M A G E L L A N I A N A

punta arenas

2010-01-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

25.1.10

here we are again. I feel like we're at home; even the wind, gusting at 85 kilometres per hour, feels familiar and comforting. the marvel of a good night's sleep. Claudia joins us. centolla and pisco sours by Sotito; airport. tonight, Rapel.

strait and narrows

2010-01-25T10:39:00.000-08:00

24.1.10

bahia azul in the early evening. i'm thrilled to approach the strait from the tierra del fuego side and can barely wait to get on the ferry. the water is aquamarine blue and covered end to end in whitecaps swelling up to seven feet. the ferries are nowhere to be seen, and buses, sheep-carrying trucks, cars and people line the road leading to the beach.

shell-seeking, we climb over massive piles of kelp, walking back to revisit our landing. terns fish at the water's edge. the currents are clearly delineated by spots of rough chop, places of calm, and color differentiations in the water. a few of our tonhina friends swim by. back at the restaurant, an elderly, indigenous-looking woman sits alone in a chair pulled up against the window, hands folded calmly in her lap, gazing at the wind-tossed water.

finally, after a couple of hours' wait, the red ferry lopes across the Strait from Punta Delgada, tossing and swaying, sprayed with massive waves. it's terrifying and takes way too long. despite being loaded with ten buses, many cars and several hundred people, the boat teeters and rolls in the powerful chop. El Estrecho de Magallanes is a body of water to be reckoned with.

I'm impressed by the distance that we swam last year-- probably more than four miles-- and also filled with immense respect for the Strait, having been let across.

tierra del fuego

2010-01-25T10:38:00.000-08:00

24.1.10

tierra del fuego got its name from the heavy mists that cover the island, making it look confused and ablaze. i think tierra del humo might have been more apt.

this route is endless and crosses back and forth from Argentina to Chile. how we all wish we could have flown, or gotten on the boat. my passport is riddled with stamps; I can only laugh at the absurdity of all this exchanging of information. perhaps we might exchange hats instead. or pleasantries.

we've gone from a place so far at the end of the earth that it can only be peaceful and protected, to the commercial 'end of the earth', to the wild expanse of Tierra del Fuego, where the wind blows over 100 miles per hour. standing in the midst of it, wholly aware of spinning through space, I feel like this place, of all the southern wilderness, is the one that actually merits the name.

ushuaia

2010-01-25T10:37:00.000-08:00

24.1.10

goodbyes on the old Macalvi-- the Club de Yates, where our immigration-inspector friend joins us for a last goodbye and some more stamps in our passports. it seems, at this point, as if we know everyone in the town, both in uniform and office, and in street clothes with families. all are there to see us off, even fluffy Luli, who gets into trouble with another small dog running around the deck of the Macalvi. Gaby shuts her in the van. a few minutes later, there is a persistent honking, then a long, desperate beeeeeeeeep! and we all look up to see Luli at the wheel of the white van, leaning on the wheel.

a speedy ride in a covered zodiac, extremely choppy at first, like a mechanical bull-ride, then calmer, and progressively colder as we head west. after more than an hour, we dock incongruously next to a massive cruise ship in the port of ushuaia. I gape at the activity: shipping crates, planes, catamarans, ships of all nationalities and sizes. the clear kelpy water is glazed with oil and scum. exhaust fumes sting in my nostrils.

refugees from the wilderness, having left the anachronism of the tiny, peaceful comun naval, we've landed up in what seems to be one of the busiest ports of international tourism. there are a striking number of people over sixty. it seems that traveling to the extreme southern hemisphere is even more of a craze than i'd envisioned. the streets teem with people, cars, flatbed trucks, antarctic tourist offices, pictures of penguins and seals, glossy shopping bags. I see a single black dog traipse across the square with a giant piece of bloody red meat swinging from its jaw.

the distance across to Puerto Navarino is massive. Lynne Cox is a superheroine. I feel our little there-and-back shrink in comparison with her six-mile, three-hour channel charge.

launched from macalvi

2010-01-25T10:36:00.000-08:00

23.1.10

leaving this little town in a few minutes for ushuaia. yesterday as we spoke at the threshold with a fellow hostel-guest-- in town to install a meteorological antenna-- huge horses wandered through the adjoining yards, irreverently eating tall grass over fences. the small labrador puppy cavorts, looking for our attention. it approaches a cat playfully and is sent off with a harsh hiss. Lulita runs out to join the other puppies in this local gang, some of whom playfully jump up on the old sheepdog.

looking around, dogscatshorseschickens, I'm once again floored by the intimacy and simplicity of this tiny settlement. animals and people-- many of the former abandoned by the latter-- are a tight community here. there's not much to worry about, at least in the summertime. yards are piled with quartered logs, many hairy with wintergreen lichen. in the living room of our hosts, large photographs of lichen and fungus adorn the walls.

press calling again. El Pinguino and La Prensa Austral. we're huge in Patagonia. tomorrow, El Mercurio.

impressions of a swim

2010-01-25T10:34:00.000-08:00

22.1.10

our plans to ride the ferry to punta arenas thwarted, we've just fixed up an alternate situation, which includes a boat to and an evening in Ushuaia. comings and goings are not easy here in Puerto Williams. high winds will prevent air traffic for the next couple of days. I'm looking forward to seeing more of Argentina than just a wild beach, although what a beach it was!

throughout today, flashes of yesterday's swim keep going through my mind: a panorama of snowcapped mountains, wild birds above a choppy green foreground, breathing to my left en route to argentina; strange blue-brown jellyfish-like sea creatures in the emerald clear below me mid-channel on the return leg; the rocky shallows teeming with sealife on the approach to each beach; the flaming-june orange of the argentinian's oversized drysuits; olive kelp bathed in filtered sunlight. the sound of wind against my ears.

the whole swim, windswept and sunblinded, was beautifully disorienting. without perspective to judge the distance of land, and without human landmarks, I seldom knew where I was. I sighted until my neck hurt, just to be there. it was only near the end of the swim, when I was cold and tired and my mind had checked out, that Captain Elvis and Jose another armada sailor appeared, tiny beneath the wooly cliffs. i've never been so relieved to see a sailor.

as I started to realise how far we still had to swim, and as minor hypothermia began to cloud my awareness, I screamed a couple of times underwater, just to release the frustration of momentarily losing my humanity. it made me feel better, almost as much as the double-thumbs-up the armada men kept throwing my way, under encouraging grins.

our stopover in Argentina at Punta McKinley, where Cristian and I concurred that we felt warm, great-- dude, we're in Argentina!-- was a little too long. getting back in the water was a bit of a shock for all of us. I have a new appreciation for those who swim Channel doubles and triples. the drastic difference between the water temperature and the air causes the body to almost immediately shift gears and start re-warming. the second leg of this swim was mentally and physically tough. luckily, we were all determined, and well-trained after a number of weeks swimming the the 30s back in arctic Brooklyn.

but today, the swimmers walk. we hike serro bandera to the top, where a massive Chilean bandera snaps in the wind just above the treeline. the wind fills my mouth and ears, as if I'm on a motorcycle at high speed. at the top, six hundred meters above sea level, staving off a cold wind blowing off nearby glaciers, I nearly lose my down jacket. we traipse through deciduous, strange forests, lichen-softened scree teeming with shale and sandstone chips, and bent-trunk tree groves, patti with a walking-stick taller than herself and me bounding like a mountain goat, trying not to slip in my very inappropriate shoes, practically skipping at times from happiness at being in the forest. Cristian's pace walking is exactly like his long-distance swimming pace-- steady, calm.

exito!

2010-01-21T18:10:00.002-08:00

21.1.10 once again, cibbows rocks the southern wilderness. and wearing kathleen cook to boot. thanks again to Kathleen for sponsoring me with a fabulous bikini, even if I have been fattened up by our lovely hostess Gabriela and the pan amasado. this morning, at 11.20, Patti, Cristian and I walked into the rocks and kelp along the shore in Cabo de Hornos and swam to shore near Punta McKinley, Argentina. we spent a few minutes on the beach with the Argentine armada before jumping in and returning to Chile. All three of us succeeded in a double traverse of the Beagle Channel. we started out in rough seas at 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). after being pushed west on the way to argentina and encountering strange sealife and a flock of penguins, we fought strong currents on our return, making it a roughly 3.5-mile swim. all of us had a quick, easy recovery at the armada capitania. more impressions to follow.

el canal beagle

2010-01-21T17:51:00.000-08:00

21.1.10

we reached the armada capitania this morning around eight, and our zodiac pilot was already there waiting for us. though the sun was shining, the wind whipped up the Channel into a seething, southeast-flowing whirlpool. Luis Castillo drove us out to scope out conditions at Punta McKinley, since a more detailed weather report was still forthcoming (I'm still not sure where that comes from). the drive was breathtaking. we left Puerto Williams and bumped along the narrow hills, climbing up and down rocky terrain surrounded by glacier-capped mountains, red-striped lighthouses, wild horses and the frothing cerulean waters of the Beagle, lined with shadows of purple kelp. there seem to be a number of cattle farms there, both active and abandoned. suddenly, we cross a last, steep hilltop, and the water becomes distinctly less violent, though not at all calm. this is the place: Punta McKinley. we park the armada jeep on a slope and clamber over clover littered with mussel shells to get to the rocky beach. the remnants of locos, sea urchins, mussels and other shells rattle under my feet. the wind whips sun-warmth across my face and I zip my Patagonia jacket against the chill. the distance to the lighthouse looks to be at least three times what they had assured us it would be. the crossing, despite the calm in the small area, seems suddenly far more difficult than we'd all planned. our idea of a double goes out the window; because of persistent westward winds and currents, it seems that we'll have to do a single crossing, from Argentina to Chile. I try not to pout. we stand and stare at the water for a few minutes, then return to the jeep. I resist the nausea building from the bumpiness of the ride. Luckily, we arrive back at the bat-cave before carsickness can get the better of me. as we consult with the meteorologists, rather at a loss about when we should decide to swim, the wind begins to die down. the whitecaps disappear from the harbour. a decision is made: the armada will take us by boat to the border of Argentine waters, where we will climb aboard our Zodiac and head for shore, and the start, in our suits. quick re-packing of shore and boat bags ensues, and we have a brief photo session with Captain Elvis, who is in charge of the port. the sun is shining brilliantly. we climb aboard the small boat-- I'm never quite sure how to negotiate an offered arm when I'm climbing over the slippery side of a fishing boat-- and settle down in the hold. Ronnie, our zodiac pilot, is still putting in his boat, so we sneeze around the Puerto Williams harbour for a little while. the radio is playing fun american songs from the 80s, and soon enough Patti and I strip down to our suits-- both by Kathleen Cook Swimwear-- for a mini photo-session with the armada, who are more than happy to oblige. it passes the time, and helps stave off the unbearable thirst, the nerves, the anticipation. and then we're off, finally, thumping across steep waves. I go up and sit in the navigator's chair near the open window; I'm already a little naseous. the Channel is still super rough, and the going is slow, as the armada zodiac's motor seems to keep stalling. every once in a while, as we fly eastward, the armada guys in one boat or the other make 'whoop it up' gestures to one another. they're almost as excited as we are, if not more, though we've got pre-swim jitters to handle. the motor cuts. Cristian and I peek out from the hold. it looks calm. then and there, we decide to try for a double-- one crossing seems more feasible now that the westward wind's scream has died to a harsh whisper. the return trip, as Cris puts it, will just be icing on the cake. the armada is at our service; the boat heads toward the Chilean shore, faced with rocky cliffs and yellow-lichen-covered rocks. we throw our bags into the zodiac before stepping carefully on board. the shore is just a minute away, and I can see the white rocks, crabs and urchins on the seafloor below the leathery layers of kelp. soon enough, we're ready. the sun and air and light are calming-- this is as wild, wooly and beautiful of a place as I'd ever imagined. more photos, and at 11.20, we're off. the first obstacle is a ten-foot-wide swath of thick, slimy kelp. we don't so much swim over it as drag ourselves across it, head-up. but I'm already over my kelp issues. the water is pure, clean, tasty and clear. I can see kelp stretched voluptuously below my hands, flagged northwest by the constant current. the waves are strong but I feel them carrying me across. I relax and swim into the waves, at a diagonal, so as to avoid being swept east beyond the end of the point by the wind and current. we all had the same idea, but it worked against us: the current carried us far further west than we intended to swim, since it changed direction, despite what the armada had advised. thus always for swims and crossings.

to be continued...

la manana

2010-01-21T17:48:00.000-08:00

21.1.10

it's so much quieter without our entourage. I miss Scott, and Mark and Marianne, and Claudia, and even all the reporters and funny CNN people.

and off we go, so early in the morning. there is a surprisingly bright sun this morning, but the wind is back. it's gusting down the hill that the town sits on, and oddly enough, there's a doppler effect. Cristian and Patti are relating their respective dreams of tsunamis. as for me, my anxiety dreams are still about musicians.

akainij

2010-01-21T17:43:00.000-08:00

20.1.10

there's a sudden and violent rainstorm, which catches us by surprise out in town. there's blue sky to either side of Puerto Williams, but the black clouds overhead stream curtains of rain down, obscuring the mountains. the scent of wet grass rises and mixes with wet woodsmoke. I can only imagine how smoky the town must be in the winter. Chopping wood seems to be a full-time occupation here, at least during the warmer months.

we wait out the storm, and soon the brilliant sun is out again, like a late summer morning. it's been a beautiful day, punctuated by rain. somehow, being surrounded by the dramatic expanse of Tierra del Fuego, the Andes, and Cabo de Hornos, the weather doesn't feel as freaky as it would in Punta Arenas, which is for all its remoteness a functional city suffering from bewildering mood-swings of light, wind and weather. as we walk down the hill against a chilly wind, the brilliant sun warms our backs. a fat quarter-rainbow reaches from somewhere inside the cloud cover down to the choppy surface of the Beagle.

there is a pleasant noise of children playing. this place has strikingly little to worry about, which makes the obstinance of the two armadas all the more maddening. it seems so childish to draw national lines across a gleaming, wild body of water. the only things dividing the two countries, at this point, are the uniforms, and the rituals and formalities--humiliations-- of paperwork.

exito!

2010-01-21T17:32:00.000-08:00

21.1.10

once again, cibbows rocks the southern wilderness. this morning, at 11.20, Patti, Cristian and I walked into the rocks and kelp along the shore of Cabo de Hornos and swam to shore near Punta McKinley, Argentina. we spent a few minutes on the beach with the Argentine armada before jumping in and returning to Chile. All three of us succeeded in a double traverse of the Beagle Channel. we started out in rough seas at 5 degrees celsius (41 degrees fahrenheit). after being pushed west on the way to argentina and encountering strange sealife and a flock of penguins, we fought strong currents on our return, making it a roughly 3.5-mile swim. all of us had a quick, easy recovery at the armada capitania. more impressions to follow.

wild bureaucracy

2010-01-21T12:52:00.002-08:00

20.1.10

after lunch we head back to the armada offices to meet with Captain Elvis. there is some tense discussion and it comes across that the swim was almost quashed for lack of permission from a certain office in Santiago; luckily the armada is on our side this time. any future attempts will certainly suffer labyrinthine bureaucracy. the Argentinians, who have arrived via zodiac in rather comically oversized drysuits, enter the map room, Javier presents a set of pens and we sign a number of documents-- releases, immigration declarations, and contracts. the local inspector arrives and clears the Argentine pair through customs; they've brought filled-out forms, but the papers-- like airport immigration forms-- are invalid because they are from Argentina and not from Chile. much stamping and signing ensues, followed by xeroxing and lamination of the documents returning to Ushuaia. the drysuits exit, both carrying incongruous briefcases. and then the next news: the Chilenos will not cross into Argentina's waters-- the Channel is divided in half-- and the Argentinians will not escort us across the other half. I can't help but sigh impatiently. and now, on top of everything else, we have to hire a zodiac and a pilot to take us across. ahora.

we head over to the Club de Yates to see if we can recruit some amateur sailors to pilot the swim. and there, across the inlet, next to the abandoned lodge, are the horses. the large brown stallion is fervently humping the pregnant black mare. it's hard to pay attention to the lovely Italian couple on deck, who remind me of my parents somewhat as they tell us about their week-long sailboat trip around the area, sea-lions, glaciers and whales. Cristian's phone never seems to stop ringing. this time, it's good news. just as we're about to recruit the Italians or the Swiss guy--who has just come back from the almacen with a bag of chips and is tucked into the hatch of his weather-beaten boat, writing in a meticulously clean orange leather diary-- Cristian holds the phone away from his ear. we have a boat! relief. he even managed to bargain down the price.

we're set. we meet at the armada office tomorrow morning at eight. now for small errands: I'm set on a package of plain lemon cookies that I saw yesterday in the almacen. I recall the package of oatmeal cookies that I devoured before the swim last year, and feel a need to have something around, just in case. these are no times to resist emotional snacking.

wild bureaucracy

2010-01-21T12:52:00.000-08:00

second beagle: just two wags

2010-01-21T12:44:00.000-08:00

20.1.10

our swim was not as long as we'd expected, cut short by the unavailability of the Club de Yates and its wood-burning stove. we used the old rowboat as a clubhouse instead. this time, getting in was easy. it's amazing how just one day of training can change psychological comfort with a place. we swam out past the metal buoy, heading east with the current. there is kelp everywhere, so I make a concerted effort to get used to it. every time I see something up ahead, my heart skips a beat. it's a matter not of training my body not to react, but of understanding that the scariest factor in the equation is my psyche as it startles. nevertheless, I'm a wuss. I swim behind Cristian. I'll deal with it all tomorrow-- I suspect that the clarity of the water and the presence of kelp won't be any less where we swim, near Punta McKinley. like Antarctica, this area is really the province of international explorers, and now tourists, trekkers, and especially sailors. It always has been. as we get out of the water, the blonde, sunwashed Swiss man--around my age-- yells out to me from his terrifyingly worn sailboat. I have a wetsuit, if you want one! No thanks, I shout back. This one looks better. I gesture to my bikini.

on the way back, we finally see the source of the manure in the streets: a pack of horses, including a pregnant mare and a small colt. they are grazing up on a hill, not far from our hostel.

expectations

2010-01-20T07:55:00.000-08:00

20.1.10

in the morning rain, el Canal Beagle looks more like a lake than a channel, though there are whitecaps out beyond the sandbar that protects the armada harbor.

I'm glad that our swim will be miles east of here, where there are no passable roads. even though our Magellan crossing took place in a remote station- Punta Delgada, at the first narrows-- it was accessible by road and ferry, a small hub of people, motorcycles and sheep-carriers. Looking at the satellite photo of the Strait now, I see the color difference between the water near Punta Arenas-- pacific clear-- and the murky aquamarine of the chilly Atlantic on the Eastern mouth. it was practically ten degrees colder than our training-beach where we actually crossed. we may have a similar experience with the water here. there is no way of knowing, since most of the armada sailors have only jumped in long enough to hyperventilate.

on tv, the same footage plays over and over- government officials who lost bets over Pinera's election performing ridiculous acts: one is a waiter for fellow officers and must pay their tab; another dives into a fountain in a town square; in Punta Arenas, one dunks in the Strait of Magellan for a few seconds, looking shocked and frozen.

I don't have the nerves I did before the Magellan crossing, nor the fear of imminent death, but I also am aware of the possibility that the water East of Puerto Williams will be colder, murkier, choppier-- there are so many possibilities.

at the very least, I am confident that it will be wild and wooly. we'll swim long today, and then rest before tomorrow morning.

stormclouds

2010-01-20T07:48:00.000-08:00

20.1.10

finally, a really good night's sleep...thanks to some black storm clouds that rolled through yesterday evening. it's raining hard this morning. Luli is hyper and keeps jumping up onto our laps.

back to yesterday: Cristian and I go for a walk while the sun is still shining-- that is, around 10.30 at night-- and our sheepdog friend once again accompanies us to the boundaries of his kingdom.

down the hill, children are running and biking around the thistled lush green. the sound of a weed-whacker reverberates between the orange-trimmed houses at the end of the street. as we walk past, I catch a glimpse of the face of the whacker-- it's another one of our friends from the armada (we'd run into another captain and his novia in the market earlier). we stop and chat and I catch a fair amount: los dientes del navarino- the teeth of la Isla Navarino-- are the young mountains, plate-uplifted, off in the distance; if we hike up the small mountain behind the town, we'll be able to see West to Ushuaia and East to the place we'll be swimming. had we swum earlier? apparently they'd come out in a zodiac looking for us, which explains the unseen boat that had startled me. he is jovial and a little round; his small son pulls mischievously on the weeder's start cord.

the breeze here comes in clean, with the airy silence of wilderness.

dog days of summer

2010-01-19T14:33:00.000-08:00

19.1.10

lulita is a tiny, terribly affectionate bichon. the old sheepdog has a limp in his back left leg. both of our hosts' canine friends-- other pets include a grey kitty, a cantankerous green parrot who I am determined to befriend, a stuffed blonde ex-ferret baring formerly fierce teeth, and a beaver who lives in the backyard with the chickens-- insist on following us each time we leave the house. the sheepdog grunts and warbles and frequently bumps into our legs as we walk. this time, as we head down the hill, he makes a point of sticking his head into a yard where a large brown-and-black pug-dog is napping, then flagrantly peeing on the gatepost. as we walk away, the pug gets up and sniffs the post, then walks a few steps after us, looking mildly indignant. earlier we were accosted by a rowdy litter of unrelated puppies, the most aggressive dragging a broken chain around his neck. the dog-gangs of Puerto Williams are extremely mild-mannered and the most visible social scene on the streets, from what I can tell.

and as you can tell, there is absolutely nothing to do here. just swim, eat, rest, wait. tomorrow we'll swim more, and then meet with the Argentinians who will be our crew for Thursday. it's the end of the world, so sparsely populated that there's really not much to worry about. I suspect that the caprices of the weather make the light that does get through far more rewarding, and the liminal space of a naval base halfway to Antarctica is very different from the weather-beaten city of Punta Arenas.

Patricia is uploading some photos! you can see them at www.cibbows.blogspot.com

first jaunt in the Beagle

2010-01-19T14:31:00.000-08:00

19.1.10

first swim in the Beagle Channel!

the rain has let up. we climb down to the little beach and set our towels and shoes inside a small rowboat laid on its side in the black-purple mixture of gravel and mussel shells.

a schooner-houseboat is moored mid-channel, sprouting electrical connections to shore. there is a grill on deck and a motor appears to be running in the hold below. someone climbs from the deck and starts a worn white zodiac, which rears up-- a sort of water wheelie-- and starts toward the boat-dock. the driver wears shades and a red parka.

on the road above, against a slope dotted with thistles and blindingly yellow buttercups, a ruddy man comes along with a bag of pan amasado. he looks incredulous. van a nadar?! si, Cristian grins. we straighten up and look tough. he raises his brows. hay tiburones! we laugh. Patti doesn't hear, and we don't clarify. he clambers down to the beach and we quickly realise that the zodiac is there to pick him up-- he lives on the schooner. they shake their head one more time at the three gringos in bathing suits and the boat speeds off, leaving behind a haze of fumes and a surprisingly thick streak of rainbow-slick oil.

I'm rather dismayed at the pollution from a 600-yard zodiac trip, and the green algae beneath the water repels me. the water looks filthy, I tell myself. I know it's a closed bay, and a hotbed of naval and aeronautic activity, but there are few relatively clean places to get in and I can barely bring myself to dive under the slick. luckily, Cristian is still in getitdone mode. he dives in and I wade behind his wake. there's a wide swath of clean water where he entered and I dive deep-- the shoreline is deceptively shallow-- and swim hard with my eyes closed, not wanting to deal with seeing massive kelp forests on top of everything else.

I promise myself twenty strokes, but after ten I have to peek. there is a tree-like plant to my right. i startle, blink, then realise that the water is a deep, deep aquamarine green, similar to puget sound, but with more of a glacial-pastel shade, and clear, clear, clear. my hands look like cut-outs. the underwater light and colour is so engrossing that I quickly begin to enjoy the swim. I've been holding my breath, comically puffing out my cheeks underwater-- I hate to knowingly swim through an oil slick since I swim with my mouth open-- and now I relax my face and taste the clear green, which is deeply salty in a thick, viscous blend very unlike the Atantic. it tastes of the Pacific, but also of something deeper. it's almost like a salted lake. perhaps there are minerals in the sediment.

the water is, of course, freezing cold. after Coney Island at 33 degrees fahrenheit, this water is balmy. the cold takes a few minutes to sink in, or perhaps I've tricked myself by transferring the initial shock to my deep fears of the underwater. the wind has momentarily died down, though it is still raining lightly. I stop for a second to see where Cristian is heading and find him treading water just ahead. he is bright red, which makes me realise just how cold the water is, even though we barely feel it after so much rest and eating this past week. Patti catches up-- we won't try to get out on the far shore, where it is steep, rocky, and fenced by a thick line of sticky kelp. having flown over these clear waters just the day before, it's easy to see just how much of the purplish-greenish mess there is, not just in the shallows, but in giant patches throughout both the Strait of Magellan and the Beagle Channel.

as we head back to shore, the schooner revs off into the East, its residents waving and cheering from the deck. I end up swimming in Cristian's draft-- we all look fantastically surreal under the water, and it's fun to watch the others swim-- and his kick gives off perfect circles of bubbles, like smoke-rings. the water is incredibly calm, though I've already seen that it can become whitecap-torrential within minutes, whipped by winds from all directions.

the beach has a surprisingly steep drop-off and is far less intimidating on approach. this time, I keep my eyes open. in the mirrored periphery of my goggles I see the bullet-grey hull of the ship tapering underwater.

as I stand, I pluck an eye-catching shell from the bottom, checking first to make sure it's been vacated. the mollusks here are many and colourful. these shells for me, which I often give to friends, are like notches in a wall-- reminders of every time I've gone in against my instincts and come out on top. this one glowers, algal green against my flame-red palm.

saludos, Scott!

2010-01-19T14:30:00.000-08:00

19.1.10

sadly, Scott Lautman won't be joining us for this swim. he's come down with a mean cold at just the wrong time. we miss him!

a clubhouse for cibbows

2010-01-19T14:29:00.000-08:00

19.1.10

after much scouting and scrambling up and down hills, avoiding cow-pies among the tiny yellow flowers-- manure is ubiquitous, but oddly so, since I've only spotted three cows grazing near the airstrip yesterday and have yet to see more-- on our quest for a decent place to swim, we finally find a clear, deep spot near the Yacht club. the rocky beach is on a small inlet behind the airstrip. it meets all of our requirements: the kelp is not too thick, there are no pink-and-teal oil slicks on the surface, less metal debris in the shallows, and there is a wood-burning stove inside the club-- actually a retired German ship from 1925-- where we can sit and warm up after our swim. the rusty, grey hull of the ship looks a little scary, but it is surrounded by well-worn sailboats, most in transit and occupied by Europeans here to sail the Drake Passage and Cabo de Hornos. I suspect many may have come north because of tsunami warnings, after the earthquake in the Drake earlier this week. there are five boats: some french people, three women and a man; the two Hollanders we met yesterday; and several sun-worn Chilenos. we stoop to cross the threshold. inside, it smells of stale cigars. dusty national ships' flags hang over bad plaid couches and sharpie-signed photographs of travels to el territorio Antartico. the bar is dark.

on our way back to the hostel, it begins to pour, and the unpaved road-- our boots are already white with dust, dog-licked-- swells muddy, marking the terrain with a maze of what look like tiny glacial-sediment lakes.

they're great at paperwork, but can they swim?

2010-01-19T14:28:00.000-08:00

19.1.10

it's raining in Puerto Williams. the sun yesterday must have been a fluke.

finally, after a day and a half of logistic gymnastics, we have a date! we swim Thursday morning-- by chance, on the 21st of January, exactly one year after our surreal Strait of Magellan crossing. Both Armadas are on board, thanks to our miraculous delivery of notarised papers and the good humour and co-operation of the Chilenos.

We all had some great laughs last night, like when I had to ask why the clock marked 'Ushuaia', next to the 'Local', was twelve minutes ahead. I thought it was some sort of crack about Argentina. I think the real joke is that they have that clock there at all-- Ushuaia is just a few miles away, across the Beagle. we've agreed to call before we jump in for a swim, and once we get out, and of course if we get into any trouble-- for instance, if my bikini falls off. I'll spare my reader the details of the many other bikini jokes that have already been thrown around the Armada offices.

now for more important tasks, like finding a place to swim....

make that a double

2010-01-18T14:05:00.000-08:00

the communications rodeo continues. Cristian is in full force on this trip-- it's not often that we see him in get it done mode. thick wet rain outside our cafe-office; the tall sea-green church against the calliope-striped mountains in my view.

we've just heard from Ushuaia that the Argentinian Armada won't be willing to have a second boat meet us, so we now have to convince the Chileans to take the boats all the way across the border.

the distance they'd have us swim, frankly, is so small that it looks like we'll be able to do a double-crossing, and just leave the boats in the middle.

the small caveat: we'll have to clear immigration on the Argentinian shore. Seriously.

sigh, all those jokes about carrying our passports under our caps...

armed with two armadas

2010-01-18T13:46:00.000-08:00

18.1.10

you might suspect that the Armada in Puerto Williams doesn't have much to do; the population here hovers around 2500, and most people are either related to Naval personnel or just passing through. But our appointment this afternoon proves otherwise: a Dutch couple with matching trekker-outfits, who have made their way from Holland over the past two years in their 13-meter boat and are planning to sail around the Cape; a small family of Britons whose small girl is mistranslating an admiral's instructions for obtaining visas for Antarctica; three wacky swimmers; and assorted others demanding attention for diverse needs. we finally make it into the map room with a small crew of willing sailors.

the Beagle, despite logistical issues for which we came entirely unprepared-- the Chilean Armada will support us, but only as far as the Argentinian border, which means that we have to prove our credentials not only to the Chileans, but also to the Argentinians who are in Ushuaia, many miles away on the other side of the Beagle-- seems eminently swimmable. the water is slightly warmer than the Strait of Magellan, surprisingly, and the place the Armada will have us swim is a much shorter distance than the 6k we ended up covering last January. On the flip side, we won't have showers or anywhere to warm up after the swim, so we'll have to come prepared to shiver violently in whatever warm items we have.

Once again, we're all amazed at the logistical genius of Lynne Cox, who went this far with absolutely no precedent.

muchos castores

2010-01-18T13:38:00.000-08:00

18.1.10

short, brilliant hop from punta arenas to puerto williams, flying safely in the hands of a retired air force general on a tiny DAP plane with eight other passengers. giant seapurple kelp beds spot the Strait of Magellan--grand; whitecap-dotted; cerulean blue. the mountains emerge before the Beagle, spotted with pristine white glaciers. it's like flying over the remnants of the Ice Age. the land from the air-- I can't help but think of Audubon drawings-- seems wild, populated only with invisible beavers, who I assume have left behind the large clearings in the forests dotted with broken piles of trees, spilled out like toothpicks. I vaguely recall reading something about beavers having been introduced to Patagonia, sometime in recent decades, to try and spark some fur trade here- resulting, of course, in overpopulation-- 50 animals rapidly became 50,000. when someone in Punta Arenas mentioned that people in Puerto Williams eat muchos castores, I thought they were just making a bad joke. when we do get some internet access, which is of course scant despite Cristian's valiant but somewhat futile communications operation, I'll look it up.

we land at the Puerto Williams 'airport' -- really a long runway and a small waiting room, with a chainsaw casually resting on a counter in the ladies' room. sure enough, the only sound that cuts through the fresh, crisp air is the sound of falling wood on a not-too-distant mountain slope. it's beyond alpine here, all tiny whiteyellowviolet flowers and moo-cows, whitesnow-spotted blackbrown even-peaked mountain ranges lining the sparkling Beagle Channel. I've spotted at least ten kinds of ducks in the few hours we've been here. the town is compact, a woodsmoke-scented Armada base with a few alpinist-type shops and bright colored houses seated on the slope, as if watching the circus-tent merriment of the stripedmountain-lined Channel. the quiet is friendly-- perhaps the water cuts not just the landscape, but the sound quality of its wild ambience.

cultural sweep

2010-01-18T13:31:00.000-08:00

18.1.10

in the morning, Jose Miguel drove us to the airport, stopping off at the beach for a photo session at the Strait-- perhaps we'll make El Mercurio again.

waiting for the others to wake, I read in El Pinguino about the 'Patagonia Expedition Challenge', a growing race that combines trekking, bicycling and kayaking through both the Strait of Magellan and El Canal Beagle. despite my (obvious?) ability to relate to the impulse behind extreme individual athleticism in remote, beautiful places, I puzzle over the mental image of sixty triathletes bringing intense competition with them to one of the most remote-yet-populated places on the planet. I'm not even here to compete with the Natural World, though at times, of course, I do feel that I pit myself against the elements in order to see what I'm made of. I'm here to commune with nature, one of the best rewards of just a few years of hard, consistent training. the growing number of tourists to Antarctica; the single travelers we've encountered making their way around the south over months of travel; the cultural creep of American individualism-- I haven't totally made sense of what this means to me yet.

we are juggling logistics of all sorts, without private space-- I'm holding four conversations as I write this. our Beagle swim, thus far, presents myriad challenges.

Magallanes again

2010-01-18T13:26:00.000-08:00

17.1.10

a happy return to punta arenas and the chiledeportes hostel that was our home for the duration of our 2009 trip; though Claudia is in Santiago, her family hosted us with a wonderful asado-- a lamb roasted on an open spit in the backyard-- which was the best meal I've had in weeks. for the sake of toughness, I feel I need the rush that I get after eating red meat. the election results trickle in with car-horns and blue flags-- Pinera, the owner of LAN Chile, has won the presidency, to the chagrin of our host.

after the sun sets, sort of, the way it does in Punta Arenas-- it starts to dim around half past ten-- we talk politics as far as possible over drinks, then switch back to cold water swimming. by this time my efforts to speak and understand castellano have me completely exhausted. each time I try to bring up the new language, it emerges in a blast of Urdu-- slowly, the smoke of my second vocabulary clears, leaving me room to think back to Latin and French, grasping for nouns, verbs, declensions. but our hosts are wonderful people and warm, and my efforts are met with good humour and patience. we return at midnight and I finally have a great night's sleep, despite the 3.30 sunrise.

weather transitions

2010-01-16T16:02:00.000-08:00

16.1.10

a grey, windy day finally turns idyllic and sunbrilliant after a full afternoon in the choppy, chilly pacific with kelp and ten-foot swells-- though the mid-fifties feel like a warm bath after a couple of weeks at 34 degrees and below.

the massage tent on the beach, flaps billowing in the wind, is welcoming and calm. I'm happy to have gotten my last long swim out of the way before Puerto Williams, and relieved to have my qualifier done. now I can rest....

Cristian hasn't been feeling well and is laying low. I'm sure he'll pull through when we get some ceviche and pisco sours for dinner. tomorrow we leave before dawn for Punta Arenas, and hopefully get in the Strait of Magellan for a return to more frigid temperatures.

algorrobo in the evening

2010-01-16T16:01:00.000-08:00

15.1.10

egg-white and sea-light, more pisco sours against the early evening sky, which feels more like four o'clock than seven. relaxation to stave off the anxiety. one more day here in wonderland-- the large salt pool is a wonder for stroke work; no turns, no sea life, no murky depths, but the balance of ocean buoyancy and the absence of walls, flips. base tan, base mood, and on sunday, arrival in base camp. I can't wait for Punta Arenas-- asado at Claudia and Robert's house, a swim in el Estrecho de Magallanes, and a day adjusting to the wildwind south before we get in our tiny plane and head for Puerto Williams.

the largest pool in the world

2010-01-14T17:05:00.000-08:00

14.01.10
san alfonso del mar, chile

musing today between legs of travel-- overnight from JFK, then a few hours' coffeespace at Cristian's sister's place in Santiago. trying to find my footing in both language and toughness, two very different psychological tasks all at once. thinking about syntax and vocabulary makes me realise how crucial cultural deep-diving is to linguistic progress. I've been reading the books, studying phrases, and still i find the world here oddly impermeable, in the same way that I might find an otherwise personable person slightly out of my social range. as much as I'd like to get inside the mentality, I just can't feel out the vibe yet. maybe Castellano and I are not really meant to be-- maybe it is really just about the land, the wild south, the cold, the mountains and straits of la region antartica.

on the other hand, after twelve hours of stumbling around mentally in my language brain, I'm starting to get a hold of rudimentary communication, to put it clinically.

as for toughness, well, that's another matter.

so here we are in San Alfonso del Mar, home of the world's largest pool, a laidback summerhome waterscape fringed with white mod-international-style development, lazy with weekday beachgoing locals. behind the expanse of skyblue saltwater, thrumming rough surf shakes the entire place with a dense, deep bass; the sea looms grey and sparkling between lagoon and horizon. the expanse beyond the waves-- breaking ten feet and higher on the irregular, eroded beach-- is calmer and kelpy.

tomorrow, we'll go for a long swim.

but where are the beagles?!

2010-01-12T19:43:00.000-08:00

straits, channels, canals-- mostly things of the past, when it comes to contemporary minding of geography. they were once means for opening routes, interactions, possibilities. and they still are.
only now we swim them.

back in the penguin!

2010-01-10T11:33:00.001-08:00

it's official-- all of Magallanes knows we're coming:

El Pinguino article

les jeux sont faits

2010-01-09T12:29:00.000-08:00

36 degrees in clearwater brighton today. the sand marbled, desertlike, by the constant northeasterly wind of winterbeach; a periscope near the ocean parkway jetty became a long-necked swan sailing in with the current. bright sun makes an enormous difference in the air temperature despite a frigid wind blasting patticaramelissacristianjonathanmichaelme, now a robust six playing penguin huddle-n-switch to escape the draft. melissa, cara, michael, then patti swim, emerging in burnt umber and fireorange red. our turn. the clarity is a welcome distraction from the absurdity. we need a new sport! j. shouts, again.

low tide and a crystal clear sea, nothing on the seafloor but shells and light reflected. i have more energy to swim when I don't sight madly for the sun. hands go numb, but my kick feels strong and it also keeps me warm. it took me nearly fifteen minutes after the swim to feel the cold hit my back-- long after everyone else was done shivering. I feel tired, but strong and acclimatised.

last night, on my way out to the earthrise record release party, a loud thump-- i had to crouch down to see what had fallen under Bubbie and Abie's highboy. a lump in the dark. smooth stone in my hand-- it was a rock, collected from a small beach on puget sound in seattle after a kelpyclear starfish swim in that strange cold green. the rock went in my pocket, and came out again on the train downtown. purple-maroon of rusty ships, glassy smooth, with striae of what appears to be granitegrey pumice caked with seaschmutz green. a beautiful, kidney-shaped conglomerate of rocks and ages, seas and lands, times and places and history, all in my palm.

early rehearsal tomorrow cuts into my last possible beach day-- this was it! next swim in chile. we're ready...

madames et monsieurs, les jeux sont faits.

prenez-vous les chapeaux

2010-01-06T08:46:00.000-08:00

a quick shout-out to Gilles Chalandon, who hit the beach with us on New Year's eve-morning and made it all the way to the jetty in 34 degrees and the snow! he is one tough petit gateau.

cracked nuts

2010-01-03T12:09:00.000-08:00

just another day in the deep-freezer out in Brighton. the water dipped six degrees over the past day, down to a terrifying, tendon-twitching 34. honestly, compared to the sandstorm on the icy beach, the water felt warm. my hands bear the brunt of the cold-- my inner furnace was unruffled. by the time Cristian, Jonathan and I hit the beach-- on second shift, after looking after Melissa, Patti and Michael-- it was a full-force gale.

amazingly, after my hands returned to normal, the rest of my recovery was minimal. two years ago, when we first experienced this sort of cold, it was so awful that we basically got in and got out. two full winters of acclimation and our bodies are far more capable-- the adaptation is truly physiological.

the ocean was lovely and wild, with icy waves whipping us into the froth. the surf in my face when I tried to look for Cristian ahead stung between my teeth.

I'm glad we don't have to swim tomorrow.

seventeen below coney

2010-01-02T16:30:00.000-08:00

it's cold. headed to the pool in the snowy pre-dawn, relaxed but muscle-tired from three days in a row of chilly, chilly swims at brighton-- one snowfilled beachwhite silver-laminated frigidip on the last day of 2009, just in time to catch the lowest point of the week, 34.5 fahrenheit, and feel the taut tendons twitch in my hands as I pulled, like vibrating steel strings; then a joyously warmer jetty-jaunt on the first day of 2010; today, a chill wind whipped cold icedroplets into my face-- pellets ricocheting off my blue swede goggles-- and a frigidair wind made me want to stay in, anything but get back up there in the sandstorm and flurries on the beach. thankfully, it'll be summer in the southern hemisphere...

glam swim

2010-01-02T16:25:00.001-08:00

I'm honored that Kathleen Cook has graciously sponsored my Beagle Channel effort with a really classy swimsuit.

This is going to be a photogenic effort...stand by for Bond-worthy photos, with frogmen. eleven days to take-off!

Magellan Swimmers try Beagle Channel in 2010

2009-12-28T15:05:00.000-08:00

Four American swimmers to attempt January 2010 Beagle Channel crossing between Chile and Argentina, with support from Chilean Armada and Claudia Molkembuhr of Chiledeportes

In the third week of January, a trio from Brooklyn's Coney Island Brighton Beach Open Water Swimmers (CIBBOWS), together with a swim-partner from Seattle, will go after another frigid success to augment their 2009 Strait of Magellan swim: a Beagle Channel crossing. R. Cristian Vergara, 51, a Chilean-American accountant and accomplished distance-swimmer from Brooklyn, NY; Rachel Golub, 33, a New-York based musician and writer; and Olympic trials finalist and 200-meter butterfly world-record holder (50-55) Scott Lautman, 56, Human Resources Manager for Alaska Airlines in Seattle will swim the icy, choppy waters in simple bathing suits, caps and goggles. They will also be joined by another intrepid year-round CIBBOWS swimmer, Patricia Sener, 43, a photographer and casting director from Brooklyn, who was on the crew for their January 2009 Magellan swim.

The four are extremely grateful to Claudia Molkembuhr, a program director for Chiledeportes, without whom neither swim would have been possible. Molkembuhr has singlehandedly managed logistics and liaisoned with the Armada, making two extraordinary swims tangible for the team.

The swim will head North from Puerto Williams, Cabo de Hornos, Chile--the southernmost town in the world, just 75 miles from the last island of South America-- to Ushuaia, Argentina, on the Big Island of Tierra del Fuego.

Chiledeportes, the Chilean Sports Ministry that organised the Strait of Magellan swim last January, has enlisted the Chilean Armada to support the swim. The organisation runs athletic programs for children, young adults and professional athletes across Chile.

"We anticipate that water temperature will be close to 4 degrees celsius, or 39.2 degrees fahrenheit," says Vergara. "Having swum for nearly two hours in those conditions on our Strait of Magellan crossing, we're confident that we'll be able to succeed in the Beagle Channel as well, though it certainly won't be any less physically or mentally challenging".

In fact, some of the most difficult challenges surrounding such a swim are logistical. Chiledeportes representative Claudia Nelyda Molkhembur Sapunar (Region de Magallanes) will co-ordinate with the Armada to determine which day will have the best weather, organise the escort boats and recruit coast guard personnel. The swim requires a large and well-coordinated support team of at least ten, as well as a large ship and several smaller boats.

"Serious training and cold-water acclimation are required for even a short swim in water under 40 degrees, but the exhilaration of swimming in such a remote place and our apparently freakish talent for cold tolerance took us across the Strait of Magellan in twice the time we'd anticipated", Golub weighs in. "We are really hoping to find clean waters there, but pollution taints even the most remote wilderness these days, and the Beagle Channel sees plenty of shipping traffic. I think I speak for all of us when I say that this swim is about re-asserting our connection with our environment, albeit in a rather extreme manner." Golub is developing a musical instrument that will play bodies of water in real time, using oceanographic data, to transpose the concept and emotions of the swim into music.

The swimmers will be in the water for at least one hour, depending on conditions, swim speed, and currents over the 3-mile distance. Only Lynne Cox, the pioneer of cold-water distance swimming, has successfully completed the crossing, which is complicated by strong currents, unpredictable weather, and frigid water temperatures. There are also pernicious katabatic winds in the Beagle: the uniquely ferocious and unpredictable Williwaw gusts up to 200 knots, coming off of the Andes under compression.

Cox did the initial swim in 1990 as a way to promote co-operation between the Chilean and Argentine Armadas in a region that has been plagued by bitter border disputes since the land was initially settled in the mid-20th century.

Team jackets have been graciously provided by Patagonia.

countdown to puerto williams

2009-12-28T14:59:00.000-08:00

we leave in just over two weeks for Santiago.

this is one of these crazy moments in life when I feel poised to spring in about seventeen different directions. a week abed watching movies- I never knew Cool Hand Luke was such a religious parable!-- leaves me surprisingly fresh-minded, which is a good thing, because there's just too much about to happen: my vocal coming-out performance; some chamber-orchestra recording sessions; my record release in March; our trip South. I'm holding tight to the old adage that Lance always quotes: it's better to be fifteen percent undertrained than one percent overtrained. That's a grand thing, in my case, since I've been either working or ill so often this past month that I've only made it to the ocean two or three times. Time will tell. Stay tuned here for more details.

the beagle has landed...

2009-12-14T11:08:00.000-08:00

our swim dates aren't totally confirmed, but my travel plans are...southheading once again this january, arriving a month from today in Santiago, Chile, and with the incredible assistance of the intrepid Claudia Molkhembur Sapunar (of Chiledeportes, the Chilean ministry of sports) we have again enlisted the support of the Armada in Punta Arenas and Puerto Williams. We plan to swim from Puerto Williams, Chile, to Ushuaia, Argentina-- a distance of at least 3 miles in similar temperatures to the Strait of Magellan. We'd initially hoped to attempt a double crossing, but the distance doesn't seem short enough for that to be feasible (plus, getting out and back in to 38- or 39-degree water would be psychologically complex). Lynne Cox, my heroine in more ways than one, is the only woman who attempted and accomplished this swim. Lynne did the crossing in the early 90s, as a way to encourage co-operation between the Argentinian and Chilean Armadas (Coast Guard) at a time when the two countries were in bitter dispute over this remote southern area. Our goals are more personal, and have more to do with the challenge presented by the elements, the environment, and the joy of our ability to do these swims. We are also so thrilled to have Claudia on our team making this swim happen!

Sponsorship from Patagonia, the clothing company, is pending, and we are thankful to Kristo Torgersen for his help and support.

Water temperatures in NYC have reached the low 40s. It looks like we may be heading into the 30s by early 2010-- a rapid drop compared to last year. My body is ready for the challenge, but the initial cold days will test my endurance for pain in my hands. Luckily for my violin career, there doesn't seem to be any long-term damage from regular training in the 30s, as long as we don't stay in over 20 minutes. That's about a quarter-mile sprint, for those of you who might ask how far we swim when the water hits 32. We would swim longer, but we still have to get something on and make it up the beach! Even more pressing, i often have to rush off to play a concert somewhere.

I still haven't found my haute-couture bikini sponsor, sadly...

the thaw

2009-07-28T13:06:00.000-07:00

summertime, and it's back to the grand old routine of the pool- both indoor and outdoor, thanks to the proximity of the majestic astoria pool-- how I love the scent of the old, open-air showers in the early morning-- and long swims and cold beers on the beaches of brooklyn. I'm considering a new approach to this blog...and also looking into some more long, cold swims for the coming winter.

34 degrees of Coney Island

2009-02-01T18:42:00.000-08:00

Last night, rounding out the end of our celebratory return week, a slide-show and pisco sours in Brooklyn, putting together the story in pictures.

I assemble my own in words in my head on the subway, the street, over coffee, in bed; then the party, and I finish the night in Patricia's magical round room overlooking Norton Point, sprawled on a furry rug wrapped in blankets and sea-beach-white-wood glow. Waking to the sight and smell of the ocean, lazing in a heap of furblanketcoffee and excellent company of my host, it occurs to me that this is the sort of space that one wakes to and marvels how did my life lead up to this particular morning, where I awake in a white, round temple of Victoriana by the sea, as comfortable and happy as I've ever been? from Cristian's warm, lived-in mansion to Patricia's beachfront castle-in-the-waves, I think of my own New York City dreamhouse: the old Piano and Adirondack Chair factory on Hallet's Cove, a maritime-industrial garret overlooking the little beach and the sculpture park.

Then it's nine, then ten, and eleven-- time has been eaten by words, and we're off to the beach again.

and back to the chill, on a balmy day in the midst of deep-winter ocean. this water is cold. thirty-four degrees burns the skin of the thighs despite the sunshine. Hassidic man on the beach-- turkish-style fur cap-- watches intently, hands in pockets, as BorisPatriciaMichaelJonathanCristianMe strip, thankful for nowind as opposed to breezy-freezy yestermorn. Waves hit the shore in a perfect parallel, not diagonal to the northeast as they often roll across into Jamaica bay midwinter. we can smell the sea today.

this water is cold. I put my palms in and wince a little inside, but the day is so clear and bright and beautiful, the mood so relaxed, and my mind still so calm and undaunted that I feel I can really enjoy the swim. Jonathan shines next to me in the sunlight on the way to the shark-- the little rock that defines our shortest possible distance. as usual, there are some figures on the beach, seemingly drawn toward the water, walking with us. I don't feel particularly fast, just relaxed. mentally, it's much easier to ease into this momentary swim, probably just ten minutes, without needing to sprint as I did before Magellan. About halfway to the shark, the small muscles in my palms begin to twitch lightly. My hands feel thick. Not numb, but hard, like ice. I consider closing my fists to ease the feeling, but decide against it-- it will be crunchy and will upset me unnecessarily. I turn my focus to the rest of me, which, with the exception of crunch frozen, twitching calf muscle, is perfectly warm and happy. there is no pain in my neck, eyes, or head. the only problem with this swim is my hands. boris, cristian, jonathan and I line up at the shark. my hands are twitching, I tell Jonathan. we are all still smiling. he holds up his hands and waves them. they pop. we shrug, and start back. I can't feel my hands to pull water, which makes my stroke feel rather unproductive, but I'm still moving, so I stretch out and cruise back to our clothes. I love jogging out of the water in the winter. my frozen hands-- fishsticks, Cristian calls his--- are tucked into my underarms. people stop and stare, beam, comment. many ignore us. towel around the shoulders; one, two boots; a sweater; and we're off the beach in seconds.

it's amazing how much we've acclimated to this cold. It barely troubles me, other than the weird stinging numbness of my hands. It's not until after we sit and chat with boris for about ten minutes that I shiver, very mildly, for less than a minute. soon afterwards, hungrysleepy all at once, and our merry band grown to six chatters away until we all go our separate ways, to the rest of our sunday.

the return journey

2009-01-26T07:55:00.000-08:00

and finally, leaving.

not to mention finally sober, after one too many pisco sours with dinner, roadside strawberries and rasp-, and hundreds of congratulatory emails.

visiting Cristian's family farm in Rapel, southwest of santiago, first in a whirlpool of urban madness at the airport, not yet ready, then let down gently in a brilliant landscape of galaxy-stars and dusty eucalyptus along the drive. Patricia and I marvel at the air and I am so relaxed-- steakwinecountryside and most of all success-- that I can barely keep myself vertical. strawhorse-hair pillow perhaps the best I've ever had. zamindars, landed gentry, Patricia and I awake and jokingly embrace, giggling, until Cristian brings the coffee.

a snowy dog, unusually vocal and loveable, keeps us company through morning hotdrinks, pan amasado and copious doses of honey. Cristian's tiny, spry father takes us on a tour of his property by boat. I look out nervously for tarantulas, despite knowing that they are relatively harmless.

it seems like aeons since we parted ways with the Lautmans. I miss Scott's dark-tinged good humour.

empanadas, a detour for handicrafts, argentine dinner and extra-strength pisco sours, and we're off again to santiago, changing into winter clothes and finally accessing the internet in the lounge.

suddenly headachingly sober, I find myself right back where I started, breathing invocations on an escalating aeroplane, mercifully seat-mate-less in a spacious exit row-- i'll swim for help! -- and back to the marvelous feeling of a new bookmark in life, a fresh launching-point.

photo: Leopoldo Espinoza Vera

los nadadores que cruzaron...

2009-01-23T18:00:00.000-08:00

photos: Leopoldo Espinoza Vera

los nadadores que cruzaron....

La Prensa Austral: Cruzaron a nado el estrecho de Magallanes

are at the moment enjoying the afterglow of many bottles of wine and a fantastically roasted lamb in the company of the wonderful extended family and home of Claudia Nelyda Molkembuhr Sapunar, our brilliant host, who has taken on the production of this swim under the aegis of Chile Deportes...

our swim, assisted by the Armada de Punta Arenas and a wonderful armada of tonino-- Magallanes dolphins-- and penguins, was more than successful. it was positively magical, beginning with calm, then sandwiched between severe storms, ending in a tranquil sea with laughing dolphins accompanying the boats to shore.

Scott finished first in 1 hour, 18 minutes, and Mark, Cristian and I, after battling offshore currents and whirlpools, landed about 100 yards apart around 1 hour 53 minutes.

The water was 40 degrees.

raise your right arm....

2009-01-22T08:17:00.000-08:00

s-day: the crossing

2009-01-22T07:15:00.000-08:00

I woke early from a deep dream of clear, clear, pebbled waters seen from a ship-- and after a moment realised that the howling, shuddering winds that had been shaking the building for days had finally died down. it was calm, and raining lightly. in the kitchen scott, ready to go, always smiling, sits on the counter swinging his legs.

after a week of white bread and yet another steak dinner, I've been innoculated for breakfast alfajores and chilenitos. one by one we awake, ready, and spend a couple of hours trying to kill time, fussing with our bags and rooms, fussing in the kitchen, fussing.

our van arrived early and we departed precisely at the appointed time-- 11.30am-- for Punta Delgada, about 200 kilometers north and east, at the first narrows. The ride over is fairly tense, though the Strait is calm and almost flat. the air is more chilly than I'd like it to be.

as we pass more guanaco and ostrich, sheep in the fields, Radio Magallanes announces our swim and describes each of us, to our great delight.

around one o'clock, arrival in punta delgada. the wind is slight and the water looks calm. dolphins-- small cousins, at least, called Tonino-- waltz in pairs near an anchored rig. Cristian and Patty near the water-- hands in, Cris declares it feels like 50 degrees. all smiles. I kneel in the musselshells, iridescent purple beach, roll up my sleeves and place my palms gingerly at the waterline. it washes over me and I feel my heart skip a beat. the water is clearly colder than our training-ground, clearly not 50, clearly 40 or below. my stinging palms. I lie, agree, nod. we're going to be fine. I see Patty eyeing me carefully; she's felt the water, too.

Cristian and I stand, look past one another. birds cry overhead and the sun peeks through the stillness. it is remarkably peaceful.

a group again in Armada headquarters, with entourage-- seeing the landing-point by telescope, we laugh nervously socialising while they harshly question Claudia about our abilities. she hustles us back downstairs, where we look at maps, discuss the configuration of ship and zodiacs and end up watching whale-watching shows in a darkened room with the edgy CNN Chile reporters.

initial plan had us with two Armada boats, two zodiacs, two captains. judging by the report, one single ship left Punta Arenas at 0800 hours. the four of us will have to manage our crossing with just two zodiacs. it's complex, because Mark, though wetsuit-clad, may lag slightly behind me; I will attempt to keep up with Cristian, usually about ten feet in front; and Scott will smoke us all with his Olympic gord-itas.

we are once again hustled to another distraction, thankfully-- lunch, at the small tourist place across the gravelshelled plaza. I order a sandwich and pick nervously. tea, soda, and binoculars, all eyes on the Strait, and as the ferry arrives it spins, just as Lynne Cox described, like a toy boat in a draining tub. The current pushes it so that it crosses the 4 kilometers from Bahia Azul like a side-crawling crab. we can see this flow, like a four-lane highway between the shore and midstream, ebbing at 5-knots to the Atlantic. terror overcomes me. I turn to the television and furiously ponder Michelle Obama's feathery inaugural number.

the wind has picked up. my anxiety shows on my face and Marianne seems to understand that I am close to tears, or breakdown, or something drastic. Scott, ever good-humoured, keeps tabs on smiles. Cristian is acting tough and ignoring me, which makes me ever more nervous. it's psychological, I keep telling myself. nerves. just focus on relaxing. outside the windows the weather has soured- the waves are escalating and the wind has climbed back to a steady howl. the clouds loom grey. we may not even get the chance to swim.

the red ferry leaves, pushed like a leaf into an almost-diagonal limp across the strait. the blue ferry totters in, turning a full 180 degrees before grinding up to the concrete loading dock. three truckloads of sheep roll up the ramp and past our piles of gear, which are now covered with a spattering of rain. the sky grows darker. cristian is in flip-flops and I wonder whether I can stand to be that cold until the Armada arrives-- our boat is, as of yet, a speck on the horizon to the west. i head inside to put on my suit.

three o'clock-- we swim at 15.20. mark is slathering his torso with crisco. the reporters circle, snapping photographs of us trying to look tough. I can barely speak by this point. it's raining hard now, almost sideways, and the wind is at least 35 knots. whitecaps dot the strait. it's beginning to look like a force 5 or force 6 storm; there's no way we'll even get a chance to try if the weather doesn't relent. but our boat is not even within sight.

then suddenly it is, heading east almost a half-mile out. it pulls close to shore, then appears to move sideways at about 10 knots. I turn away. minutes later, hoping to see approaching zodiacs, I look out and find our late-arriving Armada moving backwards at quite a clip, out toward the Atlantic. it's painful to watch. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. they seem to be putting zodiacs in the water, but the Strait is a whirl of white and grey, and I lean into the wind, resting on my back at a 60-degree angle. the red ferry is spinning like a top on the other side. Completely intimidated, I begin to doubt not just our ability, but my own intentions and strength. it's nerves, I think desperately, just nerves. we're going to make it across. it's so close. it's right there.

the zodiac is arriving at the loading dock. I exchange my boots for flip-flops, abandoning my previous gear-configurations, and stuff the pockets of my 15 below coat with sweaters and hat. I'm taking almost nothing now, putting myself in the hands of our entourage, which seems to be growing by the minute. my cap and goggles in my pocket, I turn to face the water again. suddenly, miracuously, the wind has died down. the sun is even beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. I feel elation and relief swell up in my chest and throat and have a sudden craving for chocolate.

we all eat oatmeal cookies, our spirits rising, and watch the Armada unload a second zodiac. by the time it reaches shore, are on the beach, amidst a motley crew of frogmen, naval officers with guns on string-halters, press and Chile Deportes officials, ambulance personnel and random men in orange jumpsuits who want photographs with los gringos.

we begin to strip, and I lean down several times to examine the sand-- a habit of mine. whenever I get in the water for a difficult swim, or on a day when I'm not convinced of swimming, I always collect a shell. any shell. it doesn't have to be pretty. somehow, the act of doing this-- I rarely keep them, often passing them to whomever I meet later that day-- calms my nerves and reminds me that getting in is always the hardest part. but I don't pick anything at this moment-- I consider, briefly, sticking a shell in my suit, but leave it- the consideration alone is enough to calm me.

I don't even look at the water.

Cris, Scott, Mark and I pose for photos, finally naked to the elements. it's chilly, and I start flapping my arms just to keep my blood moving. something somewhere in my brain understands that getting chilly on the beach is psychological, but another part of me is concerned that chill will take minutes off of my ability to stay in the water. I have serious doubts at this point, and a healthy dose of fear of the cold. but we're ready, and our things are loaded into the zodiacs, along with our friends. someone screams wait and someone screams now and then we're wading into the water, putting on goggles.

it's cold. it's really cold, and as if we're psychic, we can hear each other scream internally. it may be that Cristian and I spoke about it, but I don't recall. somehow, though, at that moment, everything fell away, and I was more than ready to swim it.

I walked straight in, and then we dove, Cristian and I at once, whether by word or by thought I can't recall, and there were cheers all across the beach, the boats, the decks of the ferry. and then we were swimming.

it wasn't clear like Punta Arenas. It wasn't sunny and warm like Punta Arenas, either. it was freezing, greygreen, murky and full of silt. I recall swimming hard, kicking hard, thinking I should swim it at the pace of a 75-yard sprint. I gathered speed, remembering to relax.

it occurred to me that we hadn't discussed which side the zodiacs would cover. Mark to my right seemed to be pacing well with me, and I thought we might hold that. but some sort of current must have come between us, and I found myself sprinting hard, very hard, to catch up with Cristian. the distance between us shrank-- ten feet, five feet, and then I could see his whole body underwater. three or four strokes and I'd be next to him. I imagined how comforting that would be. my body felt warm and strong, my arms chilly but not frozen. my pace increased and to my confusion, Cris was pulled far east of me, and behind. I decided at that point to put my head down and just sprint, no matter where the zodiacs or other swimmers were, no matter which way I was heading.

but not having guidance was maddening. for some time I focused on Scott's boat, the lead zodiac, which drew rapidly ahead and was a distinct spot on the horizon. our own boat hovered ahead, to the left, then the right, and left me so far behind that I had to sight multiple times to find it. thankfully, the swells felt like they were carrying me forward. i kicked madly, almost on autopilot. cristian appeared again, to my far right. once again, I almost caught him, only to find that he'd slipped to my far left. when I breathed every six strokes on my left, he appeared to be floating. I nearly panicked with worry and had to stop myself from stopping to check on him, since our zodiac was nowhere in sight. finally, resigning myself once again to swimming alone mid-Strait, I just put my head down and swam. I figured that it was better to conserve energy by not sighting than to worry about wasting strokes in the wrong direction. If I started swimming off to the side, the zodiac would eventually correct me, or so I assumed. in retrospect, this may have added thirty minutes to our swim. we must have swum at least six kilometers with the detours and zig-zagging.

never try to share a zodiac like this on a cold swim. it's not only terrifying-- it's terribly risky.

sprinting away, full of emotions, sometimes rabidly angry at Patricia and the zodiac pilots for not guiding me, then forgiving and pulling my thoughts back to the map and where I was swimming-- I'm swimming to Tierra del Fuego!-- I sprinted on, never feeling cold, never feeling tired. somewhere around halfway, not surprisingly, my body began to gain on my mind. I suddenly found that I'd been daydreaming, and my zodiac was far ahead, too far for me to see clearly which way they were pointing. the land on the horizon did not grow; my sense of direction was completely gone. it must have been about 45 minutes into the swim, but I had no sense of time. what I did realise was that I was disoriented-- not in my senses, but within my head. I was not really sure where I was or what I was doing. my brain must have been diverting all its oxygen and resources to my muscles, because I was still able to swim hard. I had no doubt that my body would continue swimming long after my ability to recognise speech or thought was gone. I didn't feel cold.

I saw cristian up ahead and made some gesture of hopelessness to the crew on the zodiac. they zipped around and came up on my left. stay near me, I said as calmly as possible, not wanting to own up to my disorientation. not yet. I knew that I was already hypothermic, but I felt that if I were close, I would make it. am I close? Patricia looked at the land and gave me an encouraging nod, though she later admitted I was just past halfway. that slight encouragement was what I needed. I put my head down and started sprinting once again.

relationship to your crew, on any swim, is always tenuous and fraught with complex emotions, especially when close, dear friends are on the boat. it's a little bit like having parental guidance: maddening, but essential, alternately dismissed as useless and embraced as a sole source of comfort. though they were probably one hundred meters in front of me at times, I saw Patty's tireless, direction-giving silhouette dominating the boat, trying to guide us; I thought of washington crossing the delaware, cracking myself up in the midst of it all.

time rolled on and by, and there was splashing behind me, and funny noises. I assumed it was my own kick, my own mouth. they later told me it was two toninas, clearly watching my back and frightening away the flocks of penguins that we swam through. the fumes from the boats were making my head spin, and I couldn't see the zodiac. I kept the grey armada ship in my sight to my right, knowing that Marianne and the captain would have an eye on me in binoculars. there was no room for worry, nor was there space for thinking about breathing the exhaust. I just swam. at some point, spots along the shore began to grow and I felt my progress.

the zodiac appeared, somehow, and once I'd made eye contact with Patty, thank goodness she was there!-- there seemed to be no question of it leaving again. I focused on telling myself what I was doing, where I was, and that I would finish- the only things that I seemed capable of hanging onto in my strange high. somehow, my body felt neither cold nor tired, though Anu later told me that I was whining of both in our final exchange.

the shore rose suddenly, then grew in size until I could see the paintings, the red ferry, the ambulance. somehow, I couldn't get where I was trying to go, and was being rapidly swept west along the shore. fixated on the ramp and the ambulance, I couldn't seem to process another landing place until I was thrown over by a small but violent whirlpool. I did breast-stroke to get through the current. it was hard not to just stop swimming and tread water, confused. all ten people on the boat were screaming at me in at least two languages.

just when I was so disoriented that I thought I might not be able to land, I saw people running on the shore, falling over themselves on the steep, muddy-looking beach. I sprinted one last time, barely able to feel my arms. gravel beneath my face. I stood, then ran.

there was commotion and someone wrapped me in a blanket. I jumped for joy, then looked for Cristian. seconds later, there he was, fifty yards away, having had a crash-landing at a different point. we all ran for one another.

one hour, fifty-three minutes. forty degrees. boat fumes, and some wayward guidance. though the water became rough as soon as we left the shore, it calmed on our ride back, and we were accompanied by leaping toninas and ample sunlight. it was a surreal scene, a tranquil ocean pastorale, remote and perfectly lit, in stark contrast to the earlier gale.

somehow, all four of us had crossed-- Scott first, in one hour 18 minutes, then Mark and Cristian and myself, almost all at once, in that order.

success. an evening of fantastic drinks and surprisingly light food ensued.

on the eve of the swim

2009-01-21T07:53:00.000-08:00

photo: Leopoldo Espinoza Vera

12.22 am

We swim tomorrow at 15.15. As ready as we can be, myself armed with more red meat in my system than I've taken in in most of my 32 years and an encouraging swim today. Scott and Cristian and I spent the day antsy together, inauguration day. The others-- Mark, Mary Anne, Patricia and Anu-- went for a penguin-colony cruise, which I sense was more stormy than they will admit.

Our swim today, brief for rest's sake, was clear and chilly-- the water here once again strikingly clear, glassy, unmercifully choppy. We stayed in 17 minutes, just long enough to warm up and stretch out, and came out without shivering. I didn't feel cold until I stepped out of my hot shower and realised the window was open. The wind on the beach was strong and constant enough that I found myself leaning back and resting on its momentum.

rainysunny punta arenas, in a colonial square. we rubbed the foot of a sailor at the base of a statue of hernando de magallanes-- supposedly a prerequisite for crossing the Strait. our photo-opp was followed by a young man and a mangy dog. the dog refusing to leave the frame, us giggling. clear skies, some snow. mad whitecaps in the Strait at the end of every streetscape.

in my mind? excitement, and some worry about my speed. I hope the zodiac stays within my sight range so that I don't need to expend energy looking up. I hope that the water is not so clear that I can see bottom-- I don't want to know that much, I don't want to see the shipwrecks lined up like a ghost-town. I don't want to swim through kelp. I want to get across. I want to get across. I don't care if I get cold near the end, but I want to get across. I want to get in and swim, now.

inaugural edition

2009-01-20T10:52:00.000-08:00

Inauguration day!

we swam fifty minutes yesterday, easily, with the sun on our backs despite the wind and cold.

we swim the Strait tomorrow at slack tide, around 17.30 Chilean time, two hours ahead of New York. all four of us will swim together, with two Armada boats and two Zodiacs accompanying.

New York Times article: Icy Ritual in Brooklyn, Preparing for a Challenge

the reporter colored his account dark, in my opinion, but there we are, shivering masochists, as he would have it!

off to swim; writing will happen later.

El Pinguino article: Tres norteamericanos y un chileno cruzarán a nado el Estrecho de Magallanes

first swim in the Strait

2009-01-18T17:52:00.000-08:00

first swim near tierra del fuego.

black dolphins flying against the current to the pier as we strip by the roadside. Scott, Cris and I wade into the thick purple kelp, colder than it felt last night and then we are up to our waists. tentative between the bits of rusty metal and mussels along the bottom, we stand a moment, feeling the wind. Cris and I dive at the same moment, and then we are swimming.

moments and my nose scrapes bottom. the three of us laughing, standing, walking through sandy shallows and then deeper again, calves, knees, and we are adjusting our goggles and off again to the pier, chasing the dolphins through thick kelp. Scott is yards ahead; Cris and I catch him just beyond the pier. we flame red. five minutes.

and off again, in the other direction. I panic after a brief entanglement with ruddy white-spotted kelp. it's shallow. I spot the hull of a boat, buried; a beer can, golden; crabs lurching in the waves. Cristian spys a boot, left foot.

I'm not cold, but I'm cold. suddenly we're far from shore, and flying south with the current. the water tastes less salty than last night, and is incredibly clear. Cris and I swim head to head until it begins to get shallow, as Claudia had warned us it would.

We turn and sprint into the current, a totally different light, storm light. a sudden wind breaks up the surface and my mouth is full of cold smooth ice. back to the pier, this time in strangely small but violent chop, and I pull into Cristian's draft to avoid the kelp. it is there, deep fuchsia waving like thick heads of hair along the bottom.

at the pier, I realise that I am cold- whether from exhaustion, relaxation, flight, or just the cold, cold water. the straits are calm again. we turn, swim to scott, and head in. thirty minutes-- our longest swim in 40 degrees yet. I shiver for what seems like nearly an hour. Tomorrow, we'll meet with the Armada, then attempt a full hour before meeting Anu at the airport...

the end of the Americas

2009-01-18T17:41:00.000-08:00

after three takeoffs and three landings on the airbus, arrival in Punta Arenas. A warm reception from Claudia and Carlos of Chile Deportes, the woman from the government sports agency who is hosting our swim. It's windy and sunny and about forty degrees cooler than Santiago.

a stop at our training-beach-to-be. Cristian and I slip off boots and shoes and nervous-ecstatic roll up our pantlegs. The waters of the Strait, chilly and a brilliant choppy swirl of turquoise and purple, tasting of salty kelp, slowly numbing my feet. the wind howls and screeches against the electric-blue sky.

The taste of seafood, locos and centolla, bringing out subtle nuances of the sea, tastes one often finds in the complex flavor of the water while swimming. by the second bottle of wine, 10.30 at night. the surreal cerulean light, tinged with indigo, of a sun that doesn't quite set at 11, and teases its way back up at 5.

the desolation, the strangeness of a city by the sea, where the weather varies from minute to minute in a perpetual winter that leaves a heavy mark even on the summer. prehistoric trees, strange groves, primary colours against the sky and Strait, an endless palette of greys and blues.

it's the end of the earth. journeys from east to west are dramatic. journeys to the extremities of north and south are another planet-- as if we hover nearer to space, in a world of wind, speed, cold, light.

in a land far, far away...

2009-01-18T12:30:00.000-08:00

meanwhile, back in Coney Island...

while we summer in Chile....

impressions of punta arenas

2009-01-18T07:51:00.000-08:00

011809

back in New York, Michael reports-- dear Michael! without whom swimming becomes slightly less lighthearted-- he and Jonathan braved sheets of ice along the beach, 12-degree air and 34-degree water. perfect arctic conditions. it's really amazing how we have the ability to experience this sort of training in our hometown-- and at the same beach that becomes our living room, our bar, our gym in the summer months. I am inclined to say that I would rather swim there than anywhere else in the world. and it's not just training-- there is no particular goal involved. it's just beautiful, and crazy, and challenging, and continually presents itself as a new opportunity to stretch and overcome limitations of all sorts.

so how on earth did we end up here, on a bunk bed in the Chile Deportes hostel, the wind howling and shuddering around our slight refuge? what does this mean?

someone in our party, donning jackets after dinner, catches a bottle of wine which explodes on the floor with a bang. Libations, christenings, weddings come to mind. the black dolphins in the strait. children playing along the shore beside the hulls of rusted old ships as the clouds re-array their whiteness and wine-blue haze against a sunnyraining sky. all good omens, if omens. again, the tendency to overinfuse with meaning-- though Cristian and I, at least, are inclined to resist that sort of romanticism. the Lautmans, merry, witty, vacationing, have a different style.

the chop we saw from the airplane was terrifying: whitecaps as far as the eye could see, even from 15000 feet. the weather here turns on a dime.

it's going to be a tough swim.

expectations of Magallanes

2009-01-16T12:51:00.000-08:00

The miracle of aviation always brings me instinctively to the threshold of prayer. Still, after years of feeling religious all the way down a runway, I never get beyond that point without stopping and questioning this reaction.

I'm usually struck by the meaninglessness of particular words or actions that come to mind. Invoking one god or another, muttering this benediction or that, solemnly or otherwise-- these are all pretty pointless. They might make sense in attempts to relate the feeling of a momentous action, but trying to feel a connection to a greater being, for me, doesn't have much to do with religion. I can bismillah- and sh'ma my way across the strait, crossing myself between strokes, but it won't do a damn thing if the ocean changes, or if my mind or body fails me.

The control of my mind, on the other hand, is certainly my own, and if I choose to call on something or another within myself, or to generate some sort of vibe in my head and body, that's another story. In cold water, these things are so present, so urgent, that I prefer to leave it bare-bones, unnamed.

This reminds me of my first Hudson swim, which had me terrified and shaking for nearly two weeks beforehand. All for naught? I'm not sure whether I would have been as mentally prepared had I not gone through the fear. In the end, the swim was a wonderful, light experience from the minute I jumped in the water.

As for fear, this swim around, I've been so busy these past two weeks that I've barely had time to sleep, let alone think about anything. On Tuesday, Cristian called up to tell me about a katabatic wind current known as a williwaw.

The williwaw blows off Antarctic mountains, creating micro-hurricanes on the Strait. The pernicious wind gust apparently plucked a Mexican swimmer from the strait, 800 meters from her goal, and slammed her back down into the water, displacing the meniscii of her knees and cracking her lumbar into little bits.

This strange wind only happens in Magallanes and around the Aleutian Islands, off Alaska. It sounds almost supernatural. We are clearly headed into very wild territory, very unknown territory for swimmers.

Relaxing today in Santiago with Cristian's family, the reality of the swim grows and fills my mind. I've rarely been so focused in travelling; I can't wait until tomorrow to get down to Punta Arenas and see what we're really getting into.

Now that we have a small entourage, I'd like introduce them, briefly:

Anuradha Bhagwati and I went to Yale together, though we were barely even acquainted-- we played in the Symphony together. I spotted her on the beach at the CIBBOWS race, Grimaldo's Mile, in August, and we've been in touch since then. She'll be writing an article and has already proven herself an extremely thoughtful journalist over hours at the beach with Cris, Jonathan, Michael and myself.

Patricia Sener is a dear friend at this point, though I still remember her as we were introduced, four beers into a post-race party, singing karaoke in a wife-beater simply labeled CONEY ISLAND POLAR BEARS. We are fast friends, swim-buddies, team-mates. She is probably one of the only true open-water photographers, and will be bringing her considerable talent to our story, as well as looking out for us in the Strait and otherwise. And blogging: Salty Tales

Between these two intrepid journalists and our own documentation, verbal and photographic, this swim should be pretty well covered.

The New York Times sent a reporter to the beach with us on Wednesday-- that's yesterday, though it feels like last week-- to watch while we gave the 15 below coats a first run. He seemed a little underwhelmed. At least the story will be getting out. The coats are excellent, well-designed and warm-- much moreso after the swim than before. We only took a dip, just about ten minutes, but it was a nice one. the water was very clear, and the air was pretty nippy: around 22 degrees, minus windchill.

Thursday morning I held the newborn baby of dear friends-- Kabir. Standing by a picture window overlooking the snow-globe of the West Side, this little tiny sleeping head rolling about in my tricep, I wondered at the innocence, and the potential- a little person, with no knowledge of snow, or cold. Several hours later, a plane crash-landed in the Hudson, leaving 150 people inches from the chilly waters-- no doubt a terrifying experience. The world is a strange and many-colored adventure.

All of this brings me back to the basic notion I was trying to get at before: cold-water swimming will really straighten out your spiritual priorities pretty quick. It's just you out there. Even with training partners you love and trust, with no competition, and intense support for one another in and out of the water, it's still everyone for herself. You are in charge of your body and your mind. It's up to you not just to keep a tight watch on every physiological sensation; you must also be aware of how psychology affects that, and balance accordingly. Finding and keeping this balance is where the connection to a larger cause comes in: only in this case, the Great External is natural-- the ocean-- and the Deep Internal is right there, naked in the cold, accessible, unavoidable.

After the Manhattan Marathon swim this July, I recall a conversation with Cristian, something about channel-swimming. He leaned in, to impart yet another brilliant gem of open-water philosophy: you have to be very, very comfortable with yourself to do long swims. That definitely goes for cold as well.

2009-01-10T14:55:00.001-08:00

I'm thrilled to announce that we've teamed up with a great cause: the
15 below project, a Canadian-based initiative to provide weatherproof parkas for the homeless. They have distributed 3,000 free coats on the streets of the US and Canada, on behalf of the advertising firm Taxi.

The 15 below jacket, the brainchild of Taxi's creative director Steve Mykolyn and designer Lida Baday, is an all-season, lightweight coat to be given free to the homeless across Canada and the U.S. The coat is easily insulated with newsprint: newspaper is tightened into balls and stuffed into the coat's inner pockets.

The coat is made from Aquamax, a waterpoof, breathable fabric laminated with a nonporous membrane. Mykolyn tried out the garment during an eight-hour test in a meat freezer, and stayed warm through temperatures that dipped as low as -29 degrees Celsius (-20.2 F).

We will be sporting these innovatively-designed parkas to warm up before and after our Strait of Magellan swim (water temperature around 40 degrees) later this month.

Over months of cold-water jaunts, Cristian and I have learned the immense importance of restoring and maintaining warmth after winter exposure. We have read extensively about hypothermia, core temperature and so-called 'survival thresholds' for ocean waters. We watch each other carefully for the warning signs of hypothermic danger, and take care to leave the beach quickly to replenish our lost body heat indoors-- a luxury.

This cold-water challenge is within reach because we have learned, with careful training and utmost attention, to withstand cold, and to understand the process of reversing the cold. We also have the resources to regulate and maintain our body temperature against the elements.

Others not only lack respite from the cold; they live in it, night and day.

The 15 below project is close to our hearts, and to our cores. We have experienced extremes of cold that can kill. Before we swim, and when we exit the water, we wear warm outer clothes that will retain and replenish our body heat.

Rather than our usual parkas, for our Strait of Magellan attempt, we will use 15 below jackets.

The 15 below project is seeking corporate sponsorship to take over production and distribution of the coats.

For more information about the 15 below project:

www.15belowproject.org

2009-01-01T19:15:00.000-08:00

Four American swimmers to attempt Strait of Magellan crossing from the End of the Americas to Tierra del Fuego

On the 20th, 21st or 22nd of January, 2009, four American swimmers will attempt a crossing of the Strait of Magellan, from the end of the Americas to Tierra Del Fuego in Punta Delgada, Chile.

The swimmers are: R. Cristian Vergara, 50, a Chilean-American accountant and accomplished distance-swimmer from Brooklyn; Rachel Golub, 32, a New-York based musician and writer; Mark Lautman, 59, Chair of the Economic Development Commission of New Mexico and coach of 1972 Olympic gold medalist Cathy Carr; and his brother, Olympic trials finalist and 200-meter butterfly world-record holder (50-55) Scott Lautman, 55, Human Resources Manager for Alaska Airlines in Seattle. The four will swim the icy, choppy waters in simple bathing suits, caps and goggles, with escort boats provided by the Chilean Armada.

The water temperature will be close to 4 degrees celsius, or 40 degrees fahrenheit. The swimmers will be in the water for one hour or more, depending on conditions, swim speed, and currents over the 2.4-mile distance. Only two swimmers have successfully completed the crossing, which is complicated by strong currents, unpredictable weather, and frigid water temperatures.

Mr. Vergara and the Lautman brothers have numerous worldwide adventure swims under their belts. Ms. Golub, a relative newcomer to open-water swims, has been training year-round at Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, New York with Mr. Vergara. She is optimistic about the swim: "when we realised that we were capable of raising our cold-endurance threshold, we set upon a common dream: to complete a swim that very few have done, distinguished by Antarctic currents-- an environment inhospitable to both people and ships. In the spirit of Fernando de Magallanes and the intrepid Portuguese explorers, we are setting out on a great adventure in Nature. This challenge is within reach because we have learned, with careful training and utmost attention, to balance our minds and acclimate our bodies for cold-water swimming."

For their crucial pre- and post-swim warm-ups, Vergara, Golub and the Lautmans will be using parkas by the 15 below project, a weatherproof, lightweight all-season garment designed for free distribution to the homeless by Canadian advertising firm Taxi. The coat is easily insulated with newspaper, tightened into balls and stuffed into the coat's Aquamax shell, which folds up into a backpack. In initial tests, the coat retained warmth for eight hours in temperatures as low as -29 degrees Celsius (-20.2 F).

"Rachel, our two other training partners and I have all read extensively about hypothermia, core temperature and so-called 'survival thresholds' for ocean waters," says Vergara. "Unlike many who suffer the elements day in and day out, we are lucky to have the resources to experiment with extremes of temperature in a controlled situation. The 15 below project, which reaches out to the homeless, is close to our hearts, and to our cores."

For more information about the 15 below project:

www.15belowproject.org

2008-12-31T13:52:00.000-08:00

31 December 2008: winter wonderland

Some thoughts on precipitation:

Swimming in the rain is an amazing experience. Late-summer rains, the kind that close the beach, bring a silvery gray sheen to the horizon, as a background drape of light velvet, or chiffon. The water roils and bubbles, flat and viscous, metallic and dolphin-grey. In the altered, dull light, objects in the water seem perfectly outlined against the sky and sea, as paper cutouts on a single backing. A universe of no-glare, this strange oceanscape seems endless as one swims through it, becoming riddled with a driving rain and fog that obscures the shore and jetties. We swim in tight packs, bright caps cutting through the silver, and shout to keep track of one another. Sound seems to travel as if within a vaulted chamber, flat and hollow as a long-lost mountain cry.

But a swim in a snowstorm verges on surreal, as if the world might whirl into a snowdrift and disappear. Stripping on the beach feels like total madness. The ocean, thankfully, is more welcoming than the air. The snow and sand mix at the waterline, lace lines of snow flitting across the icy sand vacated by hissing waves. Snowflakes cover the water before the sandy scene. Like a sandstorm executed in snow, the whirling-white beach glitters, swirls and dips as the wind whips your ears. A deserted beach makes a true snowstorm. Being there feels like being in a blizzard at the end of the earth. The water is the warmest place to be, but the hands freeze into hard blocks and rectangles on contact with the air. The birds float serenely at the shoreline, or huddle flocked on the sand.

Spending ten minutes in this alternate world, green and brown water and Siberian chill, is but a tease, but we get out after a brief there-and-back to a pre-determined point along the shore. It's wiser, in this weather, to avoid frostbite.

The wind barely allows me to get my towel around my waist before I lose feeling in my hands, which feel brittle and prickly. I pull on my boots over metallic-feeling feet and throw my coat over my shoulders. Cristian manages to work his hands into the pockets of his parka, and we are walking within 15 seconds. I don't recall looking at anything on the walk back but my hands, which I cannot get into my pockets or my cuffs. I cross my arms against the storm.

When our hands have warmed up, we don't even shiver. What have we done to our bodies? This icy dip-and-sprint, potentially fatal for most, is a nice little bath for Cristian and me. Last weekend, the four of us (plus one on Sunday) stayed in for twenty minutes, shivering afterwards for real for the first time this year. But a short jaunt like this-- almost pointless in the below-zero windchill-- barely affects us. Somehow, we've acclimated our bodies to the cold. It fascinates me that these changes have lasted from last winter until now, that my body not only remembers how to behave in the cold, but seems to have evolved to better withstand it.

Last winter, the vagus nerve at the back of my neck would swell and burn, or so it felt, when I began to swim. This felt like an excruciating headache until I focused on my swimming, a small explosion in my spine, neck and sinuses. This year, it reacts with mild pleasure at the shock of the cold. The vagus nerve controls the communications between the brain stem and the chest organs; stimulation is said to be a balm for seizures, anxiety, dementia and other disorders. Could this explain our winter madness? What does it mean to reach another level? Cristian wonders whether our chests and heads will ever experience the pain we feel in our fingers and toes as they warm up. It's a good question. How much can our bodies endure, and will there always be pain to warn us that they are in danger? Or will we keep adapting and thriving in the cold until we become creatures of the winter? Do our bodies have the memory to change with the seasons?

2008-12-31T05:24:00.000-08:00

Introducing the Liminophone:

soulignons l’existence du liminophone. C’est un appareil qui permet de voir comment l’eau monte et surtout de savoir s’il faut donner l’alerte ou pas.

The Liminophone is an instrument that synchs with coastal data from the buoys around urban waterfronts, generating algorithmic real-time compositions.

Each buoy becomes a polyphonic instrument, a character that changes with very subtle fluctuations every six minutes.

Everything is in real time.

Limen, the greek for ‘harbor’, describes the sheltering place of an indented shoreline; the commerce of a Thessalian marketplace; the liminal space of a controlled environment in which our understanding of existence is in transition. Forms of transit could be abstract—commerce and commodity-trade, the beginning of alienation and individualism—or actual, in travel between points.

Phone, the greek for ‘cry’, or a human sound, recognizes that this particular sonification of oceanographic data is not a completely mathematical expression of wave data. It is, rather, an attempt to ‘hook up’ the ocean data, in real-time, to a sound system, in order to create a performance environment that will allow the waters to participate with the musicians in a real-time composition.

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's (NOAA) Coastal Ocean Observing and Prediction Station (CO-OPS) buoys are an in-water network of tidal-data gathering stations. They register nine categories of data every six minutes: predicted and observed water levels, and the resulting difference; water temperature; wind speed, gust and direction; air temperature; and barometric pressure. These data provide a picture of ocean conditions at each location. By translating this environment into musical events, the Liminophone creates a performance space that simulates human experience of the ocean, factoring in seasonal changes-- the ocean is most wild and active in its cold period from November to April, when few people are there to experience these extremes.

The ocean, ever-changing, ever-moving, unconquerable and unpredictable, is a great constant in human history. Each time we put a toe in the surf, we touch Odysseus’ sea, drops of Heraclitus’ river, Melville’s ocean. The same water that washes our shores eventually reaches all points, earthbound and atmospheric. The ocean is one tangible connection to our planet's long-suffering existence. The sets of information we have to inform our visits to this ever-present wilderness have grown, yet to be immersed in the great waters of our planet is to put oneself into the hands of an unknown entity whose intangible depths, though combed and spelunked over many millennia, can never be completely known. The infinity of space, the relativity of time, and the unsustainability of life—the challenges of this universe and perhaps others—can be faced here, on this planet, albeit in small scale, in recognizing the unfathomability of the sea.

As a swimmer, I am taking steps to evolve toward thriving in bodies of water over long periods of time. In trying to relate to the creatures of the sea, adapting to their watery environs, training my body to move in an aquasphere for as long as possible, I strive to conquer varying distances, temperatures, and the wiles of tides and currents.

As a winter swimmer, I'm fascinated by the experience of the cold ocean, the changes it has caused in my body, and the incredible underwater visibility that only occurs, on these Atlantic beaches, in the depth of winter. The ocean has seasons as distinct as our blossoms of spring and colored leaves of autumn. The incredible variety of life we encounter close to shore from spring through January is just the meniscus of a massively complex ecosystem. The slightest variations in weather either within or without the ocean create a completely different underwater environment.

A body of water is just that-- a living, changing organism of great complexity, strength and also fragility.

I swim to be in the wilderness, miles from civilization. And I swim in the City, because the wilderness comes even to the threshold of our doors.

Over the past year, I’ve grown accustomed to checking in with the two buoys nearest to my training-grounds, either to ease my concerns before swimming, or afterward, to see just what I’ve accomplished, especially in the dead of winter. Comparing the experience of sensation with scientific data teaches me what, if anything, I might expect each time I dive in. Some things, on the other hand, can never be explained or predicted—like the terrible cold of slick, low-salt ocean, or the strange underwater atmospheres I experience, on a number of occasions, or the strange ways in which the taste of the water shifts, or the prickly feeling of unseen danger one has just before swimming through a large swath of invertebrates. All living things in the water- perhaps, even, the water itself- seem to give off a vibration that travels, like sound, over great distances underwater.

The Liminophone is my attempt to engage the ocean on dry land, in a language that I grapple with daily in my endeavor to describe what I can’t sketch out with words. It is also my greatest hope that in duets with the singing harbor, urban musicians and audiences will have an intimate encounter not just with the nearest body of water, but with the wild, the unknown, and the great certainty of change.

the liminophone is under development, in collaboration with guitarist-composer-programmer Nick Didkovsky (www.punosmusic.com, www.doctornerve.org)