Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [15]
That training swim took us nearly five hours, and by the time we rounded the Seal Beach Pier Ron was so tired and annoyed with us, he said he would wait to discuss what happened the next day at morning workout.
I waited apprehensively until the next morning. At our team meeting, Ron came down hard on us. “How can you expect to swim the Catalina Channel if you can’t even make a ten-mile workout in a little chop? What are you going to do, give up? What are you going to do when you hit a current in the channel, swim at the same speed? This swim was nothing compared to what you’re going to face in the Catalina Channel. And it wasn’t even half the distance. You know that. You’re probably going to swim a lot more than twenty-one miles with the current changes. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to have to work a lot harder. You’ve got to be more focused, more determined. You’ve got to be willing to fight for this. You’ve got to be able to be cold and fight through it. You’ve got to be able to be tired and push harder. You’ve just got to change your attitude. If you don’t want to do it, tell me now, so I won’t waste my time. Is that clear?” His voice boomed and it was filled with underlying anger and exasperation.
No one said a word. Our heads were bowed. I stared at my feet.
Ron continued: “You’re only giving a sixty percent effort. You have to give one hundred percent every workout. You need to realize you’ve only got one month remaining to prepare. I don’t want to be the bad guy,” he said, softening his tone, “but this is the reality.”
We thought he was going to blast us with a hard workout that morning. Instead, he said, “I want you to swim two miles, warm down, and then go home and think about what I’ve said.” Then he turned to me and said, “You’re really going to have to do something about those cuts along your neck and, I bet, along your sides or they’re going to get infected. I am not going to tell you you have to do this, but I think you’ll be doing yourself a favor if you swim without your top.”
I no longer cared about modesty. The nylon bathing suit straps had cut deep bloody gashes on either side of my neck and chafed my underarms so badly that I had to keep my arms slightly out at my sides so that the skin under my arms wouldn’t touch anything, because it would stick together and then bleed when I pulled the skin apart. The sheer mileage and abrasive salt water had also caused my nylon swimsuit to cut bleeding holes on either side of my chest. Taking a shower had been awful. When I pulled my pajama top over my head, the top stuck to the wounds and I had to rip the skin to get it off.
All of us were pretty glum after the workout that morning. When we returned the next morning, we were ready to start anew, with more focus than before.
For the next two weeks we intensified our workouts, and since Ron had basically given us the green light to swim at our own speed, I no longer held back. I challenged Stacey, Dennis, and Andy, the faster members on the team. Andy and I would usually break away from the others and race each other to finish first. He had been the fastest swimmer in the group, and now I was faster. Toward the end of the workout I’d leave him behind. On a mile swim, I’d finish two or three minutes ahead of the team. I wanted to make this swim, and I wanted to be prepared, so I gave my best effort every day.
It was understood that we would swim across the Catalina Channel together. That meant we would pace one another and stay with one another from the start to the finish of the crossing. But now that Ron had given me the freedom to go at full speed during workouts, it was as if before I was trotting and now I was galloping across the surface of the sea.
Ron was pleased with our progress, but he was getting a lot of outside interference.