Swimming to Antarctica (4 page)

I kept working hard, enjoying it, drawing from every experience, learning how to feel the rhythm of the ocean, hear the tempo of the waves, and dance with the water using my balance, my strength, and all my senses. The waves grew louder and stronger. I improvised, adjusted the pitch of my hand, changed the rate of my strokes, and pressed my head deeper into the water so I could move through the waves instead of using more energy to bounce up and over them.

That training swim took us nearly five hours, and by the time we rounded the Seal Beach Pier Ron was so tired and annoyed with us, he said he would wait to discuss what happened the next day at morning workout.

I waited apprehensively until the next morning. At our team meeting, Ron came down hard on us. “How can you expect to swim the Catalina Channel if you can’t even make a ten-mile workout in a little chop? What are you going to do, give up? What are you going to do when you hit a current in the channel, swim at the same speed? This swim was nothing compared to what you’re going to face in the Catalina Channel. And it wasn’t even half the distance. You know that. You’re probably going to swim a lot more than twenty-one miles
with the current changes. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to have to work a lot harder. You’ve got to be more focused, more determined. You’ve got to be willing to fight for this. You’ve got to be able to be cold and fight through it. You’ve got to be able to be tired and push harder. You’ve just got to change your attitude. If you don’t want to do it, tell me now, so I won’t waste my time. Is that clear?” His voice boomed and it was filled with underlying anger and exasperation.

No one said a word. Our heads were bowed. I stared at my feet.

Ron continued: “You’re only giving a sixty percent effort. You have to give one hundred percent every workout. You need to realize you’ve only got one month remaining to prepare. I don’t want to be the bad guy,” he said, softening his tone, “but this is the reality.”

We thought he was going to blast us with a hard workout that morning. Instead, he said, “I want you to swim two miles, warm down, and then go home and think about what I’ve said.” Then he turned to me and said, “You’re really going to have to do something about those cuts along your neck and, I bet, along your sides or they’re going to get infected. I am not going to tell you you have to do this, but I think you’ll be doing yourself a favor if you swim without your top.”

I no longer cared about modesty. The nylon bathing suit straps had cut deep bloody gashes on either side of my neck and chafed my underarms so badly that I had to keep my arms slightly out at my sides so that the skin under my arms wouldn’t touch anything, because it would stick together and then bleed when I pulled the skin apart. The sheer mileage and abrasive salt water had also caused my nylon swimsuit to cut bleeding holes on either side of my chest. Taking a shower had been awful. When I pulled my pajama top over my head, the top stuck to the wounds and I had to rip the skin to get it off.

All of us were pretty glum after the workout that morning. When we returned the next morning, we were ready to start anew, with more focus than before.

For the next two weeks we intensified our workouts, and since Ron had basically given us the green light to swim at our own speed, I no longer held back. I challenged Stacey, Dennis, and Andy, the
faster members on the team. Andy and I would usually break away from the others and race each other to finish first. He had been the fastest swimmer in the group, and now I was faster. Toward the end of the workout I’d leave him behind. On a mile swim, I’d finish two or three minutes ahead of the team. I wanted to make this swim, and I wanted to be prepared, so I gave my best effort every day.

It was understood that we would swim across the Catalina Channel together. That meant we would pace one another and stay with one another from the start to the finish of the crossing. But now that Ron had given me the freedom to go at full speed during workouts, it was as if before I was trotting and now I was galloping across the surface of the sea.

Ron was pleased with our progress, but he was getting a lot of outside interference. People were questioning his rationale. How could he even think of taking six teenage kids across the Catalina Channel? Didn’t he realize how far it was? Didn’t he recognize how dangerous it could be?

That put some uncertainty into his head, and while he tried to shield us from it, we knew that deep down inside Ron wondered if we would make it. We did too, but that was part of what made this swim so exciting.

Beginning two weeks before the swim, my mother drove me to Seal Beach every night at midnight and stood on the pier with the other mothers, watching me swim. She sometimes stayed for an hour. I could see her under the lamplight, bundled up in a camel-hair coat and red scarf. Sometimes I could smell the coffee in her mug, and I always heard her voice when she was talking with the other mothers or shouting a few encouraging words to me and the team. She didn’t stay for the whole workout, though; she had to get home to sleep and take care of the rest of the family.

We swam the same amount of time, from three to four hours a night, doing distances of five to ten miles. But it was very different from swimming in the morning darkness. At midnight the sky and sea were deeper black and a little more eerie, and the golden lights in the homes lining the shores of Seal Beach looked warm and inviting.
As the first week passed, sometimes I wished I could go inside one of those homes and just curl up and go to sleep.

Our bodies were tired from the workouts, and we were having difficulty adjusting to the time change. After our workouts we had to force ourselves to stay awake. We’d congregate at Nancy Dale’s or Stacey Fresonske’s house and have a stay-awake party. We would take showers, play card games and board games, watch old movies and television, eat popcorn and drink hot chocolate.

By six a.m. we would be nudging one another, trying to keep ourselves awake. There were teammates who got cranky, but we didn’t care; we were in this together, and we were determined to keep each other awake. We tickled teammates’ noses with feathers and put peanut butter on their hands so that when they went to scratch their nose they got peanut butter on their face. We created other gentle forms of torture that kept us laughing and motivated us to avoid being the object of these pranks.

At nine or ten in the morning, we would head home. My mother would pick me up, and once home, I’d immediately slide into bed. With all the normal daily phone calls and family activity it was difficult to sleep during the day. It was also difficult to sleep because with every passing day we were getting closer to the day of the attempt, and our excitement was multiplying exponentially.

Toward the end of the two-week period, we had almost gotten our bodies adjusted to the time change. On that last morning we met at Nancy Dale’s home. She opened two bottles of sparkling cider and poured it into some champagne glasses. “I want to make a toast,” she said with delight, handing us the glasses.

We raised them high into the air and she said, “We will make this swim across the Catalina Channel as a team. No matter what happens, we will stay together and we will become the first group of kids ever to do this.” We drank the sweet cider and broke out into cheers and wide smiles.

We traveled in a forty-foot fishing boat piloted by Dr. Fresonske, Stacey’s father, to Catalina Island. On board were members of the Seal Beach and Long Beach lifeguard crews who had volunteered to escort us on the crossing on long paddleboards or in kayaks. John Stockwell and Lyle Johnson, two burly old-time Long Beach lifeguards who had accompanied other swimmers on cross-channel attempts, planned to meet us at Divers Cove on the Isthmus, the westernmost section of the island and the closest point to the mainland.

We reached Catalina Island in late afternoon, a trip that took just two and a half hours. For most of the journey we stayed in the cabin below, not wanting to see the distance we were going to swim, afraid that it would psych us out. We tried to sleep in the bunks, but we were far too excited to do anything other than chatter loudly over the drone of the boat’s engines. From the deck above, we heard snatches of conversation, Ron’s voice and the crew’s discussing how the swim would be coordinated. We knew we were heading into Divers Cove when Dr. Fresonske cut the boat’s engine and we heard someone shout, “Drop the anchor.” It hit the water with an enormous splash, and all of us raced up the stairs to get to the deck so we could see where we had stopped.

The sun was beating down on the water, the glare so strong that it was hard to see the cove. It appeared to be small and well sheltered by
low cliffs covered with shrubs. Except for one small boat, there was no one else in the area. A strong breeze, maybe five knots, was ruffling the water and that intensified our mood. We were not certain whether we would swim that evening; it all depended on having good weather. August was usually a fairly calm time in the Catalina Channel, but anything could happen.

This uncertainty put us a little on edge, and knowing that we had to wait until midnight heightened our anxiousness and excitement. Andy, Dennis, and Nancy decided to put on their swimsuits and paddle over to the island to explore. Stacey and I decided to go back below and try to sleep. We knew we were going to have a very long night. And I didn’t want to waste any energy now.

I crawled back into one of the bunks, put a pillow over my head, closed out all sounds, and took my mind away. Time passed—I’m not sure how much—and when I awoke, Mrs. Fresonske was offering us large bowls of chili filled with beans and beef for dinner. It was delicious, but it was not a good choice for a long-distance swim. At that time, carbo-loading and the reasons for it hadn’t been discovered.

At about ten p.m. Ron gathered us in the cabin and explained how we would coordinate with the crew.

The boat we were on would be positioned about a half mile ahead of us. We would use the lights on board the boat as navigational guides. While floodlights would have helped us see the boat better, the crew was afraid that a lot of light would attract fish, and decided to use only the cabin light and the small red and green lights on the bow and stern.

We would be swimming in a V formation, like a flock of pelicans. We would swim using the English Channel Association rules. We would wear only bathing suits, bathing caps, and goggles—no thermal swimsuits or thermal hoods or fins. We would tread water or float when we needed to rest. We were not allowed any type of artificial support or flotation. And we could not touch anyone on the boat at any time during the swim or we would be disqualified. That meant that our food and drinks had to be tossed to us; we hoped none of the food spent too long in the salt water before we recovered it.

Ron positioned me at the top of the V, with Andy on one side of
me and Stacey on the other. Dennis would swim beside Andy and Nancy would swim on the outside of Stacey. It was strange and sad that Ron didn’t mention Dale. She had caught the flu. She and Ron had discussed the option of postponing the swim, but she didn’t want to hold us back, and she’d called that morning to wish us the best of luck.

Ron said that Mr. Yeo, one of the Seal Beach team fathers, would be riding a paddleboard beside Dennis and a Seal Beach lifeguard would be paddling a kayak on the outside of Nancy. Every hour or so the lifeguards would trade off with the four lifeguards in the main boat.

The dory rowed by Lyle Johnson and John Stockwell would precede us by about twenty-five yards. They would row the entire distance across the channel and would have a small white light on their stern to guide us. Our paddlers and kayakers would strap small flashlights to their boards and kayak so we could see them during the swim.

At eleven p.m. Stockwell and Johnson began shuttling us ashore in their dory. When I climbed into the boat Stockwell and Johnson began rowing, and with each pull on the oars, I felt my excitement growing. The night was so black we could just see the waves break along the shore. Beyond that it was utter blackness. Guided only by voices, I reached the starting area, where I jumped out into ankle-deep water and searched for my teammates.

“We’re over here—come this way!” Stacey shouted, her voice echoing off the invisible cliff walls. Guided by a pinpoint of light from one of the flashlights, I stumbled on some rocks and slid on what I hoped was a clump of kelp.

The light grew brighter, and I saw Mrs. Fresonske holding the flashlight. Stacey, wearing pink Playtex gloves, was grabbing handfuls of Vaseline and slathering them on her neck.

“Here you go.” Stacey giggled, picking up one of the five tubs of goo and tossing it to me. “Need some gloves?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” I said. Using my ring finger and my pinky I dug out a glob of Vaseline, careful not to get any on my other fingers.
I would need to keep them clean so I could adjust my goggles. If they were smeared with goo, I wouldn’t be able to see anything. I spread the stuff around my neck, armpits, and the leg holes of my swimsuit. Then I checked the wide elastic band around my waist, making sure it was taut so I could drop my straps but not lose my swimsuit during the crossing.

Nancy joined us. She found her jar and covered her arms and legs with the stuff. Andy and Dennis were standing somewhere nearby; we could hear them laughing and slapping handfuls of Vaseline on each other. When they were finished they were covered from their necks to their ankles in slime.

“Here, Nancy, let me give you a hug,” Dennis said, opening his arms wide and chasing after her.

Andy grabbed another glob and also took off after her. Someone slimed me on the shoulder and I laughed, then moved out of the light to escape. I didn’t want to waste any energy, and I knew that this swim was going to take every bit I had. I also needed to calm down and think. There would be plenty of time to do this during the swim, hours upon hours, but I needed to find my focus.

I looked up at the sky. The moon was distant and less than half full, perfect for the swim. It meant that we would be making the crossing on a neap tide. There would be less water movement between high and low tide, less tidal change, and less current, and this would give us more of a chance of completing the crossing.

Looking more deeply into the sky, I found the North Star and noted our position in relationship to it. I planned to use this as a reference point during the swim. A breeze was stirring the water, and I felt my skin begin to chill. The last thing I wanted to do was start off cold. I told myself to calm down, to take it one mile at a time, and to never look back once I left shore. I knew I was prepared, and I was confident.

Running my hands along the back of my head, I parted my long brown hair, wound one side around my hand and stuffed it into my white cap, then did the same for the other side. The waiting was making me anxious.

Ron finally came ashore. He was speaking on the walkie-talkie with my father, who had come along as the team physician. My father was checking with Ron, asking him where he could find the blankets on the lead boat in case someone went into hypothermia and needed to be bundled up. I could hear the sounds of the paddlers moving their paddleboards into position; it was so black that someone ran into someone else. This all seemed to be taking an incredibly long amount of time. I worried again about cooling off.

Finally, Ron called us over for a last-minute pep talk. “In a few minutes, Stockwell and Johnson, in the dory, are going to turn on a spotlight so they can see you enter the water. Mr. Yeo is going to fire the starting gun, then accompany you on the paddleboard. I want you to stay close together. It is very dark here. Darker than I expected it to be. We don’t want to lose any of you in the water. If there is a problem, I don’t want you stopping. We won’t be able to see you if you stop. You’re going to have to keep swimming with your head up and tell us what your problem is. I don’t think you’re going to have any problems. The water is calm. The forecast is for light and variable winds late in the morning. I don’t think we could have a better day for this. You’ve trained hard. You’re ready. Is everyone set?”

“Yes,” we said. We turned and wished one another good luck, then we hugged. We walked to the edge of the ocean and Mr. Yeo said, “Okay, take your marks,” and then he fired the gun. We saw the white flash and heard the gunshot echoing off the cliff walls.

I walked into the water, dove through the surf, and began swimming. It felt wonderful, exciting, strange, and scary knowing that I had just pushed off Catalina Island and was now swimming across the vast Pacific Ocean to the North American continent. Turning my head and breathing, I saw the universe filled with light from distant constellations. I felt even smaller, and yet somehow powerful.

Swimming was difficult. While we could see the tiny lights on the dory and on the paddleboards, we couldn’t see one another. We were on edge. There were deep-water pelagic sharks in this channel: big ones, white ones, man- and woman-eating ones. No long-distance swimmer had been attacked during a crossing, yet we knew that they
were down there somewhere and that any moment we could become a midnight snack.

We were swimming erratically—fast, moderate, then faster—and we were unable to settle down and establish a pace. This was using way too much energy. We needed to get into our flow and maintain one speed for efficiency. The truth was that we were excited and scared. We had never swum in such blackness. We couldn’t see our own arms or our hands pulling right beneath our bodies. For safety and a sense of security, we were swimming closer than we ever did in workouts. Stacey unintentionally elbowed me in the ribs; I nearly jumped out of my skin. Overcorrecting, she cut too far left and ran into Nancy. Spooked, Nancy let out a series of bloodcurdling screams. That set off a series of chain reactions, and we ran into each other, overcompensated, and ran into someone else.

Sharks are attracted to thrashing and splashing, sounds that resemble sick or injured fish. This is their food source. Using sensors on their snouts, they can detect electrical fields and feel, through their noses, the movement of fish and people in the water. Donald Nelson, a shark expert who did pioneering work in this field, once told me that sharks can detect even minute electrical fields emitted by fish and other animals. I wondered if they could feel the electrical impulses of our hearts. Mine was beating fast and strong. I pushed that thought away. It wouldn’t help me at all in my effort to swim across this channel. But I knew the way we were swimming, we sounded more like food than swimmers.

In the distance we could barely see the lead boat. It looked like a star on the water. The paddlers and kayaker were not visible, but I could hear them saying, “You’re doing a great job. Keep going.”

I lifted my head to find the tiny light on the dory and tried to maintain a constant distance from it, hoping that I could establish a pace this way. After perhaps an hour, it was hard to tell whether this plan was working; there were no reference points to help me determine the distance we had covered or the time it had taken to arrive at that point. Still, it seemed like we were settling into a pace, beginning to stretch out our arm strokes and slow our rapid breathing. Then
someone squealed and adrenaline shot through my body, and I felt myself swimming on the upper inches of the water. Worse were those moments of not knowing. There was a delay between the scream and finding out what happened.

“It’s okay; it’s just seaweed. Don’t worry, relax—just reverse your stroke and you’ll untangle yourself,” one of the paddlers reassured us.

“There’s a problem,” someone said. There was a discussion, but it was hard to catch the conversation with my head underwater, so I swam with my head up.

“The lights on these boards are fading,” one paddler shouted. “So is the one on the dory. Look, it’s fading to orange. The batteries are dying. Mine’s nearly gone.”

“We don’t have much time before they both go,” said the other paddler.

“Does anyone have extra batteries?” someone shouted.

I heard Stockwell on the walkie-talkie in the dory talking to someone in the lead boat. “They’re searching,” his deep voice boomed across.

“Have them move closer together.”

Then someone whistled loudly and said, “Hey, hold up for a minute.” It was Mr. Yeo. “You guys are going to have to stop for a minute. We need to put some new batteries in our flashlights so you can see us.”

“Ahhhhhh! Shoot!” we said, treading water. “How long are we going to have to wait?” When we stopped swimming, we couldn’t hang on to anyone or anything or we would be disqualified.

“This is really dumb. How could they have forgotten the batteries? Are we going to have to stop the channel swim because of this?” Andy said.

“I’m getting awfully cold just treading water,” Nancy said.

When we were swimming, we were generating heat, but once we stopped, our heat production diminished substantially. In a swimming pool, where water temperatures usually ranged from seventy-six to eighty degrees, we wouldn’t have lost body heat very quickly, but the cool sixty-five-degree seawater began leaching heat from our bodies. Nancy sucked her teeth, making a shivering sound.

Someone was saying something on the radio. It was garbled. Stockwell translated: “They found them. It will only be a couple more minutes. They’re going to turn the lead boat and bring the batteries here. That way you can also have a feeding.”