Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [124]
Lifting my head, I drew in a deep breath, continued spinning my arms, and yelled, “Bill, are we going straight or what?”
Dr. Keatinge was involved with the equipment, so I shouted again.
“Go straight ahead,” he shouted, then realized that I was being consumed by the fog. He shouted to Pat Omiak and David Soolook to move their boats to either side of me.
I was still swimming as fast as my arms would turn over. It was like being on the very edge of life. Every moment I had to be acutely aware of everything, to stay attuned to my body, to make sure I wasn’t going into hypothermia.
Looking down through the clear, icy, gray-blue water, I examined my hands. My fingers were together, my hands like paddles; that was good. It meant that I was maintaining fine motor control, and that my brain was warm. If my fingers started spreading apart, that would mean I was losing fine motor control and my brain was cooling down. This was dangerous. It was a sign that I was going into hypothermia, and also possibly losing my sense of judgment. I was okay. But my hands were numb. With each arm stroke, I had to wait to feel the water pushed by my hands against my thighs to know that my hands were pushing water and I was moving forward. I glanced at my shoulders; they were splotchy red and white. The blood from the exterior of my body was pooling in the core to protect my heart and vital organs. I began sprinting, faster and faster, trying to generate more heat than I was losing to the Bering Sea.
Dr. Nyboer and Dr. Keatinge were waving and shouting at me.
“Lynne, swim close to us and roll over. We need to take your temperature,” Dr. Nyboer said, grabbing the receiver attached to the broom handle. Dr. Keatinge moved to the opposite side of the Zodiac to counterbalance Dr. Nyboer. I rolled over onto my back and started backstroking, turning my arms over as fast as I could. When I did the backstroke, I didn’t produce as much heat as when I swam freestyle. So during this experiment, the cold water was rapidly sucking the heat from my body. It was like standing wet and naked in front of an air conditioner on high.
Dr. Nyboer was trying to hold the receiver near my stomach to get a transmission from the thermopill, but the ocean waves were bouncing him slightly up and down and sideways. A freak wave hit the Zodiac and Dr. Nyboer missed the reading, nearly plunging headfirst into the water with me.
I knew these temperature readings were necessary, to make sure that my core temperature was staying at normal levels, but I was getting annoyed. This was slowing me down and reducing my ability to create heat, and I was losing more now than I was making. I didn’t want to wait for him.
“Let’s try again. Roll onto your back,” Dr. Nyboer shouted.
He held the receiver near my stomach while Dr. Keatinge stared at a digital readout in a black box. This procedure would take only two or three minutes, but that was way too long. It was making me cold.
“She’s cooling down a bit. She’s down to ninety-seven degrees. Lynne, are you doing all right?” Dr. Keatinge asked. His voice sounded edgy.
“Yes, this is great,” I shouted happily, covering my real feelings. I didn’t want Dr. Keatinge or Dr. Nyboer to panic, to think that I was getting too cold. I didn’t want them to pull me out of the water. I had to appear warm to them—as if this swim were easy. But I was a little worried. Before the swim, my temperature had been 100.7. That was pretty normal for me before a big swim, but it had already dropped three degrees, and I’d been in the water for only about half an hour. My cutoff point was ninety-four degrees. That was the beginning of hypothermia.
From the onset, Dr. Keatinge, Dr. Nyboer, and I had decided that I would have a three-hour limit in the water. By that time, the water would have cooled my peripheral areas down, and after the swim was completed, my core temperature would fall further. We didn’t want it to drop too far.
The fog deepened