Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [108]
Joe Novella and Randy Tolbin, his cameraman; our pilot; and I flew north by northwest, skirting the North American continent, bound for Wales, Alaska, the jumping-off point for Little Diomede Island. Crosswinds shook, turned, twisted, and jarred the plane. Looking at the pilot, I wondered how he kept us in the air. He saw me and turned slightly in his seat, grinned, and said, “Don’t worry, it will smooth out after we pass the mountains. You know, I think what you’re attempting is great, and I am very happy I’m the one getting you to your starting point.”
As we rounded the foothills of the York Mountains, our small Cessna cast a tiny, bouncing shadow on the wide golden hills. There was great contrast—we were dwarfed by the magnitude of the environment, yet there was something so expansive about Alaska, something that infused the soul, that made you believe you could reach enormous dreams. It might be because the land in Alaska is so open, untouched, wilder than wild, and bigger than any imagination can hold; or it might be that the colossal size of the mountains, like the Brooks Range in the northern part of the state, matches the way Alaskans think. They carry with them a pioneering attitude, a belief that impossible things are possible.
From Anchorage to Nome, and now to Wales, whenever Alaskans heard about our plans, they did what many others hadn’t—they immediately embraced and supported the idea of swimming the Bering Strait, and that was truly inspiring. They made me feel the way our pilot did that day, like we were finally on the right path at the right time.
As we rounded some foothills, suddenly off to the left were sparkling, deep, lapis-blue waters. There it was! After eleven years of dreaming, working, and believing, I was seeing it for the very first time in real life, the Bering Sea. I stared at it, trying to match up what I had envisioned in my mind’s eye with the reality of what I was seeing. It was almost too much to comprehend. Yes, there it was—the Bering Sea. It was right below us, so blue, so vast, so wild, so beautiful and awesome. And somewhere in the middle of all that blue were Little Diomede and Big Diomede. We were getting closer, and my spirits were soaring high over the sea.
Studying the water more closely, I tried to tell how high the waves were. But I had no way to gauge distance or height from the air, so I asked the pilot. Rapidly breaking waves, four to five feet high, covered the Bering Sea to the horizon. This was typical weather, and that was sobering information. With only one week remaining before my proposed departure for the swim, we still hoped that we would hear from the navy or coast guard and that they would support the swim. There was a good chance that the water would be much rougher in the middle of the Bering Strait. We had to have a safety net.
To our right, on the very edge of the Bering Sea, in a flat section of land between the foothills, was the village of Wales. Thirty small, dark wooden homes were clustered together around an unusual community center: a three-story-high building painted snow-white and shaped like an igloo.
The pilot fought strong crosswinds and landed us on the runway. As we stepped out of the plane, he said another pilot would meet us for the return flight, then radioed Eric Pentilla, our helicopter pilot to Little Diomede. The weather was very unstable in a village to the north of us, so he would have to wait to see if it would be possible for him to take off. In the meantime, we were invited to stay at the community center.
A local villager driving a beat-up old van gave us a lift into town. We drove along a narrow dirt road past small, storm-worn homes, most with plastic tarps for windows and doors. I imagined how cold and how difficult it must be to live there all year long. None of the homes had fireplaces, and there were no trees; I wondered if they had electricity or any way to heat their homes. In their backyards were clotheslines covered