Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [151]
The following day the weather conditions were rough. Sixty-knot winds churned the sea into white waves and flying spray, and when we reached Deception Island waterspouts whirled around the ship like small watery tornadoes, rising up to twenty feet above the water’s surface. All day long we traveled south, toward the Antarctic Peninsula, and I wondered if I would get another chance to swim. I felt a tension growing within me. I had to keep talking to myself, reminding myself that the weather changed rapidly here and the situation could be better in the morning.
That evening on the bridge I met with Susan Adie and the Russian ice master, Valery Eremin, who monitored ice movement and weather conditions. We looked at charts and studied satellite information on the weather. Susan pointed out three possible sites on the continent of Antarctica where we could land. The northernmost one was called Water Boat Harbor, the middle site Neko Harbor, and the third choice Paradise Harbor. We wouldn’t know until we got there which of these sites would be possible.
When I returned to my cabin, I thought for a long time about what I was about to attempt.
I had mixed feelings about the test swim. In some ways, it had given me confidence; I now knew that I could swim for twenty-two minutes in thirty-three-degree water. But it had also made me feel uncertain. It had been the most difficult and probably the most dangerous swim I had ever done. Part of me wanted to be satisfied with it. Part of me didn’t want to attempt the mile. I was afraid. The water temperature on the big swim would be a degree colder. Thirty-two degrees. That was a magic number, the temperature at which freshwater froze. I wondered if in thirty-two-degree water the water in my cells would freeze, if my body’s tissues would become permanently damaged. I wondered if my mind would function better this time, if I would be able to be more aware of what was happening, or if it would be further dulled by the cold. Would my core temperature drop faster, more quickly than I could recognize? Would I be able to tell if I needed to get out? Did I really want to risk my life for this? Or did I want to risk failure?
The other part of me wanted to try, wanted to do what I had trained for, wanted to explore and reach beyond what I had done. That part of me was excited about venturing into the unknown. That part of me knew I would have felt a tremendous letdown if I didn’t get a chance to try. I wanted to do it now.
The next morning, on December 15, 2002, Susan called me up to the bridge. She pointed out Water Boat Point. The tiny gray beach between steep glaciers was completely blocked by icebergs and brash ice. There was no place to land.
We continued sailing south through the Gerlache Strait, past mountain-high glaciers and by ship-sized icebergs ranging in shades of blue from juniper berry to robin’s-egg to light powder blue. In the protection of the Antarctic Peninsula, the wind dropped off and the sea grew calmer. When we reached Neko Harbor, about an hour later, Susan called me up to the bridge. She was excited. The beach was free of icebergs and brash ice. A landing was possible.
Now I would have a chance to swim the first Antarctic mile. I was thrilled and scared, but I tried to remain calm; I knew that the weather could suddenly change and the swim would be off. I met with Barry Binder, who said, “I’ll get the crew into the Zodiacs and come and get you when everything’s set.”
I walked to the ship’s library, drank four eight-ounce cups of hot water, and ate two small croissants for