Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [22]
Ron sensed my frustration and told me that he had spoken with Lyle Johnson and John Stockwell. They had suggested that I swim ahead of the group, then wait for them at a feeding stop. It was light enough for the team to easily see the paddlers.
It sounded like a great idea to me, but I asked the team, “Do you mind if I swim ahead of you?”
They didn’t care. I had been pushing them too hard.
Thankfully, I began swimming at my own speed. I began to fly across the ocean, like the first time I swam the three-mile race. Everything was working together; everything was in the flow. It felt so wonderful knowing that I could move across the powerful currents of the ocean.
Three times I got up to half a mile ahead of the team and had to tread water and wait for them for ten or twelve minutes. It was awful; sitting there was like sitting in a bathing suit in a refrigerator, but I had no choice; I had agreed to stay with the team. After our feeding, Stockwell and Johnson picked up their rowing pace, and I matched them. They went faster. I increased my speed. I could hear the wooden oars groaning in their locks, and I heard the men breathing heavily. They pushed further, and I followed. Sometime along the way, John Stockwell got on the walkie-talkie, then he shouted to me: “You’re halfway across the channel. And you’re getting faster with every mile.”
I beamed. I was swimming just like Hans Fassnacht, moving like a motorboat across the sea, and I was so excited.
An enormous raspberry-colored sun began rising above the gray Pacific, turning the morning mist to cotton-candy-colored pink and the ocean from slate to bright blue, lavender, rose, and gold. Warm light spread across the water, and now the golden-brown coastal range looked three-dimensional. There was the Palos Verdes Peninsula, and directly in front of us was Point Vicente, our landing spot on the peninsula.
We pulled a couple miles ahead of the team and Stockwell shouted, “Lynne, you’re more than an hour ahead of the world-record pace. Not just the women’s world record, but also the men’s.
“I just spoke with Ron,” he added. “He said you don’t have to wait for the others. You can go ahead.”
More than anything, I wanted to attempt it, and I was confident I could succeed. We were only three miles from shore. It was so possible. But it didn’t feel right; I had agreed to stay with the team. From the very beginning, that was what we had decided. They had let me join them. They had helped me. But I wanted to go. How would they feel if I left them to break the world record? Wouldn’t that diminish the attention they deserved for their success? How would I feel if they left me behind? I’d be hurt and angry.
The lead boat pulled alongside us, while the crew on board was urging me to go for it. My father was standing quietly near the railing. “You look very good,” he said, and smiled.
“Thanks, Dad. How’s Nancy?”
“She’s warmed up and she’s comfortable now.”
“Dad, do you think I should go for the record?”
“It’s your decision, sweet.”
“You’ll be the youngest person to hold the world record for the Catalina Channel,” Stockwell urged.
Johnson added, “If you wait for the others, you could be in the water for another three or four extra hours.”
As I treaded water, others shouted encouragement. “Go for the record!”
“I want to so badly, but I can’t. I agreed to stick with the team.” I was disappointed, but I knew it was the right decision.
Stockwell saw my expression and said, “Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of time. You’re only fourteen. Sometime you’ll come back and break the record. And when you do, we want to be right here with you.”
For nearly thirty minutes I treaded water, staring at the California coastline. I wished they were faster. I wished we could break the record together. But when I saw the team