Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [140]
As I stepped outside the Albatross Hotel, a cold, thirty-knot wind cut right through my sweat suit. This would be the last workout I did on my own, and I was happy that this part of the training was nearly over. It had taken a lot of discipline for me to swim in forty-degree water every day, and I knew having my friends there would make it easier and more fun.
When I reached the rocks where I usually began my workout, there were two men in their late twenties standing nearby, talking. I tried not to make eye contact, and I walked about a hundred yards from them and sat on some rocks. I waited, hunched over, hoping they would leave so I could maintain my low profile. But the wind was blowing harder. I had to either swim now or go back to the hotel, get warm, and return later. I wanted to get the workout over with. Unzipping my sweats, I took them off quickly and squeezed them between the rocks.
One of the men shouted at me incredulously in Spanish, “Are you going swimming?”
“Sí,” I told him.
“Mucho frío?” he said. Very cold?
I nodded, pulled off my shoes, put them on top of my sweats, and climbed quickly down the embankment. I sat down on the rock ledge and pulled my cap and goggles on, lowered myself into the water, took a deep breath, pushed off, and started swimming fast with my head up. One of the men shouted something at me a couple of times, while his friend stood beside him with his mouth wide open. I hoped they wouldn’t tell anyone.
The water felt colder than it had during any other workout, probably because I was chilled by the delay. Knowing there was no one around who could help me if I got into trouble, I swam only twenty feet offshore. It was tough going. The tide was low, and the kelp beds were floating a couple of inches below the water’s surface, so that I had to swim through the center of them. My arms kept getting tangled up in the kelp ropes, and I kept hitting my hands on rocks. It felt as if I were swimming through a gauntlet.
Finally I reached the Argentine ships, turned around, and swam back to the starting point. The two men had left, but another man, a tall, lean man wearing a light brown cap and uniform, was standing on the embankment. He spoke to me in Spanish, and I couldn’t understand a word. So I said, “English?”
He shook his head and continued speaking Spanish, only more loudly. He said something about a marina. It was too cold to sit there and carry on a conversation, so I decided that if I just agreed with him, he would go away. I said “Sí,” turned around, moved farther offshore, and sprinted toward the Argentine ships.
He was startled, and he shouted at me. I again heard the word marina, and again shouted, “Sí.” I laughed when I saw him jogging around the cove, trying to catch up with me. I thought the marina must have been the small beach near the pier where the Argentine navy was anchored. I wondered if he was from the harbor police or the coast guard. Maybe once he saw me swim, he would realize that I was okay, and just walk with me for the remainder of the workout. It would be nice to have company.
When we reached the Argentine fleet, the man started down an embankment toward the sandy beach. Just as he nearly reached the water’s edge, I turned around and sprinted back toward the starting point. This was the most fun I’d had all week.
All of a sudden I heard him blowing a whistle. I put my head down into the water, pretended I hadn’t heard, and continued swimming. He was scrambling up the rocks, blowing his whistle louder now, and jogging back along the sidewalk. People were beginning to congregate on the sidewalk above the embankment, staring and pointing at me with astonishment. A blue police car with sirens blaring and lights flashing stopped near the crowd. Two officers jumped out, a man and a woman, and they climbed down the embankment.
Another truck arrived, also with its siren blaring; two more men in brown uniforms leaped out of it and scrambled down the rocks toward