Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [38]
“Can you see Cape Gris-Nez yet, Mickey?” I asked.
“See that point? The one with the little light’ ouse?” Mickey yelled.
“Yes, I see it!”
“That’s Cape Gris-Nez, Gray-Nose,” Mickey said.
“Lynne, this is going to be the most difficult part of the swim. There’s a current around that point. You’re going to have to hold your pace if you’re going to break the record,” Brickell said.
“But I thought I was hours ahead of record time,” I said, somewhat confused.
“You are, but the current’s already pushing you north, slightly off course. You’ve already lost half an hour,” he said.
“Okay,” I said with determination, “this is where all those sprints at the end of workout are going to pay off.”
My mom and Mickey cheered, “You can do it.” “Come on, love. Let’s go.”
Brickell turned the Helen Anne Marie slightly into the current to compensate for the northward drift and I began sprinting, trying to break across the current. For nearly an hour I swam harder than I could remember, and I was tiring.
Stopping to stretch my back, I asked for a drink of water and heard Brickell: “Lynne, you’ve got to go faster—you’re not through the current yet.”
My sides were starting to ache from breathing, and I didn’t feel good. I swam faster, but after another half an hour or so Cape Gris-Nez didn’t appear to be any closer. And the stench of the lanolin combined with the smell of diesel and dead fish from the boat was making me queasy. The wind was blowing the fumes into my face. “Mr. Brickell, could I move to the other side of the boat? The fumes are bugging me.”
“Certainly. Lynne, you’re caught in the tidal change now. You’re going to have to swim faster. I know you’re getting tired, but if you don’t get through this, you’re not going to get the record,” he said.
“You can do it. Come on, honey,” my mother said, and Mickey cheered as well.
This time I started swimming like I was at the end of a workout, doing the last mile, giving it everything I had. It was painful, but I pushed on. For more than an hour I didn’t look up at shore. When I did, we had drifted farther north, and Cape Gris-Nez had slid more to the south. This was hell, liquid hell.
I began reaching for more energy I’d never known I had. It was from all those cold mornings when I didn’t want to get in and work out, but did anyway. It was from all those years of training when I was tired but pushed myself through the workout. It was from all those people who believed in me. I pictured the faces of my family, my friends, my neighbors, my teammates, everyone who said, You can do this, and I sprinted. My breath burned in my throat. My arms were on fire, moving faster than they ever had. I lifted my head. We were making progress. We were directly in front of Cape Gris-Nez.
“You’re a mile from shore,” Brickell called to me. “This is where it gets tough. This is where a lot of swimmers give up.” His voice sounded tired, and he should have sounded happy.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The tide’s increasing. It’s pushing you south now. You’re going to have to sprint or you’re going to miss it entirely. The next landfall will be Wissant, five miles south,” he said.
Now I understood his fatigue and wished I didn’t. Sprint, he said. Sprint. Oh, man. Okay. Okay. You’ve got to do it now. You’ve really got to do it. You’re only a mile from shore. It’s only a mile. You can do it. Come on.
Again I put my head down and sprinted, and when I looked up I thought we’d be a half mile from shore; but the cape was far to the north. “How much farther, Mr. Brickell?”
“Five miles. You’ve missed the point and you’re heading toward Wissant.”
My brain couldn’t register it for a minute. Five miles? How could I have lost it that fast?
“Do you think you can pick up your pace?