Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [21]
We moved together and began to slide into our pace. About an hour passed, and we stopped to feed beside the lead boat. We felt a school of small fish swimming around us, bumping into our legs and feet. Flying fish the size of mockingbirds were leaping out of the water. They’d emerge from the depths and fly across the air, flapping their fins and sailing across the sky. Some flew right into us, and we let out squeals of delight. Some arced over the paddleboards, and a couple landed in the boat. In the phosphorescent light, they were magically turning iridescent pink, blue, purple, rose, and green.
Inspired by the natural light display, we plodded on. Ten miles into the swim, about four hours out, Nancy was having problems. “I’m so cold,” she said. Her teeth were chattering.
The crew encouraged her to keep going, and we did the same. But she began stopping every one or two hundred meters. “I’m so cold. I don’t think I can do this.”
The voices of her teammates surrounded her with encouragement. “Come on, Nancy, just pick up your pace. You’ll be fine. If you swim faster you’ll get warm. Come on, you can do it.”
She swam for another hundred yards. “Ron, I don’t think I can keep going. I’m just so cold.”
“Pick up the pace, Nancy. You’ll be fine,” he reassured her.
“But Ron, I don’t think I can. I’m so cold,” she whined.
Her talk of coldness was making me feel cold. And it was having the same effect on all the team. As long as we sat there treading water, we were undoubtedly getting colder. Every time we stopped, we lost heat. It was heat that we’d never get back. A chill crept into my body, and a shiver rippled through it.
“Let’s go, Nancy,” Andy said now, impatiently.
“I just can’t.” She started crying. “I am too cold. I have to get out,” she insisted.
“Okay, okay, Nancy. Let’s get her into the dory and transfer her to the lead boat,” Ron said, his voice filled with urgency.
Slowly she swam over to the dory. Stockwell and Johnson turned on a larger light, and we watched them lift her thin, stiff, pale body out of the water. Her lips were blue, and her voice cracked as she said, “I’m so sorry, you guys. I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to stay with you.”
“It’s okay, Nancy,” we reassured her. But my heart was breaking. To have trained so long and so hard for this and to have to get out.
“I think she’s going into hypothermia,” Stockwell said, and he radioed the lead boat to let my father know what was happening. He would bundle her in blankets and have her sit in a warm area and drink hot fluids to help her get her body temperature back up to normal.
When the lead boat arrived, we watched her being transferred from the dory to the boat. She shouted, “Good luck, you guys. I know you’re going to make it. I’ll be cheering you on from the larger boat.” And then she burst into tears.
It was so hard to see her that way. So hard to know that her dream died at that moment. Silently we wondered who would be next.
Sensing that we needed to push our minds away from what had just happened, Dennis said, “Come on, let’s stick together. We can do it.”
“Yes, if we stick together, we’ll make it,” Andy echoed.
“All for one and one for all,” Stacey said.
Perhaps four and a half hours into the swim, as the black veil of night was fading to gray, we were swimming strongly. The air temperature was still in the high sixties, as was the water, and I was actually starting to feel relaxed. My stroke was long and deep, and I was beginning to feel myself picking up