Swimmers under the Golden Gate Bridge
Swimmers begin a swim from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Bay Bridge as the day’s marine layer, aka fog, lifts. (Courtesy of Sylvia Lacock, Pacific Open Water Swim Company)

There is nothing like swallowing a mouthful of San Francisco Bay to make you care about local water quality. The first time I swam in the cold, murky water, a little wave tossed a jigger of the Bay’s salty soup down my throat. I was suddenly curious about all the microbes making their way to my stomach. And as I swam, the silky feeling of the water on my skin, the slimy blade of eelgrass clinging to my wrist, and the quickening of my breath all raised a thousand questions about the ways I was related to the invisible life floating all around me. I became acutely aware of being a land mammal in a realm that was not mine. I sensed the thinness of the membranes separating the wild world outside my body from the biome within. 

Take the plunge

Jump to our resources for swimming in the Bay, including where to dive in.

Now I immerse myself almost daily in this water. It is a gentle, health-giving, and powerful connection not just to underwater worlds, but to the watersheds from Oregon down to Bakersfield that stream into the Bay. I swim in Sierra snowmelt and Pacific waves that start as far away as Japan. Swimming helps me see myself as an organism subject to landscape-scale forces: the Bay receives waters from rivers that drain 40 percent of California’s area. Plunging into the Bay submerges me in the world of tiny beings at the bottom of the food chain. In that mouthful of Bay water was a kaleidoscope of life—free-floating larval barnacles, eelgrass pollen, and seaweed spores. A map or a microscope can help us analyze our connections to these landscapes and creatures, but they can’t match the sensory intensity of a full-body encounter with the water.  

I started swimming in the Bay at a time when I was feeling disconnected from the world. It was half a year into the pandemic, and I was taking regular socially distanced walks at the Albany Bulb, a landfill that stuck out a mile into the water not far from my home on the Bay’s eastern shore. From the trail, I would see a handful of women stripping down to their bathing suits at the small beach. They’d walk past the romping dogs and glide into the water—most of them sans wetsuits. I thought they were crazy. 

Then one October evening, I watched the documentary My Octopus Teacher, about a man in midlife crisis who swam in the frigid ocean near Cape Town, South Africa, so he could get to know an octopus. The next morning, I took a towel down to the beach.

The women were chatting, all bare legs and baggy coats, pulling on swim caps. They were friendly to a newcomer, introducing themselves and asking my name as if we were at a church coffee hour. I asked for tips but mostly they offered simple encouragement. I took a deep breath and waded into San Francisco Bay.

It was shockingly cold. Feet, thighs, belly: frigid. My brain knew to expect this, but my body was flabbergasted. I took a deep breath, plunged in, and started swimming furiously in a vain attempt to get warm. First, the surface of my skin was cold. Then the cold moved inside. My collarbone felt like it was made of steel, attracting and conducting the cold. After a bit, though, the pain in my clavicle abated and the surface of my skin forgot it was cold. A hundred strokes later, a strange warmth radiated through my body and I swam on in surprising comfort. But eventually the surface of my skin began to burn and prickle. My pinkie fingers stuck out stiffly and I was unable to pull them back in. I thought it best to turn around and I swam back to the beach, pulling with clawlike hands.

Back onshore, I felt only exhilaration. I got dressed among the other women, all of whom bore the same teeth-chattering, beatific smile I had. Over time, I discovered that no one comes out of the cold water in a bad mood. By the time my frozen hands could pull my shirt and pants on, I was shaking. Not little shivers, but convulsions so violent that I spilled some of the tea in my thermos cup onto the ground.

Five friends ready to swim
Five friends ready to swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco. (Courtesy of Sylvia Lacock, Pacific Open Water Swim Company)

I later learned this is “afterdrop.” When you swim in cold water, the blood rushes from your extremities into your torso to warm your essential organs. When you get out, the blood starts redistributing itself back to your legs, feet, arms, and hands; your viscera get cold and your body responds with tremors that try to warm everything back up again. This violent ebb and flow is somehow salutary. It feels so good, both mentally and physically, that you begin to crave it. As I began to swim regularly and my body acclimated to the water, I needed longer swims to get the same effect. But it was an addiction that I couldn’t resist.

In the long months during the isolation of COVID, a growing group of swimmers found each other at this spot. The cold water and the warm companionship helped us survive. We felt fully alive, and not alone. Some had been regular indoor swimmers and were desperate when health authorities closed the pools. Others, like me (who could barely swim and detested chlorine), were drawn to the Bay itself. The little daily 8 a.m. group snowballed as curious passersby asked if they could join. Most of us had been strangers to each other, but we built an intimacy that could only happen outdoors in those days and that has since outlasted the pandemic. Every day, we shed our cares with our clothing, share food and humor and heartache. Our common religion is a sense of awe at the spectacular watery wilderness we dip into each morning. Looking across 10 miles of water at the morning light hitting the Golden Gate Bridge and stroking our way toward it—even for a few hundred yards—is a daily practice of hope.

Swimmers prepare to enter the Bay
At Crissy Field Beach in San Francisco, year-round swimmers take their weekend plunge into the Bay’s chilly water. (Courtesy of Sylvia Lacock, Pacific Open Water Swim Company)

The Bay gives us Big Nature, an altered and invaded yet uncontrollable wildness literally a short walk from the sidewalks and front porches of our tidy human neighborhoods. And that wildness echoes the jungle within my body, where the number of bacterial cells outnumber human cells 10 to one. How is it that the minuscule, jewellike diatoms and other photosynthetic organisms floating all around me generate something like half the oxygen in the air that I gulp hungrily with each stroke? How can the invisible animal plankton wriggling through my hair support a food chain that stretches up to salmon and egrets and whales—and us? How can my body imbibe the bacteria and viruses floating in that mouthful of water and know either how to kill them off, to send them back into the water (yes, I pee there), or to add them to the pound or two of resident “good” microbes in my body that help me stay alive? In the water, the way that the slosh of carbon and oxygen flows in and out and through me becomes obvious. Nature is not some pristine thing defined by the absence of humans. It is, rather, a world in which I am both implicated and immersed. 

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One morning, I thought I accidentally kicked a floating log with my foot. Then, again and again, something was bumping my foot—following me? And then it stopped.  A bit unnerved, I looked around. Just a few feet away, I met the shining black eyes of a seal, floating, like me, with just its head out of the water. It wasn’t afraid of me; nor did it threaten me. This was new: on land, a deer or a rabbit will run away, and I want to flee if I see a mountain lion or a bear. But here in the water the seal and I were meeting as mutually curious equals, neither predator nor prey. When I swam on, though, the seal passed under me and brushed its whiskers against my knee, sending my adrenaline rushing. We were not equals after all; the speed and agility of this sea mammal, friendly as it was, let me know that I was in its home territory, not mine.

I’m made small by submerging myself in the Bay, and enlarged. Almost naked in the water, I am vulnerable; my body senses acutely that every millimeter of its surface is in contact with the world. My semi-blindness in the water helps me see more clearly both my inadequacy and my ability to adapt. When I swim, each breath is a miracle, reminding me that I’m not drowning, even though I haven’t evolved to live here. I feel my own weakness and resilience and the power and fragility of all the beings around me. Here, I have found community with other people and with the rest of nature. We find strength in our interdependence as humans and joy in being part of the life all around us.

How to swim in the San Francisco Bay

Clubs 

Two open-water swimming clubs at San Francisco’s Aquatic Park welcome nonmember visitors to their shower and sauna facilities on designated days. They also sponsor organized swims from Alcatraz and other locations.

Groups

There are many informal groups who gather to swim in the Bay. Swimmers tend to be a friendly bunch, so if you see folks at a beach or dock, introduce yourself. 

  • East Bay Open Water Swimmers: A loose-knit group who swim around the Bay but most often at Keller Beach in Richmond and at the Berkeley Marina. Join their listserv to get notices of when and where people are swimming. EBOWS.org
  • Marin Open Water Swim Adventures: An informal group with Saturday swims at Paradise Beach in Tiburon. MarinOpenWaterSwim.org/new-swimmer-info
  • The Selkies: A queer and trans open-water swim community using the messaging app Signal to organize swims throughout the Bay Area, mostly from Alameda north to Richmond. They also have a group for South End Rowing Club swimmers and additional community-building events like full-moon night swims and a swim-themed book club. To join the Signal group, join the East Bay Open Water Swimmers listserv at EBOWS.org, post a message with “Selkies” in the subject line, and someone will get back to you.
Swimmers under the Bay Bridge
Swimmers under the Bay Bridge complete a 6.2-mile swim. (Courtesy of Sylvia Lacock, Pacific Open Water Swim Company)

Lessons and supported swims

Lessons for all levels, coaching, and long-distance and destination swims, including to Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge, are offered by private companies, with many swims supported by kayaks and motorized boats. Local triathlon groups also often organize open-water training swims.

Gear

Inflatable swim buoys that attach to your waist with a strap make you more visible and safer. A brightly colored swim cap is also a good idea. Silicone ear plugs (the soft kind that look like clear cough drops, available at drugstores) help keep you warmer by preventing cold water from entering your ear canal. 

Is a wetsuit necessary? It’s up to you. Some people swim year-round with no wetsuit, others always wear one in the water. Neoprene caps can help keep you warm even if you don’t wear a wetsuit, and booties and gloves are an option. Triathlon-style wetsuits are more comfortable for swimming than surfing versions, which are much stiffer. Sports Basement will rent you a wetsuit and let you buy it if you choose. 

Where to swim

Accessibility information for people with mobility limitations can be found at SFBayWaterTrail.org/plan-your-trip/accessibility.

1 Aquatic Park, San Francisco

Home to two swimming and rowing clubs, the cove has a public beach and is somewhat protected from waves. Stay inside the cove, where the currents are less hazardous, unless you’re on an organized swim or with an experienced buddy. Restrooms are open at the San Francisco Maritime Visitor Center and the Maritime Museum during their operating hours only.

2 Crissy Field East Beach, San Francisco

Swim close to shore. Restrooms, showers, and plentiful parking.

3 Clipper Cove, Yerba Buena Island

Generally calm waters accessed down a flight of steep steps to a small beach. You may need to park at the Treasure Island Yacht Club, just past the beach. No restrooms.

4 Quarry Beach, Angel Island 

Ferry to Angel Island and hike or bike to the beach below Fort McDowell. Strong currents. Toilets on bluff above beach.

5 Paradise Cove, Tiburon

Enter water by ramp near foot of pier; avoid swimming near people who are fishing. Flush toilets and picnic areas.

6 China Camp State Park, San Rafael

Swimming from China Camp beach to Rat Rock is popular at high tide. Flush toilets and picnic areas.

7 Keller Beach, Miller/Knox Regional Shoreline, Richmond

Very popular spot for swimmers. Pay attention to tides and currents. Showers, flush toilets, picnic area. Park on street.

8 Albany Beach, McLaughlin Eastshore State Park, Albany

Small beach very popular with off-leash dogs and kiteboarders. Vault toilet. Limited parking.

9 Berkeley Marina South Basin

Jump off dock near the Cal Sailing Club or enter water next to Hs Lordships restaurant, which is closed; watch out for windsurfers and dinghies. Flush toilets.

10 Point Emery, Emeryville

Small beach, no bathrooms or showers. Small parking lot.

11 Robert W. Crown Memorial State Beach, Alameda

Often warmer than other spots in the Bay and friendly to beginners because you can swim in the shallows along the long beach. Showers and flush toilets available.

12 Encinal Boat Ramp, Alameda

Jump off dock at high tide; walk into the water between the docks at low tide. Hot showers and bathrooms available next to parking lot.  

13 Jack London Aquatic Center, Oakland

Jump off dock to swim. Good low-tide spot, also popular with high school crew teams and Oakland’s dragon boat team. Portable restrooms.  

14 Coyote Point, San Mateo County

Beach entry, bathrooms, and showers. Best in the morning before wind picks up. Vehicle admission charged at card-payment machines. Water quality varies. Check San Mateo County water-quality tests, updated on Wednesdays.

Note: The far southern end of the Bay in Santa Clara and southern Alameda Counties is too shallow for swimming.

Water-Quality Information

(Note: Not all swim spots listed are monitored for water quality.)

Resources

Susan Kuramoto Moffat has written for the Los Angeles Times, The Wall Street Journal, the Associated Press, and Estuary News from places including Tokyo, Seoul, Southern California, and San Francisco Bay Area. She is working on a book about urban wilds.