Swimming to Antarctica (36 page)

The following day the weather conditions were rough. Sixty-knot winds churned the sea into white waves and flying spray, and when we reached Deception Island waterspouts whirled around the ship like small watery tornadoes, rising up to twenty feet above the water’s surface. All day long we traveled south, toward the Antarctic Peninsula, and I wondered if I would get another chance to swim. I felt a tension growing within me. I had to keep talking to myself, reminding myself that the weather changed rapidly here and the situation could be better in the morning.

That evening on the bridge I met with Susan Adie and the Russian ice master, Valery Eremin, who monitored ice movement and weather conditions. We looked at charts and studied satellite information on the weather. Susan pointed out three possible sites on the continent of Antarctica where we could land. The northernmost one was called Water Boat Harbor, the middle site Neko Harbor, and the third choice Paradise Harbor. We wouldn’t know until we got there which of these sites would be possible.

When I returned to my cabin, I thought for a long time about what I was about to attempt.

I had mixed feelings about the test swim. In some ways, it had given me confidence; I now knew that I could swim for twenty-two minutes in thirty-three-degree water. But it had also made me feel uncertain. It had been the most difficult and probably the most dangerous swim I had ever done. Part of me wanted to be satisfied with it. Part of me didn’t want to attempt the mile. I was afraid. The water temperature on the big swim would be a degree colder. Thirty-two
degrees. That was a magic number, the temperature at which freshwater froze. I wondered if in thirty-two-degree water the water in my cells would freeze, if my body’s tissues would become permanently damaged. I wondered if my mind would function better this time, if I would be able to be more aware of what was happening, or if it would be further dulled by the cold. Would my core temperature drop faster, more quickly than I could recognize? Would I be able to tell if I needed to get out? Did I really want to risk my life for this? Or did I want to risk failure?

The other part of me wanted to try, wanted to do what I had trained for, wanted to explore and reach beyond what I had done. That part of me was excited about venturing into the unknown. That part of me knew I would have felt a tremendous letdown if I didn’t get a chance to try. I wanted to do it now.

The next morning, on December 15, 2002, Susan called me up to the bridge. She pointed out Water Boat Point. The tiny gray beach between steep glaciers was completely blocked by icebergs and brash ice. There was no place to land.

We continued sailing south through the Gerlache Strait, past mountain-high glaciers and by ship-sized icebergs ranging in shades of blue from juniper berry to robin’s-egg to light powder blue. In the protection of the Antarctic Peninsula, the wind dropped off and the sea grew calmer. When we reached Neko Harbor, about an hour later, Susan called me up to the bridge. She was excited. The beach was free of icebergs and brash ice. A landing was possible.

Now I would have a chance to swim the first Antarctic mile. I was thrilled and scared, but I tried to remain calm; I knew that the weather could suddenly change and the swim would be off. I met with Barry Binder, who said, “I’ll get the crew into the Zodiacs and come and get you when everything’s set.”

I walked to the ship’s library, drank four eight-ounce cups of hot water, and ate two small croissants for breakfast—they were high in fat and carbohydrates, two sources of energy I would need for the swim. Then I started through the hallway to my cabin, where many of the
Orlova’s
passengers were waiting, eager to find out if I was
going to swim. They wished me luck and said they would wait for me at the finish. I stopped by Dan’s cabin to ask him if he would jump into the water with me at the end of the swim. He was already in his dry suit, prepared to go. Everyone was doing what we had practiced. All I could do was to go back to my room and wait. Gabriella came in to take a core temperature; it was up to 100.4 degrees. Knowing I was venturing into unknown waters, I must have psyched myself up so much that I increased my body temperature. Gabriella left me alone while I put on my swimsuit and sweats. I rubbed sunscreen on my face, but not on my arms or legs; it could make my skin slippery, and if my crew needed me to get out of the water quickly, that would create a problem. The night before, three of the crew had spotted a pod of eight killer whales swimming into the Gerlache Strait. They hadn’t been moving fast. I hoped they were still north of us.

I stared out the window at the brown crescent-shaped beach. There were snow-covered hills directly above the beach, and massive glaciers on either side. I picked out landmarks, places I could aim for, so I’d know if I was on or off course.

Dr. Block caught me at the top of the stairs, just before we stepped out the door and onto the ramp, and asked if I would sit down on a step so he could trace two veins on my hands with a blue Magic Marker. It was just a precaution, he said, in case I needed emergency assistance; this way he would easily be able to find a vein to start an IV. I gave him my right hand and watched him draw the blue lines for the television camera. It gave me the creeps. Why did he have to do this now, right before I swam? Didn’t he realize this kind of stuff psychs people out?
I know the swim is dangerous, but he could have done this hours ago, not just before I swam. Get over it,
I told myself.
Shake it off. Take a deep breath. Refocus. Take another breath. Good. Now think about the swim.
I smiled.
I’m so ready for this.

Walking to the door, I peeked out and felt a blast of icy wind hit my face from the northwest. It was blowing in off the glaciers in gusts to twenty-five knots, and the air temperature was thirty-two degrees. I felt the hair rising on my arms and my jaw tighten to suppress a
shiver. I was much more nervous than I had been during my first swim. I had greater expectations of myself now. I wanted to swim the first Antarctic mile, and I knew I would be very disappointed if I didn’t succeed.

I stared across the icy water at Neko Harbor’s beach and felt excitement building within me. Quickly before I could lose my chance, I pulled off my sweat suit and shoes and stuck them in a corner of the ship, climbed down the gangway, sat on the platform, and dangled my feet in the water. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel any colder than it had two days before. I didn’t realize then that the nerves on my skin’s surface had been damaged from the first swim. I didn’t know that the nerves that signaled danger weren’t firing. I wasn’t aware that my first line of defense was gone. I had no idea that prolonged exposure in thirty-two-degree water could cause permanent nerve and muscle damage. And I didn’t know then that when an untrained person is immersed in water colder than forty degrees, their nerves are cooled down so they can’t fire at the neuromuscular level. After only seven or eight minutes the person’s body seizes up and they can’t move. It was a good thing I didn’t know any of this. All I knew was that I was ready. I took a deep breath, leaned back, and threw myself forward into the thirty-two-degree water.

When I hit the water, I went all the way under. I hadn’t intended to do that; I hadn’t wanted to immerse my head, which could over-stimulate my vagus nerve and cause my heart to stop beating. Dog-paddling as quickly as I could, I popped up in the water, gasping for air. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was swimming with my head up, hyperventilating. I kept spinning my arms, trying to get warm, but I couldn’t get enough air. I felt like I had a corset tightening around my chest. I told myself to relax, take a deep breath, but I couldn’t slow my breath. And I couldn’t get enough air in. I tried again. My body wanted air, and it wanted it now. I had to override that reaction of hyperventilating. I had to concentrate on my breath, to press my chest out against the cold water and draw the icy air into my lungs.

My body resisted it. The air was too cold. My body didn’t want to draw the cold air deep into my lungs and cool myself from the inside.
It wanted to take short breaths so the cold air would be warmed in my mouth before it reached my lungs. I was fighting against myself. I noticed my arms. They were bright red, and I felt like I was swimming through slush. My arms were thirty-two degrees, as cold as the sea. They were going numb, and so were my legs. I pulled my hands right under my chest so that I was swimming on the upper inches of the sea, trying to minimize my contact with the water. I was swimming fast and it was hard to get enough air. I began to notice that the cold was pressurizing my body like a giant tourniquet. It was squeezing the blood from the exterior part of my body and pushing it into the core. Everything felt tight.
Focus on your breath,
I told myself.
Slow it down. Let it fill your lungs. You’re not going to be able to make it if you keep going at this rate.

It wasn’t working. I was laboring for breath harder than on the test swim. I was in oxygen debt, panting, gasping. My breath was inefficient, and the oxygen debt was compounding. In an attempt to create heat, I was spinning my arms wildly, faster than I’d ever turned them over before. Laura later told me that I was swimming at a rate of ninety strokes per minute, thirty strokes per minute quicker than my normal rate. My body was demanding more oxygen, but I couldn’t slow down. Not for a nanosecond. Or I would freeze up and the swim would be over.

An icy wave slapped my face: I choked and felt a wave of panic rise within me. My throat tightened. I tried to clear my throat and breathe. My breath didn’t come out. I couldn’t get enough air in to clear my throat. I glanced at the crew. They couldn’t tell I was in trouble. If I stopped, Dan would jump in and pull me out. I still couldn’t get a good breath. I thought of rolling on my back to give myself time to breathe, but I couldn’t. It was too cold. I closed my mouth, overrode everything my body was telling me to do, held my breath, and gasped, coughed, cleared my windpipe, and relaxed just a little, just enough to let my guard down and catch another wave in the face. I choked again. I put my face down into the water, hoping this time I could slow my heart rate down. I held my face in the water for two strokes and told myself,
Relax, just turn your head and breathe.

It was easier to breathe in a more horizontal position. I thought it might be helping. I drew in a deep breath and put my face down again. I knew I couldn’t do this for long. I was losing too much heat through my face. The intensity of the cold was as sharp as broken glass. I’d thought that swimming across the Bering Strait in thirty-eight-degree water had been tough, but there was a world of difference between thirty-eight degrees and thirty-two. In a few seconds, the cold pierced my skin and penetrated into my muscles. It felt like freezer burn, like touching wet fingers to frozen metal.

Finally I was able to gain control of my breath. I was inhaling and exhaling so deeply I could hear the breath moving in and out of my mouth even though I was wearing earplugs. I kept thinking about breathing, working on keeping it deep and even; that way I didn’t have time to think about the cold.

My brain wasn’t working as it normally did. It wasn’t flowing freely from one idea to another—it was moving mechanically, as if my awareness came from somewhere deep inside my brain. Maybe it was because my body was being assaulted with so many sensations, too different and too complex to recognize. Or maybe it was because my blood and oxygen were going out to the working muscles. I didn’t know.

For the next five or six minutes, I continued swimming, telling myself that I was doing well, telling myself that this was what I had trained for. Then something clicked, as if my body had gained equilibrium. It had fully closed down the blood flow in my skin and fingers and toes. My arms and legs were as cold as the water, but I could feel the heat radiating deep within my torso and head, and this gave me confidence. I knew that my body was protecting my brain and vital organs. Staring through the clear, silver-blue water, I examined my fingers; they were red and swollen. They were different than when I’d been swimming in the Bering Strait, when they’d looked like the fingers of a dead person. They looked healthy, and I thought their swollenness would give me more surface area, more to pull with.

I smiled and looked up at the crew, who were in the Zodiacs on either side of me. Each of them was leaning forward, willing me ahead. Their faces were filled with tension. Gabriella, Barry, Dan, and
Scott were leaning so far over the Zodiac’s pontoon I felt as if they were swimming right beside me. I was sprinting faster than I ever had before, moving faster than the Zodiac, and I was getting fatigued quickly. The water was thicker than on the test swim, and it took more force to pull through on each stroke. My arms ached. I didn’t feel right; I couldn’t seem to get into any kind of a rhythm. Then I sensed that something was wrong.

We were heading to the left, toward some glaciers. This didn’t make sense; we couldn’t land there. It was too dangerous. The glaciers could calve and kill us.

“Barry, where are we going?” I shouted, using air I needed for breathing.

He pointed out our direction—right toward the glaciers. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to go that way. I wanted to aim for the beach. I was confused. I was moving my arms as fast as they would go, and it was taking all I had. From each moment to the next, I had to tell myself to keep going. The water felt so much colder than on the test swim. It had already worked its way deep into my muscles. My arms and legs were stiff. My strokes were short and choppy. But I kept going, telling myself to trust the crew and focus on the glaciers to watch the outcropping of rocks that was growing larger. I couldn’t get into any kind of pace.

Abruptly the Zodiacs zagged to the right. I looked up and thought,
Wow, okay; we’re heading for the beach now.
For a moment, I started to feel better. I was able to extend my reach farther, and I could see passengers from the
Orlova
walking along the snowbanks. In the distance, their clothes lost their color and they looked black, like giant penguins. I saw smaller black figures, too—real penguins nesting near the edge of the shore. For a few moments, I felt like I was going to be okay, like I was going to make it in to shore, but then the Zodiacs abruptly turned farther to the right, and we were headed past the beach for another range of glaciers.