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On my first day in Seattle—mid-summer, 2011—the hot sands of Alki Beach beckoned. “Junuary” gave way to 90-degree temperatures. The blazing sun penetrated deep into the seemingly clean, clear water. I disrobed and ran straight in, diving under at a mid-thigh depth. It was transformative, but not in a way I was familiar with. Frigid to the point of barely tolerable, my legs ceased functioning. I hobbled gingerly back to shore, lesson learned. No wonder only children were actually in the water. For them, excitement trumped the initial pain. Wallowing isn’t really possible in the Pacific Northwest. Left with surface impressions, the water here is a spectacle of shifting surfaces and mirrored skies, hinting at hidden depths, alive with countless boats and the surprise appearance of animals for whom water is no mystery but, instead, a place to call home. One doesn’t “go” to find water. Water is everywhere: sea, lakes, rivers, fog, rain, mist, puddles, pools, wet sidewalks. Better get used to it.