My Blue Mind
by Isabella Wellman-Webster
St. Lawrence University
Isabella Wellman-Webster is a Creative Writing major and Public Health minor at St. Lawrence University. She is from Bar Harbor, an island off the coast of Maine. Isabella enjoys writing, dancing, and playing with her family’s dog, Stella.
She provided a cocoon etched against the tide lines, encompassing my existence. I was a part of her, a living organism in her womb. Within her, I was free. Free from the pull of living in a world of anger. Free from the tugs on my tummy line, the jiggle of my thighs. She grabbed ahold of my anxiety and pulled it into her abyss, never to be seen again. Being in her waves, I felt like I could be present within myself. And finally, when I reached the shoreline, I was reborn with her as my support system, my mother.
I sit, listening to the ocean breeze knock against my car window like an invisible hand, inviting me to play. I slide out of the car and into my snow pants and oversized Champion sweatshirt. The wind pulls on my shoulder now, urging me to come along. I grab my towel and walk down the trail with my partner.
The mid-day sun soaks the surrounding trees, making ice drip off the pine needles like maple syrup. The waves wash over the cool sand; the continuous motion makes me feel relaxed in her presence. In my eyes, the ocean is a woman, one who takes up space in a world that usually makes her small. Instead, she is a massive, ongoing surge of energy matched by no other creature, and she is loved, nonetheless.
I am encouraged by the tempting feeling of danger, the single push that enables me to continue polar plunging. Her body temperature is 30 degrees, meaning I have less than three minutes before I lose my ability to tread water. I take off my snow pants, and the cold air pushes up against my thighs, pulling me closer to her. I run to her, the cold water splashing up my calves, and up to my waist. The crash of her waves hits against my body, and I can’t breathe. My brain screams, GET OUT. I decide to play with this extreme and submerge my head.
It’s quiet here, underwater. There are no notifications, no grocery bills. No need to wear a mask. I can just be. I push my face towards the sky and wipe salty water away from my contact lenses, her cold existence sinking into my eyebrows. My hair clumps together into thick frozen stalks; they clash together like Christmas ornaments.
I look back at my partner, standing there bundled in a blue puffy winter jacket, my towel whipping against his body from the wind. His phobia of sharks and hatred for cold water overcomes his desire to join me. Instead, he supports me. Because here, in the ocean that surrounds Bar Harbor, the island I have grown up on, I feel safe. I feel protected by the waves that become the arms that hug my thighs, my tummy rolls, and my frozen toes. I feel secure floating on the surface of her body; my eyes closed against the warm sun. I feel loved even when she pushes the air out of my chest from her strength.
But I know it’s time to leave her, my safe place, as my legs begin to drag against her current. Her hands move along my spine as a wave goodbye, and I run to my partner. Tourists, the few who dare to embrace the heaviness of a Maine winter, stroll on the beach for their daily vitamin D. They all congratulate me – You are so brave! – as if I just won a soccer game, while I tremble in my purple towel, my partner rubbing his warm hands against my ice-covered arms. I smile, and I feel better than I have in days from the ocean’s kiss, and I wake up the next day only wanting more.
~~~~
Moving to Maine during the pandemic was one of the more isolating experiences that I have gone through. My partner and I lived in a small town called Northeast Harbor, our rental tucked by the bay. At five in the morning, you could hear the lobstermen/women’s boats crash against the water, their desire to pluck seafood from the ocean floor dwindling with the lack of tourism. The rest of the town’s windows were pitch black; their plowed driveways were empty until May. My partner and I were juggling living together at age twenty, our jobs, preparing for the summer semester of our sophomore year, and attempting to distance ourselves from the dreary seasonal blues. But you could always find us goofing around in the local Hannaford’s or driving at midnight for hours to look at people’s Christmas lights. We would come home every night after work and try different stir fry recipes, shifting through the roles of chopping, cooking, and cleaning.
Handed a world of adulthood and did the best we could, together.
By March, the world felt at a standstill. The New York Times claimed it had been officially a year since the pandemic started. Reading the headline made me want to curl back in bed and only come out for dark chocolate and tea. But this wasn’t an option; I had to make espresso drinks daily for the locals to have enough money for the upcoming semester. I met two of my friends in Saco, Maine, for a mini getaway from the challenges of daily isolation. On our last day, we drove to Old Orchard Beach. Since it was late winter, the usually busy town was empty. All the store’s signs were flipped to CLOSED, and people sat in their cars facing the continuous cycle of the sea. I watched the small lobster boats coast against her skin, their captains looking like stick figures in the distance.
My decision to do my first winter plunge came from me reading about the healing properties of cold water for those dealing with mental illness. A marine biologist, Wallace J. Nichols, studied how the brain interacts with ocean dives, and how it creates a unique state in the human brain, known as “Blue Mind.” This interaction allows the brain to be focused but relaxed. It is a state that many people have claimed to bring relief to their anxiety or depression. The physical shock creates an extreme that, for your brain, feels like you are hitting the reset button.
Two months earlier, I had begun to feel lost in a world of uncertainty. I gained ten pounds and felt shame around my body. I wore loose clothing every day to work, and when I was changing into pajamas, I often looked into the mirror and burst into tears. Although I had loving support from my partner, my body image was a controlling monster that had ruled my brain since I was in the sixth grade, and now it was in full strength. My whole existence became consumed by my desire to fit into a size four jeans and I hated every second that I couldn’t. I exercised, went to therapy, did an eight-week mindfulness workshop. But even if I lost the weight, it wasn’t enough. My brain was eclipsed by the monster’s voice in the back of my head, telling me, don’t put two slices of pizza on your plate…ugh look at your hips…why are you eating that much?!
So, when I looked at the ocean from Old Orchard Beach, the temperature of the water didn’t seem dangerous. My mental state was already in the danger zone, and I needed to feel better. My feet dug into the cold Earth as I dropped my towel. I ran towards the salty water, wanting nothing more than to destroy this monster that clung to my every thought, every moment that I spent getting dressed or looking in the mirror.
I wanted to achieve the “Blue Mind.”
I felt the ocean’s arms crash against my stomach as I plunged into her icy bath. For this being my first time, it didn’t last long. I was shocked her temperature, the strength of her thick waves. I found myself instantly standing up after submerging my body, stunned by the intensity of the water’s cold touch and how she felt on my skin. Sand curled around my dark hair like highlights, and my body shivered uncontrollably. The unforgettable high of endorphins oozed over my ears and around the back of my neck like warm honey. I felt invincible.
My purple lips outlined my chattering teeth. I couldn’t stop smiling, which was something that hadn’t happened for ten weeks. I loved the feeling of the ocean’s presence against mine, and the feeling stayed with me in the car, on the drive back, and throughout the day, reminding me of the blissful feeling of being alive.
~~~~
When I returned from Saco, I made ocean plunges a source of healing my mental state. My mother’s supervisor, a sixty-four-year-old woman, was a part of “Cold Tits, Warm Heart,” a fundraiser by women/non-binary folks to raise money for the local behavioral health center. In exchange, they did polar plunges in different bodies of water every day. My mother, frightened by the idea of me swimming during the barren winter months, knew that I was struggling and encouraged almost anything that made me feel better about my body.
I often received text messages about their plunges, but I never went. I loved being on my own with the ocean. She provided me with a place of isolation, but I never felt alone there. Whether swimming or walking along the shore, I knew the sea accepted me in whatever physical form or mental state. When tears were streaming down my face, she would wipe them away with her powerful waves. When I thought about my body negatively, I looked at the sea and saw how beautiful she was in her extraordinary size. People came to the ocean for her beauty, but I was drawn to her because she allowed me to feel love for my body and be at peace with my torturous thoughts.
I am often reminded of my mother when near the ocean, which never made sense because my mother hated the feeling of sand on her skin. However, as a young girl, she often read me The Big Big Sea before tucking me in and singing me a lullaby. The story is about a young girl, around the same age as me at the time, that tells her mother she can’t fall asleep. Her mother takes ahold the little girl’s hand, and they walk to a beach. Luminated by the moonlight, they run fearlessly into the sea, gravitating towards the ocean’s pull. At night, they eat buttered toast and sip tea before cuddling into bed with one another, just before the sun rises. I dreamed of my mother bringing me to the ocean when I couldn’t count the sheep to sleep, but instead, she would let me snuggle into her bed and lay on her chest while she drank Red Rose tea and read Danielle Steele, and I think that was more than enough.
Looking back, I think my mom reminds me of the sea because she taught me how to swim. I was four years old, and my mother was determined to teach me how to swim. When I submerged my body into the shallow end, I felt the back of my head weighed down by my swim cap. The cap had huge rubber flowers and was too big, but I loved the pattern too much to tell my mother. As I pushed off, I began sinking to the bottom of the pool. I can still remember looking up at my mother from under the surface of the water, not aware of what was happening to me. All I could hear was the faint sound of her voice yelling to the lifeguard. The rest of the world was silent, similar to how I feel now underneath the surface of the ocean.
When the lifeguard ripped me out of the water, I met my mother’s sullen face. She looked like she wanted to get me dressed and never return to the pool again. But she was determined. She tore off my swim cap, and after a few tears, I jumped back in, this time with the support of the lifeguard. I loved it. I loved how I could float on my back and look up at the cracks on the ceiling, my ears picking up the slight echo of the murmuring voices that surrounded me. I felt safe in the presence of water and my ability to balance on its surface.
When I was nine years old, I had a terrible ear infection that created a hole in my eardrum. After several surgical procedures that attempted to fix the perforation, I had to wear neon orange earplugs and a waterproof headband when swimming. This experience changed my perspective; I avoided open water as a child because I was embarrassed by my dark blue headband. I usually sat on the edge of the pool at birthday parties and often only put my toes into the lake.
I resented how the water placed me at a disadvantage until I learned about the healing properties of the sea.
The continuous cycle of ear problems is something that I still struggle with, but the earplugs don’t matter anymore. In the winter of 2021, what mattered was feeling better in my body. I let myself bathe in the love that the ocean offered me weekly and often felt her presence in my chest afterward, healing my heart.
When I didn’t want to swim alone, I went to the beach with my partner’s mother. We had a mutual love for yoga, her being an instructor and myself practicing since I was sixteen. When we spoke to one another about our shared struggles with body image, we agreed that, in different ways, the intensity of the cold water solved those obsessive thoughts that still followed us. We walked against the rocky path to a small sandy area halfway down the shoreline, her golden retrievers Hennessey and Juniper following close behind.
When we took off our snow pants, I felt like we both were diving into the ocean for the same cure: an acceptance of the self.
After a month of doing polar plunges, we finally had a 55-degree, sunny day in April. My mother asked if my siblings and I wanted to go to the beach. When she saw my swimsuit from the top of my jacket, she smiled and handed me a winter hat.
“You’re crazy, but let’s see it!” she said as we all piled into the back of her Toyota Sequoia. The tree branches had begun to produce green buds, announcing that spring was finally here. Maine license plates filled the parking lot, all surrounded by the salty scent of the sea. As we walked down the trail, I saw the town librarian, a woman from our church, family friends. Everyone had come out from hibernation after a winter of isolation. They were people that I loved, which only made me want the ocean’s touch more.
The sun danced over my shoulders, preparing my body for the icy glow. I took off my sweatpants, and my little sister Aubrey screamed at the sight of my bare legs and wrapped a towel around them.
“BRRRR!” she said, laughing, sand covering her black leggings and coming into her winter boots. My mother watched me take off my jacket and slip off my socks. She looked like she didn’t love watching her daughter run into freezing water.
“Why do you do this, Isabella?” she asked, as I tossed my towel into the sand.
“I do this to feel better.”
I ran against the wet sand, Aubrey running close behind me. She stopped at the shoreline, not wanting to pursue her invitation from the ocean while I accepted it wholeheartedly. I ran past my thoughts about how I looked in my bathing suit and ran into the sensation of numbness from the frigid water. I continuously wiggled my fingers and toes to make sure they maintained proper motor function and laid on the surface of the ocean’s skin. I had five minutes before I needed to get out.
I felt safe here, her waves guiding me through the terrain of contentment. For a moment, it was just me and the sea. There was no frustration of my breasts busting out of my bikini top. It didn’t matter that I was wearing a bikini. Instead, I felt thankful for my body’s connection to the water. I attempted to control my breath, to circulate oxygen through my extremities. In six, out eight. My breath moved to the current of the waves, my breath and the tide in sync with one another.
When I looked back to shore, Aubrey was running towards me, calling me back in. I felt her, the mother, hold tightly onto my limbs. Her grasp began to make my limbs weary like they were treading through April mud. It was time to leave her. I felt the fingertips of the sea press into my thighs as I walked through seaweed, moving through this powerful body that empowered my own.
I slid my numb legs into my dry snow pants and sat among those who loved me. Although I still had more healing to do, I felt content with the ocean’s hug wrapped around my body. I had reached my own Blue Mind. As the waves crashed onto the sand, I felt forever grateful for the love I felt from the healing sea that my body deserves, time and time again.
References
Nichols, Wallace J. Blue Mind: The Surprising Science That Shows How Being Near, In, On, or Under Water Can Make You Happier, Healthier, More Connected, and Better at What You Do. Bay Back Books, 2015.
Interview with the Author
1. What was your inspiration for this piece?
When writing this piece, I was tasked with the prompt: “What is something you really like to do?” I immediately thought of my morning: a sunrise dip with a few colleagues before a day of classes. I had been missing the ocean upon returning to school, and I thought that reflecting on my experiences through writing would enable me to transport back to the icy waves, at least for a moment.
2. What is your creative process? (How do you go about writing or creating?)
When writing, especially with non-fiction, I often write by hand a messy, fast-paced playout of my experience. I often take a break (a few hours to one day) and move back through my work by typing what is legible and makes sense to the story. Then I ask myself ‘why am I writing this piece again? What do I want to come out of this?’ and begin, by reading over my experience and talking about it with my professor, my mother, or my siblings, to write out reflections from the moments I have written about.
3. What are some influences on your artistic process?
Definitely my professor and advisor, Paul Graham. He listened to my experiences of being in the ocean, discussed its healing properties with me, and helped me piece together this written work that I have now finalized.
My mother was also a huge influence. She never read this piece until the ending; however, we spoke numerous times about my first-time swimming, her many attempts for me to join the swim team when I had prescription goggles on and earplugs in. She has always urged me to do exactly what I want to do without a care about what others think, which is something I am very grateful for today as a young woman in this world.