Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [39]
“How come we’re not heading directly for the point?” I asked.
“You’d have to land on the rocks, and you could get a bit cut up,” Brickell said.
“They’re closer than the beach, aren’t they?”
“By half a mile,” he said.
My mom didn’t like the idea; I could see it in her face. She was almost in tears.
“Mickey, can I still break the record?”
“Yes, love, you can.”
“Okay, then, let’s go for the rocks. I want to finish this swim now,” I said.
Everyone broke into smiles, even my mother—she couldn’t help herself. Taking a deep breath, I began sprinting again, counting my strokes, telling myself that I wouldn’t look up again until I’d swum one thousand strokes. Slowly I gained a foot, then a few hundred yards. Now I realized why the English Channel was the Mount Everest of swimming: we had climbed the mountain and all we had to do was reach the summit. But the summit was where the air grew thinner, where everything became challenging.
Don’t look up for five hundred strokes. Go as fast as you can go. Push it. Pull your arms with everything you have. Kick. Yes. Kick those legs. Pull deeper. Faster. Come on. Pull.
In the background my mother and Mickey were shouting, “Come on!” “Go, love!” They weren’t letting up. I heard Brickell shouting. For the first time, he was cheering too. And then I saw the excitement in his face.
We were almost there. But I couldn’t look yet. I had three hundred more strokes before I could look up. Brickell was turning the boat; I had to look up. Was there another problem? No, there wasn’t. We were almost there. The rocks were bigger than before.
Mickey and Reg Junior jumped into the launch and followed me. I swam faster, lifting my head to pick a landing spot. Waves were breaking on the rocks. I could see the surge and the white water. High above from the cliffs overhead, I heard voices. They were shouting in French. I was excited; I had never been to France before.
For over a year I had rehearsed this in my mind, but nothing could compare with the experience of actually being there and finishing the swim across the English Channel.
Searching for a space between the waves, I sprinted, hoping that a surge wouldn’t catch me and smash me into the rocks. I started moving in, and suddenly felt myself being lifted; I was moving too fast, right into a big sharp rock covered with mussels and barnacles. My knees struck the barnacles; then the wave tore me back out toward sea. Another wave, larger than the last, was breaking. Swim forward or back? Oh, no. I had no control. I could see it. I was going to get bashed. My other knee was sliced by the mussels. There was blood squirting out, but I couldn’t feel it much. My legs were numb from the cold. Another wave was surging toward me. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. No: find a spot. You can’t turn back. The watch is still ticking. You’ve got to clear the water for the swim to be completed. Come on, use the wave, let it lift you up, don’t fight it, let it carry you into the rocks, don’t back down. If you hit the rock, grab ahold of it and climb out of the water now.
The wave lifted me and I smashed into another rock. It hurt a lot. I grabbed for the rock and missed, then leaned forward and grabbed a handhold. I pulled myself up. The rock was sharp; it cut my feet, and the barnacles shredded my skin. But I wasn’t thinking about it, just trying to find another handhold and pull myself out. Got it. I pushed up with my feet, clung with my fingers, reached another handhold, and hauled myself onto a rock, clear of the water.
The crew cheered wildly. We had made it.
“Vous avez nagée La Manche?” someone shouted from the Cliffs. You swam the Channel?
“Oui, j’ai nagée La Manche,” I said. Yes, I swam the Channel. I did it. I just stood there for a moment and looked around. My legs were wobbly, but I had to see France. The cliffs above us looked like the white cliffs of Dover. And I thought of Fahmy