typical post: “We cut the swim short due to huge stinging jellies that would slide down your body as you swam over them, which freaked me out.”
Then Hurricane Erin washed away most of “the jellies” and it was fairly safe to swim again.
That’s when my friends encouraged me to compete in a one-mile race1 from the southern to the northern tip of the Rehoboth Beach Boardwalk. I wanted to say yes, as I always do when invited to play, but at first, I declined. Despite the temptation, I’ve grown accustomed to declining, and I wasn’t quite in my mojo groove yet.
In The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon, Thomas Spanbauer writes, “We are who we are because of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves.”
I hadn’t quite shaken the story I had been telling myself since my forties: “I can swim for fun and fitness, but I can’t compete due to hypermobile shoulders that get inflamed when I try to swim fast.”
Then I remembered what I had learned during this year’s six-month cornhole training period: I can compete if, at the same time, I “love love love love love” my body, as my friend and Olympic swimming champion Nancy Hogshead, JD, Oly taught me.
I am gradually replacing my “I can’t trust my body” story with this reassuring mantra: “My body can trust me to take good care of it.”
Leaning into that trust, I joined 52 other swimmers at the starting line, waited for the horn, and dove through the first set of enormous waves. At first, we clustered together, accidentally kicking each other underwater like nervous goslings. Soon, our gaggle surged north past the first buoy. The fastest swimmers disappeared, leaving me alone in deep troughs between enormous swells.
There were no jellies except a few round, white, harmless, moon jellyfish — which, when you’re not accidentally piercing them with your fingers, look surprisingly elegant. They bobbed below me like otherworldly companions.
Occasionally, a lifeguard would drive by on a jet ski, then drive by in the other direction with a passenger on board.
I did not need to flag down the guards. Nor did I injure my shoulders via overexertion. I felt great: energetic, happy, and entertained to the point of laughing to myself about the wild waves.2 This is why I love ocean swimming: Mother Nature at her most varied and dramatic.
(No, you don’t swim straight in ocean. You try to, but fail.)
Fortunately, there were age as well as sex categories. Out of the eight swimmers in the women’s 60-69 category (I’m 69), I placed third, winning a bronze medal – a welcome bonus after the exhilarating swim itself.3
Mojo is a feeling of being alive, enthusiastic, full of drive and passion, immersed in the flow of life. It’s a feeling of competence and confidence: an almost magic force that drives athletic and other successes.
Mojo can go missing as easily as a child’s plastic shovel at the beach, unnoticed. Hence the most common use of the word: “got my mojo back.”
This summer, I got my mojo back.
A few weeks ago, I bought a new car despite owning a perfectly good 2010 Prius with only 60,000 miles on it. (I prefer to walk, bike, or take the metro.) While in Des Moines for the National Senior Games, I had rented a Kia and was shocked at how much more comfortable it was for my back and long limbs. It also featured the backup camera and blind-spot-warning system I’ve been envying in friends’ cars. Suddenly, I “needed” a new car.
Besides, wouldn’t a car with a comfortable fit and state-of-the-art safety features align with my newfound “love love love love love your body” commitment? Katherine, my spouse, generously agreed that my athletic achievements had earned me this “prize.”
I have always named my cars. My first, a red 1969 Delta 88 convertible, I named Alpha Alpha after the two-person sorority my high school friend Charlotte and I created. My Prius was named Sandy Beach for its color.
The name for my bright blue Kia Soul eluded me for weeks.
While writing this story, the perfect name finally came to me: Mojo.
Thoughts about your mojo or anything else? I’m always curious. See also:
related stories in #CornholeQuest
our Women’s Sports Policy newsletter
Hosted by Seashore Striders, a running club that has also hosts swimming events.
In much of the world, they use the phrase “wild swimming” rather than “open-water swimming.”
Sex and age categories make sports fair. Or did make sports fair – until disrupted by males’ irrational and disruptive insistence that they should be allowed to compete “as women.” See #SaveWomen’sSports.
Mojo is the perfect name for a car of that color and model "Soul." May I propose "Mojo" for your official nickname because you are always go full throttle at whatever you endeavor and your mojo stays on IMHO.
I’ve had a front-row seat!! And Mariah - your mojo is the best sort … it’s contagious! See you in person 🔜🥰