Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [153]
My body resisted it. The air was too cold. My body didn’t want to draw the cold air deep into my lungs and cool myself from the inside. It wanted to take short breaths so the cold air would be warmed in my mouth before it reached my lungs. I was fighting against myself. I noticed my arms. They were bright red, and I felt like I was swimming through slush. My arms were thirty-two degrees, as cold as the sea. They were going numb, and so were my legs. I pulled my hands right under my chest so that I was swimming on the upper inches of the sea, trying to minimize my contact with the water. I was swimming fast and it was hard to get enough air. I began to notice that the cold was pressurizing my body like a giant tourniquet. It was squeezing the blood from the exterior part of my body and pushing it into the core. Everything felt tight. Focus on your breath, I told myself. Slow it down. Let it fill your lungs. You’re not going to be able to make it if you keep going at this rate.
It wasn’t working. I was laboring for breath harder than on the test swim. I was in oxygen debt, panting, gasping. My breath was inefficient, and the oxygen debt was compounding. In an attempt to create heat, I was spinning my arms wildly, faster than I’d ever turned them over before. Laura later told me that I was swimming at a rate of ninety strokes per minute, thirty strokes per minute quicker than my normal rate. My body was demanding more oxygen, but I couldn’t slow down. Not for a nanosecond. Or I would freeze up and the swim would be over.
An icy wave slapped my face: I choked and felt a wave of panic rise within me. My throat tightened. I tried to clear my throat and breathe. My breath didn’t come out. I couldn’t get enough air in to clear my throat. I glanced at the crew. They couldn’t tell I was in trouble. If I stopped, Dan would jump in and pull me out. I still couldn’t get a good breath. I thought of rolling on my back to give myself time to breathe, but I couldn’t. It was too cold. I closed my mouth, overrode everything my body was telling me to do, held my breath, and gasped, coughed, cleared my windpipe, and relaxed just a little, just enough to let my guard down and catch another wave in the face. I choked again. I put my face down into the water, hoping this time I could slow my heart rate down. I held my face in the water for two strokes and told myself, Relax, just turn your head and breathe.
It was easier to breathe in a more horizontal position. I thought it might be helping. I drew in a deep breath and put my face down again. I knew I couldn’t do this for long. I was losing too much heat through my face. The intensity of the cold was as sharp as broken glass. I’d thought that swimming across the Bering Strait in thirty-eight-degree water had been tough, but there was a world of difference between thirty-eight degrees and thirty-two. In a few seconds, the cold pierced my skin and penetrated into my muscles. It felt like freezer burn, like touching wet fingers to frozen metal.
Finally I was able to gain control of my breath. I was inhaling and exhaling so deeply I could hear the breath moving in and out of my mouth even though I was wearing earplugs. I kept thinking about breathing, working on keeping it deep and even; that way I didn’t have time to think about the cold.
My brain wasn’t working as it normally did. It wasn’t flowing freely from one idea to another—it was moving mechanically, as if my awareness came from somewhere deep inside my brain. Maybe it was because my body was