I had been stuck in the house so long that I forgot what it was like to go outside. My body was stiff, my brain was foggy, and my attitude was, well let’s just call it curmudgeonly. After six weeks of illness and sciatica, I was finally able to go out for a walk. And when I did, it was like a breath of fresh air. No, wait it minute, it was a breath of fresh air. An hour spent walking in my local park was even more refreshing, though my sciatica made it much more work than it should have been.
What we used to call “a walk in the park”, is now considered ecotherapy – a physical and emotional antidote to the stress of modern life. In Japan, it goes by the name of “Forest Bathing”. And it is bathing, in the sense that you are immersing yourself in a gaseous milieu that is different from the one in your house, village, or city, which are often dominated by the malodorous outputs of methane, carbon monoxide, and nitrous oxide emanating from gasoline powered vehicles. Breathing deeply within a forest allows you to soak in all the oxygen, phenols, phytoncides, antioxidants, humic odors, and other natural gases emanating from the trees, shrubs, fungi, and microbes.
Because of my sciatica, I had not participated in my weekly kayaking or bicycling group (the “Leisure Biyakers”) for about six weeks. But during the first week of October, I was determined to go kayaking to one of my favorite locations.
An Outer Banks Wilderness
It’s hard to imagine wilderness on the east coast of the US, but the outer banks islands of the eastern shore of Virginia are as close to it as you can come. All of the barrier islands for 50 miles south of Chincoteague (and Wallops, the NASA base) are uninhabited, and owned by The Nature Conservancy as part of the Volgenau Virginia Coast Reserve. Comprised of 14 separate islands, it is the largest expanse of undeveloped coastal wilderness on the US east coast. Nobody lives there at all. Except nature. It’s about as wild a place as you can imagine, that close to civilization. And for that reason, I love to go kayaking there. The marshes are full of wildlife and about as far as I can get from my normal everyday life. Whenever I spend time there, I call it “Marsh Bathing”.
We launched our kayaks from a boat ramp into a tidal creek. The tide was coming in strongly, which required us to do some strenuous paddling. Yes, it would have made more sense to go out with the ebb tide, and come back on the flood tide, but it wasn’t cooperating today, so we dealt with it as best we could. At each bend in the creek, the outer bank is usually higher and muddy (with more current), whereas the inner bank is usually shallow (and slower), and the saltmarsh cordgrass (Spartina alterniflora) grows right down into the water. I stayed as close to the edge of the marsh as I could, since the current is usually slower there, due to the influence of shallow water and the marsh grass.
Life in the Marsh is Wild
As I come around the bend, I spy diamondback terrapins (Malaclemys terrapin) sunning themselves on the high bank. As soon as they see me, they scramble down the bank, some tumbling head over heels (flippers?) into the water. Little heads pop up in the creek, then, disgusted to find me still present, dip down under water and disappear.
Gray and white willets (Tringa semipalmata) flit by, flashing their white underwings, while screaming avian obscenities at me (Translation: "Begone, you bald-headed spawn of a buzzard! Your mother was hatched by a cowbird!"). On the shore, their heads bob up and down as they probe the mud for juicy worms and other critters. Black and white oystercatchers (Haematopus palliatus) with their bright red beaks search the shoreline for mussels (they don’t actually eat oysters, so technically ought to be called musselcatchers). Farther off in the marsh, I spot the head and necks of great egrets (Ardea alba), as they wade through the water searching for killifish. A great blue heron (Ardea herodias) stands on the bank at the next bend but flies off as soon as he sees me. Every now and then the water sparkles as schools of bay anchovy hit the surface, followed by the larger splash of a croaker or spot chasing them.
Suddenly I am treated to an amazing sight. A half-dozen black skimmers (Rhynchops niger) buzz by me, lower beaks skimming the water, like a low-level visitation by the blue angels. Black skimmers are summer residents, but are considered threatened in Maryland, after populations declined by 90%. Current population estimates range from a few dozen to several hundred, but I've never seen more than one at a time. Seeing this many at once is an unexpected gift.
My shoulder muscles are straining from fighting the tidal current, so I take refuge by poking my kayak into a side channel. It's only a few feet wide, so I back into it for several boat lengths, around a bend, beneath a dead branch, until my kayak comes to a stop. I am now surrounded by tall cordgrass and hidden from the main channel. It is quiet and still. Spartina blades lean over my kayak. I like to get up close and personal, so I grab a few blades and pull in closer. Marsh periwinkles are crawling up the Spartina blades, keeping themselves about a foot above the water, as they scrape algae from the foliage. They are biomarkers; if I could plot their height on the grass, it would tell me the stage of the tide. After resting for a bit, I leave my hideaway and paddle back out into the current.
Detoxing from Civilization
Was there a destination? Yes, after two hours of paddling, we finally reached the beach at the mouth of the creek, which has been totally remodeled by winter storms. A channel behind the dunes has been completely closed off, and a small basin where we used to go swimming has been filled in. Only half of our group has arrived; the remainder decided to quit fighting the tidal current and turned back. We eat lunch, share some cookies and a bottle of wine, and collect any decent conch shells that have been cast up on the beach. Then we launch ourselves back into the creek. The tide isn't high yet, and there is stilll some current, so the trip back takes only 30 minutes.
Out in the creek, I stop paddling and let the current carry me along. With my eyes closed, I listen to the birds and the wind. I breathe deeply, intentionally, in, out, slowly, and with determination. I feel the salty sea air travel deep into my lungs. There it mixes with the noxious gases of civilization, dilutes them, and chases them out as I exhale. Normally, every breath replaces about 10 percent of the carbon dioxide and other gases in my lungs. At that rate, 28 breaths would be required to replace 95% of my previously inhaled lung volume (for you math geeks, 1-0.9^28 is about 0.95, or log10(0.05)/log10(0.9) is about 28). Exercise, such as paddling, increases my inhalation volume to about 20%, requiring only 14 breaths to clear out the same volume, so I've probably done that already. But deep, strenuous breathing can exchange 30-50 percent of my lung volume. Assuming a value of 40%, it takes only nine deep forced exhalations to clear out 99% of my pre-paddling poisons.
My lungs are now filled with new, natural, salt marsh-derived oxygen, nitrogen, and aromatic molecules. My memory banks are filled with the sights and sounds of the marsh. My muscles limbered from the struggle against the current. My curmudgeon-ness has been replaced by an ecological calmness. I am one with my environment. Feeling renewed, I pick up my paddle and continue my journey. When I finally arrive back at the launch ramp, I am relaxed, sore, tired, and infinitely refreshed.
I have been Marsh Bathing, and I am cleansed.
Thanks for sharing this beautiful story about your immersion in the salt marsh. I am glad to hear that you were able to get out and to feel renewed by your time in nature. I hope the positive energy of the marsh speeds up your recovery.