Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [1]
David was a seasoned long-distance swimmer who, during an attempt to swim from Anacapa Island to the California mainland, technically died from hypothermia. His body tried to fight the cold by shunting the blood flow to his brain and vital organs. For a period of time, his core was protected. But at some critical point the blood vessels in his extremities became paralyzed. Blood rushed from his core to his hands and feet, where it was cooled by the fifty-eight-degree water; when it flowed back into his torso, it caused his core temperature to drop. As a result, David became disoriented. His swimming speed dropped, and then his heart went into atrial fibrillation. As he continued to cool down, his heart became less functional, until it suddenly stopped beating altogether.
There had been warning signs: his lips were purple, he was shivering, and his shoulders had turned blue. But his crew didn’t recognize the severity of the situation. When they spoke to David, he said he was doing okay, and the decrease in his body temperature was so gradual, they didn’t notice his deteriorating condition. Neither did David. His brain had been cooled down so far that he wasn’t able to recognize the warning signs. He had no idea he was dying.
At the hospital in Ventura doctors and nurses shot Adrenalin directly into his heart and repeatedly shocked his heart with a defibrillator. They warmed his blood and had him breathe warmed oxygen. An hour and fifty minutes after his initial cardiac arrest, the medical team revived David. He had been lucky.
Will I be that lucky? The water here is twenty degrees colder. Will I be able to recognize if I’ve gone too far?
Yes. Yes. I will. I can do this. I’ve broken the world records for the English Channel, I’ve swum across the frigid waters of the Strait of Magellan, and I’ve done swims in icy waters where no one else has ever survived.
I can do it.
Thank God (or Ben & Jerry’s) for my body fat; it’s insulating me from the cold. Still, the cold is moving deep into the marrow of my bones. Chills are curling up my spine and spreading out across my shoulders. My teeth are clenched and my lips are quivering. My muscles are as tight as boards.
I am pushing myself to the limit. But I’ve got to do this. This swim is not about me. It’s about all of us.
It’s about doing something that’s going to make a positive difference in the world. For eleven years, I have hoped when there was no reason to hope. I have believed when there was little to believe. For the last forty-two years we’ve been engaged in a Cold War with the Soviets. Somehow it has to be stopped. I believe that this swim will create a thaw in the Cold War. I cannot fail. If I die doing this, the Soviets will regret giving me permission to make this swim. I can’t let that happen. Swim faster! Don’t focus on the cold or the pain. Don’t give any energy to it. Focus on the finish. Swim faster.
I think of my parents, brother, and sisters, of friends and of the people who have gotten me this far. I conjure up their faces in my mind’s eye. This gives me energy, and I imagine how wonderful it will feel to embrace the people who are waiting for us on Big Diomede Island and to hold their warm hands. This is inspiring. I replay a sentence in my head: Hand to hand, heart to heart, we can change the world. This is what I have grown to believe.
With every part of my being I am reaching forward, racing against time and the pervasively cold sea.
I lift my head and look up.
Something is very wrong.
Out in front of me, to the left and to the right, are the two thirty-foot-long walrus-skin boats that are supposed to be guiding and protecting me. On board the one to the right is a group of physicians who are monitoring me during the swim. To the left is a boatful of journalists huddled against the chill. Inuit guides—Eskimos who live on Little