in dire straits
5 months ago
28 July 2009
the thaw
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.
01 February 2009
34 degrees of Coney Island
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.
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.
26 January 2009
the return journey
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
23 January 2009
los nadadores que cruzaron...
photos: Leopoldo Espinoza Veralos 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.
22 January 2009
s-day: the crossing
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.
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.
21 January 2009
on the eve of the swim
photo: Leopoldo Espinoza Vera12.22 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.
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