Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [112]
Were the Soviets monitoring our conversation? I asked Pentilla. Without a doubt, he said, nodding his head. Smiling, he said the KGB was also listening to us. So I got an idea. I decided to talk to them about the swim, to tell them everything I could about the upcoming ABC television coverage, my crew, and my contacts in Moscow with the Soviet Sports Committee. Pentilla helped by interviewing me over the radio, providing the Soviets on Big Diomede and, hopefully, in Moscow with my background information. I told them we were now just waiting for final approval from Gorbachev.
At the end of the conversation, Eric Pentilla said that he definitely would help us. He wanted to be our air pilot for the swim. Up until that point, Pentilla admitted, he, like the people on Little Diomede, didn’t believe that I was really going to attempt the swim. Now he understood why the swim was so important, how determined my crew was, and how much it was taking to make it happen. He said he would speak with the administration at Evergreen Helicopters and make sure we could fly out with the mail. After seeing Pentilla fly the helicopter, I knew he was a very skilled pilot, and with his help I could afford to rent the helicopter.
All night long, I rolled around in bed, trying to figure out what to do next. When morning came, the wind was blowing so hard that Nome resembled a ghost town out of the Wild West. Swirling dirt clouds blew along Front Street, blasting the ice-heaved homes, tourist shops, and businesses that lined Nome’s main street. The boardwalk that ran along Front Street was buried under an inch of sand. I didn’t want to get up and work out that day. Just wanted to roll over and pull the blanket over my head. I was in a bad mood, really glum, but I knew that Larry Maine, the man who had volunteered to walk with me, would be waiting for me in his beach tent. So I put on my swim-suit and sweats and walked across town, leaning sideways into the wind, holding one hand over my face. The weather was so foul no one was outside. Its bleakness matched my mood.
It was July 29,1987. More than a week had passed since we replied to the Soviets’ telex, providing them with information on the crew and myself. The Soviets knew that we intended to make the crossing in less than two weeks. Something had gone wrong; I was sure of it. But no one on our side of the border knew what it was. Much later, we would be informed that the KGB had denied our request to land on Big Diomede, and they had convinced high-ranking Soviet officials to withdraw their support.
Salazar at the State Department, Evans in Senator Murkowski’s office, and Kassander, as the consultant for the Goodwill Games, my brain trust in Washington, D.C., knew something was wrong. They had been in touch with the Soviet embassy, and with Gene Fisher, Bob Walsh’s assistant in Seattle, and there had been no word at all. We kept talking, kept working on it, kept trying to figure out what to do. And I kept wondering, Why won’t they talk to us?
The media was calling from all over the world. They sensed a big story. Journalists kept asking, Do you think the Soviets will support the swim?
I didn’t want to go into the water that morning. Didn’t want to train. When I reached the beach the wind was ripping across the sand, lifting it and spraying it along the beach and into my face. This is crazy, I told myself; I’m working out in a Sahara sandstorm. What’s the