Swimming to Antarctica (9 page)

After my mother opened two large jars of lanolin, oil residue from sheep’s wool that is used by Channel swimmers for insulation, she
pulled on gloves and smeared handfuls of it on my neck, shoulders, and underarms and around the bottom of my swimsuit. The lanolin was nasty stuff, worse than Vaseline. Pale yellow and as sticky as marshmallow cream, it smelled worse than a dead sheep.

Then we waited. A cool breeze circled the cove, waves slid into shore along the pebbles, and I smiled as I thought of Fahmy We had phoned home to let the family know the swim was on. My father had promised to tell Fahmy and Coach Gambril. They would be waiting by the radio for news.

We first heard Mickey’s excited voice: “We’re ’ere, love. We’re ’ere.” He was standing up in the boat, trying to climb out before Reg Junior had landed.

Mickey jumped out into ankle-deep water, jogged up the beach to us, and said, “Are you ready, love?”

“Yes, Mickey, I am very ready.”

“This is very exciting,” my mother said. She handed the gear to Reg Junior, and he helped her into the launch. Mickey followed her, then said, “Let me ’ave a look at my watch. You too, Reg Junior. Let’s synchronize our watches so we get these two times plus the stopwatch. Right, you ready, love? Okay, go.”

I jogged into the water, dove under the waves, and began sprinting. No doubt I would be swimming for hours, but there was always a coastal current, and I wanted to get through it quickly. I didn’t want to take the coastal tour of England. Besides that, my body was flowing with adrenaline. This time I was going for the record and I didn’t have to wait for anyone; I could swim at my own pace, flat out, or go slower whenever I wanted to or needed to.

It took me only a few minutes to reach the
Helen Anne Marie
and Brickell. The night was clear, and while the crew maneuvered from the launch to the boat, I continued swimming, not wanting to wait for anything. Every minute mattered; I was going for the record. So much could happen during this swim, as Fahmy had told me and Des had warned me; I had to keep moving forward, keep the pressure on, keep pulling strongly, so I could get across before something happened.

For the first three hours, we flew across the sea. Mickey and my mother were sitting near the bow, and every hour Mickey would count my strokes for a minute, making sure I maintained my pace. They did not take their eyes off of me, and I felt as if they were propelling me along with their thoughts. I was so happy they were beside me. Brickell, too, was the complete professional. He would stand at the pilot’s cabin, move inside to check his navigational system and continually update our course, then step outside to check on me. When I turned my head to breathe, I heard the ship’s radio, someone talking on it, and the weather forecast. I couldn’t quite hear it and wondered what it was saying.

Maybe around four in the morning I started running into round balls. It was too dark to see anything, and it was strange to feel them rolling off my body. I had never felt kelp like that before; I couldn’t imagine what it was. Finally, the curiosity overwhelmed me, and I shouted, “Mr. Brickell, what’s in the water?”

“Lettuce. Someone dumped a shipload of old lettuce,” he said, and laughed.

Somehow I’d never expected to be swimming through a sea of lettuce.

The current carried us north as expected, and we quickly completed the bottom of the loop of the inverted S. I could tell that Brickell was pleased. That made me feel stronger, knowing that I was swimming right on pace and we were right in sync.

By five hours into the swim, I was starting to feel fatigued; I had been working at 80 percent of my maximum speed, nearly sprinting across. I tried to think of Hans, how he kept swimming with intensity for each one hundred; this was the same thing, only I was thinking in terms of one mile at a time. “Mom, could I have some apple juice?”

She tossed me a bottle of fresh water, and I rinsed my mouth; then she threw a bottle of warm apple juice to me. Floating on my back, I took a couple of sips while Brickell explained the situation. “You’re right on course and you’re three hours ahead of world-record time. I can’t believe it. You’ve the fastest swimmer I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“You picked a great night,” I said.

“The wind’s supposed to increase five knots. But you should have no problems,” he said with absolute confidence.

Not wanting to waste time or to get cold and have my muscles grow stiff, I began swimming fast again. The juice boosted my blood sugar and I felt a lot stronger. My father had recommended that I stop to feed every hour to maintain my blood-sugar levels, but I hadn’t wanted to stop at all. I just wanted to keep going. Now, looking back on it, I knew he was right; it would have helped significantly. But I was still on pace, swimming better than I had imagined.

About an hour later, Brickell came out of the pilot’s house and waved at me to lift my head up and listen. He asked, “Do you think you can sprint for a mile?”

I had been swimming hard already, and the thought of sprinting—well, it would be harder. But yes, I told him, I could do it.

“Good, because there’s an oil tanker coming down the Channel at nine knots. He cannot stop for you. You’re either going to have to wait here and tread water for thirty minutes or cross the tanker lane before he gets there,” Brickell explained. He didn’t mention that once we had committed we could not hesitate or we could be crushed by the oil tanker. Somehow I already knew how serious this was.

“Okay, I’ll sprint,” I said quickly, putting my head down and taking off, moving as fast as I could for about twenty minutes, until I saw Brickell wave to me again and point. The tanker passed us like a whale cruising past a minnow, with the bow waves surging toward us, lifting us high into the air, maybe fifteen feet, and we surfed the waves toward France.

By seven a.m. my arms were burning. They felt like I had been lifting twenty-five-pound dumbbells for hours. My neck was sore, as I had been raising my head up to see the French coast, now a dark outline on the horizon. And my lower back ached and I was getting tired. Stopping to stretch my back by grabbing my ankles, I asked for an oatmeal cookie. I was so hungry. For hours I had been dreaming about eating a real American hamburger and a chocolate milkshake. My mother tossed me a cookie. My coordination was off, and I completely missed it. She threw a second. I picked the slightly mushy snack out of the sea and ate it quickly.

“Can you see Cape Gris-Nez yet, Mickey?” I asked.

“See that point? The one with the little light’ ouse?” Mickey yelled.

“Yes, I see it!”

“That’s Cape Gris-Nez, Gray-Nose,” Mickey said.

“Lynne, this is going to be the most difficult part of the swim. There’s a current around that point. You’re going to have to hold your pace if you’re going to break the record,” Brickell said.

“But I thought I was hours ahead of record time,” I said, somewhat confused.

“You are, but the current’s already pushing you north, slightly off course. You’ve already lost half an hour,” he said.

“Okay,” I said with determination, “this is where all those sprints at the end of workout are going to pay off.”

My mom and Mickey cheered, “You can do it.” “Come on, love. Let’s go.”

Brickell turned the
Helen Anne Marie
slightly into the current to compensate for the northward drift and I began sprinting, trying to break across the current. For nearly an hour I swam harder than I could remember, and I was tiring.

Stopping to stretch my back, I asked for a drink of water and heard Brickell: “Lynne, you’ve got to go faster—you’re not through the current yet.”

My sides were starting to ache from breathing, and I didn’t feel good. I swam faster, but after another half an hour or so Cape Gris-Nez didn’t appear to be any closer. And the stench of the lanolin combined with the smell of diesel and dead fish from the boat was making me queasy. The wind was blowing the fumes into my face. “Mr. Brickell, could I move to the other side of the boat? The fumes are bugging me.”

“Certainly. Lynne, you’re caught in the tidal change now. You’re going to have to swim faster. I know you’re getting tired, but if you don’t get through this, you’re not going to get the record,” he said.

“You can do it. Come on, honey,” my mother said, and Mickey cheered as well.

This time I started swimming like I was at the end of a workout, doing the last mile, giving it everything I had. It was painful, but I
pushed on. For more than an hour I didn’t look up at shore. When I did, we had drifted farther north, and Cape Gris-Nez had slid more to the south. This was hell, liquid hell.

I began reaching for more energy I’d never known I had. It was from all those cold mornings when I didn’t want to get in and work out, but did anyway. It was from all those years of training when I was tired but pushed myself through the workout. It was from all those people who believed in me. I pictured the faces of my family, my friends, my neighbors, my teammates, everyone who said,
You can do this,
and I sprinted. My breath burned in my throat. My arms were on fire, moving faster than they ever had. I lifted my head. We were making progress. We were directly in front of Cape Gris-Nez.

“You’re a mile from shore,” Brickell called to me. “This is where it gets tough. This is where a lot of swimmers give up.” His voice sounded tired, and he should have sounded happy.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The tide’s increasing. It’s pushing you south now. You’re going to have to sprint or you’re going to miss it entirely. The next landfall will be Wissant, five miles south,” he said.

Now I understood his fatigue and wished I didn’t. Sprint, he said. Sprint.
Oh, man. Okay. Okay. You’ve got to do it now. You’ve really got to do it. You’re only a mile from shore. It’s only a mile. You can do it. Come on.

Again I put my head down and sprinted, and when I looked up I thought we’d be a half mile from shore; but the cape was far to the north. “How much farther, Mr. Brickell?”

“Five miles. You’ve missed the point and you’re heading toward Wissant.”

My brain couldn’t register it for a minute. Five miles? How could I have lost it that fast?

“Do you think you can pick up your pace? If you can, we’re going to cut at a very sharp angle. You’re going to feel it pushing right against your face,” Brickell said, drawing in a tense breath.

“How come we’re not heading directly for the point?” I asked.

“You’d have to land on the rocks, and you could get a bit cut up,” Brickell said.

“They’re closer than the beach, aren’t they?”

“By half a mile,” he said.

My mom didn’t like the idea; I could see it in her face. She was almost in tears.

“Mickey, can I still break the record?”

“Yes, love, you can.”

“Okay, then, let’s go for the rocks. I want to finish this swim now,” I said.

Everyone broke into smiles, even my mother—she couldn’t help herself. Taking a deep breath, I began sprinting again, counting my strokes, telling myself that I wouldn’t look up again until I’d swum one thousand strokes. Slowly I gained a foot, then a few hundred yards. Now I realized why the English Channel was the Mount Everest of swimming: we had climbed the mountain and all we had to do was reach the summit. But the summit was where the air grew thinner, where everything became challenging.

Don’t look up for five hundred strokes. Go as fast as you can go. Push it. Pull your arms with everything you have. Kick. Yes. Kick those legs. Pull deeper. Faster. Come on. Pull.

In the background my mother and Mickey were shouting, “Come on!” “Go, love!” They weren’t letting up. I heard Brickell shouting. For the first time, he was cheering too. And then I saw the excitement in his face.

We were almost there. But I couldn’t look yet. I had three hundred more strokes before I could look up. Brickell was turning the boat; I had to look up. Was there another problem? No, there wasn’t. We were almost there. The rocks were bigger than before.

Mickey and Reg Junior jumped into the launch and followed me. I swam faster, lifting my head to pick a landing spot. Waves were breaking on the rocks. I could see the surge and the white water. High above from the cliffs overhead, I heard voices. They were shouting in French. I was excited; I had never been to France before.

For over a year I had rehearsed this in my mind, but nothing could compare with the experience of actually being there and finishing the swim across the English Channel.

Searching for a space between the waves, I sprinted, hoping that a
surge wouldn’t catch me and smash me into the rocks. I started moving in, and suddenly felt myself being lifted; I was moving too fast, right into a big sharp rock covered with mussels and barnacles. My knees struck the barnacles; then the wave tore me back out toward sea. Another wave, larger than the last, was breaking. Swim forward or back? Oh, no. I had no control. I could see it. I was going to get bashed. My other knee was sliced by the mussels. There was blood squirting out, but I couldn’t feel it much. My legs were numb from the cold. Another wave was surging toward me.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. No: find a spot. You can’t turn back. The watch is still ticking. You’ve got to clear the water for the swim to be completed. Come on, use the wave, let it lift you up, don’t fight it, let it carry you into the rocks, don’t back down. If you hit the rock, grab ahold of it and climb out of the water now.

The wave lifted me and I smashed into another rock. It hurt a lot. I grabbed for the rock and missed, then leaned forward and grabbed a handhold. I pulled myself up. The rock was sharp; it cut my feet, and the barnacles shredded my skin. But I wasn’t thinking about it, just trying to find another handhold and pull myself out.
Got it.
I pushed up with my feet, clung with my fingers, reached another handhold, and hauled myself onto a rock, clear of the water.

The crew cheered wildly. We had made it.

“Vous avez nagée La Manche?”
someone shouted from the Cliffs. You swam the Channel?

“Oui, j’ai nagée La Manche,”
I said. Yes, I swam the Channel. I did it. I just stood there for a moment and looked around. My legs were wobbly, but I had to see France. The cliffs above us looked like the white cliffs of Dover. And I thought of Fahmy and smiled. He would be so happy too.