As I began to backstroke, I noted that the clouds were exceptionally big and ominous. The swim team was in the middle of their workout and I remember how noisy it was—the air filled with the sound of kids laughing and splashing and throwing each other into the deep end. That was the last time I heard a group of kids goofing off.

The pool and most of my world shut down the next day. March 16 became more than a square on a calendar page; it was a stop sign, marking a division between what came Before and what has happened After.

Before SIP, my last plane ride was on February 26 from Washington D.C. to Oakland. I was returning from a legislative conference where there’d been some talk of a new virus found in China. I remember being extra aware of my fellow passengers and thoroughly wiping down my armrests and tray table and that little air vent above my seat with lavender-scented anti-bacterial wipes. Upon my return, I learned that one of the other conference delegates had been diagnosed with COVID-19. Turned out that I was the airline passenger who was a potential carrier.

My last trip to a live performance was on March 11 by way of a ghostly BART car where my sister and I were the only occupants. We arrived to find a nearly empty theater and were soon encouraged to move to the front by Sting, his broken arm in a sling. We were there to see his musical “The Last Ship.” That night the production sailed for the last time.

The next day, on March 12, I met up with friends for a planned outing to the UC Botanical Garden. By then the news was alerting us that we were only safe if we gathered outside and at a distance. We did our best to keep somewhat seperated, but we hadn’t yet learned that six feet was the approximate length of a shopping cart. We spread out for a group photo and nervously chattered about what was to come.

On March 16, when I was taking those few last laps in the pool, my husband went into the office for the last time, coming home with a few files, just in case. We’d soon spend more time together than we’d ever spent in our forty years of marriage. But we wouldn’t celebrate our milestone anniversary with our family as planned.

A friend tells me she’ll never forget her last handshake, but I don’t remember whose hand I last shook. I can’t pinpoint my last meal inside a restaurant. I don’t recall the last movie I saw in a theater. I can’t hum the last hymn I sang at in-person church. I wish I could.

But if I’m counting the lasts, I must also tally the firsts.

Like my first mask, hand-sewn by my sister. The first time I wore that mask to a store and my glasses were so foggy I gave up before acquiring half the things on my list. The first time I sanitized those same groceries before putting them away.

The first time our kids drove up from L.A., not sure what to do now that their baby’s daycare had closed, and they still had full-time jobs that would now happen from home where they were suddenly full-time parenting—so, maybe moving back home would be the answer? At least they could go shopping for us.

(A week of our chilly spring weather convinced them to return to sunnier climes and figure stuff out.)

The first time I had a multi-generational, multi-location surprise birthday party via zoom. The first remote funeral I attended, broadcast from a funeral home several states away.

The first COVID test administered in a Kaiser parking lot; done so thoroughly that my eyes watered for an hour. The first (and thankfully only) time the raccoons got to the DoorDash dinner on our porch before we did.

I think about those early After months of confusion and isolation and want to weep. But I also recall how the fog of COVID-times created space to pursue new things. A Zoom lecture taught me how to sketch the birds that kept me company. A tweet tipped me off to an online book group that spurred me to finally read “War and Peace.” An Instagram post led me to a writing workshop that birthed my second novel.

Speaking of births, we just welcomed our fourth grandchild. He will hopefully be the first and the last baby born into our family during a pandemic. He is one of the gifts of this year; something I will treasure even when I’m once again backstroking to the sound of children at play.

A version of this essay first appeared in the Piedmont Exedra.

Friends and family report the same pandemic fatigue. Some have more reason than others to complain. Three of my eight siblings or their children have contracted the coronavirus. My farmer brother’s seasonal migrant workers succumbed as they worked alongside him, threatening not only his health but the annual harvest. Thankfully, they’re all on the road to recovery but fighting to regain the energy they once took for granted.

As the oldest one of the bunch, I’ve been more cautious about travel and outside interactions which means I’m healthy but more isolated. Fortunately, there’s no shortage of ways to pass the time. Writing, cooking, gardening, crafting, reading, walking and swimming fill up most of my daylight hours. Broadcasts of concerts, lectures and classes eat up more time. Virtual meetings for my book club, garden club, writing group and religious services fill in the gaps. Zoom, zoom, zoom.

And I still haven’t finished Netflix.

In the Before Time, I longed for life to slow down. What’s that old adage about being careful what you wish for? Now I have plenty of time, but also a schedule so chock-a-block with virtual amusements that I feel like I’m back on the Queen Mary, my one and only voyage on the high seas.

Last year, we booked a Transatlantic crossing from Southampton to New York to return from visiting family in England. I was writing a novel about my immigrant ancestors. Taking the long way home would give me a chance to experience a bit of what they did as they left the Old World for the New.

It would take a week to make our way across the ocean and I looked forward to seven days of lounging in the grand salons while reading my fill from the well-appointed onboard library.

Au contraire. From the moment we woke up until we tumbled into our gently rocking bed, every hour offered competing amusements—early morning yoga, dance lessons, painting classes, lectures, movies, knitting circles, spa services, pick-up choir practices, gala performances, themed dinners and late-night ballroom dancing. (A far cry from my ancestors’ journey.)

I soon learned that I’d have to work as hard at carving out downtime on board as I did on land. I forsook the political musings by the aged ambassador to Qatar and passed on the tropical floral arrangement demonstrations in the bowels of the ship to sit on our small balcony, grateful I’d packed a thick lilac sweater, even though it was technically summer. I happily read the tattered paperback I’d brought from home immersed in the sounds and smells of the sea.

But it’s not the wind-whipped balcony retreats or abundant entertainment offerings I remember best. Instead it’s the unexpected encounters with strangers, like the amiable mix of first-time and old-hand cruisers who were our nighty dining companions at the Captain’s Table–a plum seating assignment that gave us the best view in the expansive dining hall, though alas, the captain never appeared.

There was the buff Eastern European yoga instructor who directed us to clasp our hands and extend our index fingers (a la Charlie’s Angels) for “pistol pose;” the young Irishwoman who was so afraid of flying she always crossed by boat to visit her in-laws in the States; and the vacationing Brits who were transformed once they donned their sequined blouses and bowties for the late-night dances. Their years of ballroom lessons propelled them onto the parqueted dance floor creating marvelous amateur performances for us fumble-footed Yanks watching from the sidelines.

The other thing I recall is the vast, seemingly endless expanse of the Atlantic. The entire week we were on the water we saw only one freighter in the far distance. No jumping dolphins or winged messengers bearing olive branches. Just grey-blue waters churning into alarming aqua swells as we approached the spot where the Titanic went down, highlighting the faint sense of doom that traveled with us. Those were the days of seasickness when it was best to forgo the captain-less Captain’s Table as well as the exuberant retrospectives of Abba’s Greatest Hits and just lie down hoping “this too will pass.”

And it did. Eventually, the waters smoothed out and then the tip of Long Island emerged from the fog. We rose from our beds in the pre-dawn hours, changed somehow, to witness the lights of the Verazzano-Narrows bridge welcoming us back to the world we once knew.

On days when the isolation and uncertainty of this time has laid me low, I remember to take it easy while I wait for land to appear. I step away from the neverending Zoom offerings and into my back yard for some spontaneous entertainment. Yesterday it was a flock of Steller’s Jays swooping from a nearby oak, as though shooshing down a ski slope or taking the final drop at Splash Mountain. Above them the hawks swirled in the sparkling smoke-free skies like sequined Brits tripping the light fantastic in the middle of the Atlantic.

Their antics caused me to breathe a little easier; renewed my faith that eventually we’ll see new life and reach the far-off shores of in-person gatherings, work and entertainment. Until then, I’ll just keep cruisin.’

This essay originally appeared in the Piedmont Exedra, 10/23/20.