Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [30]
I selected the second name on the list and dialed the number. After only the first two rings, I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello, this is Reg Brickell.”
I had no idea that Reg Brickell was the top pilot for the English Channel. All I knew was that I had finally connected with a real live English Channel swimming pilot, and I was one step closer to realizing my dream.
“Mr. Brickell, my name is Lynne Cox. I got your number from the Channel Swimming Association. I want to swim the English Channel, and I am hoping that you will be my pilot for the swim.”
There was a pause. “Oh, you just caught me. I just got ’ome from fishing. Could you speak a bit more slowly, please? Are you from the States?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifteen.”
“Hmmm. That is quite young. Have you ever done a channel swim before?”
“Yes, I swam across the Catalina Channel last year. It’s twenty-one miles in a straight line, just like the English Channel, but because of the currents, I swam twenty-seven. It took me twelve hours and thirty-six minutes. I swam it with a group of other kids, and I think I could have swum a lot faster, but we’d agreed to finish the swim together.”
“Who is your coach?”
“Don Gambril. He’s the U.S. Olympic swimming coach. I’ve been training with him since I was twelve years old.”
“You sound quite serious. Is he with you?”
“No, he’s coaching the team for the Olympic Games. My mother came with me to help me on the swim.”
“Okay then. Do you think you and your mother could come by my home this afternoon around teatime, say, four o’clock? My home is on the Stade in Folkestone Harbour. If you have any trouble, just ask around—everyone knows me, and you won’t have any problem finding it.”
From the manager at the hotel my mother and I got detailed directions. He said Folkestone Harbour was about a twenty-minute walk. On that day, I think it took us only ten minutes. Lifting the heavy gold knocker on Reg Brickell’s red door, I knocked three times, then held my breath and waited.
Mr. Brickell opened the door; he was about five foot eight, perhaps in his late forties. He had short blond hair, bright blue eyes, and fair skin that had been weathered by sun and wind. His face lit up as he smiled. In the background a teakettle was whistling loudly. “Please ’ave a seat while I get the tea,” he said, pointing to the sitting area.
The furniture in the room was cozy, frilly, and feminine—not at all what I expected of him until he introduced his wife, who came out briefly, then retired to a back room. Mr. Brickell poured us tea and offered us shortbread biscuits from a colorful round tin.
For the next hour or so he interviewed me, making sure that I was serious, that I had trained hard, and that this was a swim I wanted to do, not something my parents were pushing me into. At first he just seemed agreeable to being my pilot; when he discovered that my average speed was two and a half miles an hour, he grew more enthusiastic. And when I explained that my goal was to break the men’s and women’s world records, he got excited about escorting me on the attempt.
I asked him if he had taken many swimmers across the Channel. Had he taken any world-record-breaking swimmers? How much did he charge? How did he select the day for the swim, and how did he inform us about it? What kind of boat did he use: a wet stack, which discharged engine fumes into the water, or a dry stack, which discharged its fumes into the air? What was the size of his boat, and how large was his crew? Did he have a small boat for backup in case anything disabled his engine? What navigational systems did he use? And when would he be available to escort me on the swim?
Brickell seemed rather surprised that I would ask him such detailed questions. Usually he was the one who conducted the interview. From my questions, however, he gathered that I was serious about the swim, and he gave me an overview of navigating through