Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [36]
Mickey had further instructions: “Take a cab to Shakespeare Beach, Dover. Be there by eleven p.m. to grease up, and be ready for a midnight start. I will be coming round with Brickell. Reg Junior will row me ashore in the launch so I can see you begin and start the watch. Then we’ll ’ave your mother climb into the launch with us, and we’ll take her out to the Helen Anne Marie.”
I tried to rest that afternoon in my hotel room, but there was just no way I could relax. Hours dragged by. Finally my mother and I had dinner, watched some television, and caught a cab at ten-thirty The cab driver was surprised when my mother asked him to take us to Shakespeare Beach.
“Are you a Channel swimmer?” he asked looking in the rearview mirror.
“Yes, she is,” my mother said proudly.
“Well, you don’t look like a Channel swimmer to me. You’re too fat to be one,” he said.
That hurt, and it made me angry. How would he know what a Channel swimmer looked like anyway? “Well, I am one,” I said, wanting to explain that my body fat would help keep me warm; that is why dolphins, seals, and whales have extra insulation.
When the cab reached the cliffs overlooking Shakespeare Beach, the driver let us out and then said, “Well, good luck to you anyway— but you certainly don’t look like a Channel swimmer.”
We crossed an old railroad bridge and walked down at least a hundred tiny steps to the beach. It reminded me of the cove at Catalina, but the white cliff walls of Shakespeare Beach reflected the moonlight, and it was a lot easier to see. We walked across the pebbles and huge clumps of brown kelp to the edge of the shore, where I pulled off my sweats and placed them in my swim bag.
After my mother opened two large jars of lanolin, oil residue from sheep’s wool that is used by Channel swimmers for insulation, she pulled on gloves and smeared handfuls of it on my neck, shoulders, and underarms and around the bottom of my swimsuit. The lanolin was nasty stuff, worse than Vaseline. Pale yellow and as sticky as marshmallow cream, it smelled worse than a dead sheep.
Then we waited. A cool breeze circled the cove, waves slid into shore along the pebbles, and I smiled as I thought of Fahmy We had phoned home to let the family know the swim was on. My father had promised to tell Fahmy and Coach Gambril. They would be waiting by the radio for news.
We first heard Mickey’s excited voice: “We’re ’ere, love. We’re ’ere.” He was standing up in the boat, trying to climb out before Reg Junior had landed.
Mickey jumped out into ankle-deep water, jogged up the beach to us, and said, “Are you ready, love?”
“Yes, Mickey, I am very ready.”
“This is very exciting,” my mother said. She handed the gear to Reg Junior, and he helped her into the launch. Mickey followed her, then said, “Let me ’ave a look at my watch. You too, Reg Junior. Let’s synchronize our watches so we get these two times plus the stopwatch. Right, you ready, love? Okay, go.”
I jogged into the water, dove under the waves, and began sprinting. No doubt I would be swimming for hours, but there was always a coastal current, and I wanted to get through it quickly. I didn’t want to take the coastal tour of England. Besides that, my body was flowing with adrenaline. This time I was going for the record and I didn’t have to wait for anyone; I could swim at my own pace, flat out, or go slower whenever I wanted to or needed to.
It took me only a few minutes to reach the Helen Anne Marie and Brickell. The night was clear, and while the crew maneuvered from the launch to the boat, I continued swimming, not wanting to wait for anything. Every minute mattered; I was going for the record. So much could happen during this swim, as Fahmy had told me and Des had warned me; I had to keep moving forward, keep the pressure on, keep pulling strongly, so I could