Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [41]
What an honor, to swim with them.
That day I worked out with them, and for the first time I was able to see them up close, to see the power and beauty of their bodies as they moved seemingly effortlessly through the water. This time I could hear their breathing, and see the expressions on their faces, and watch their flip turns underwater, and feel the power they released when they pushed off the wall. I asked them if they would watch my stroke and help correct it. They did. Both gave me some pointers: kick harder, keep my head down.
It had been over a year since I’d swum in the same pool as they swam in, and they looked so much better than ever before. They were beginning to taper, reducing their mileage and getting more rest. In a couple of months they would swim in the Olympic Games. Hans would win the silver medal on the German freestyle relay team, and Gunnar would swim the four-hundred-meter individual medley to win the gold medal and establish an Olympic record.
What do you do at fifteen when you’ve achieved your highest goal in life? What can you ever do to surpass that? Coach Gambril left California to coach the Harvard University team, and I was sad about that; I knew he was not only the best coach I would have but one of my best friends too. I also knew he had taken me as far as he could, and he had to move on his own life’s path.
My brother, who had been competing at the national level in long-distance events in the swimming pool, swam across the Catalina Channel from the island to the mainland. He established a new overall record of eight hours and fifty minutes.
My younger sisters, Laura and Ruth, were still swimming for the team, but they were starting to become interested in playing water polo. My brother had started playing in high school, and I had played some on a club team in the evenings after my ocean-swimming workouts, with girls who would become members of the U.S. National Team. I loved the game, but I was only adequate at it. From the moment Laura and Ruth picked up the yellow ball, they were naturals. And there was no doubt that someday they would be great water polo players.
I was still trying to figure out what to do next when my folks suggested that I take a complete break and visit old friends in New Hampshire. It was a great idea, and I enjoyed being back, being free of thoughts of swimming, world records, and competitions. It was wonderful until a former neighbor handed me the morning paper with tears in her eyes. She was too choked up to talk and just pointed to the story. Davis Hart from Springfield, Massachusetts, had broken my time across the English Channel by thirteen minutes. It took a few minutes to absorb the news. There had been some controversy surrounding the time. One official said Hart had finished three minutes slower than my time; later, reports came in that that time had been a mistake; he in fact had swum thirteen minutes faster than me. This made me think about returning to swim the Channel again, but I knew I needed a break. Besides, if I decided to do it again, I’d have to ask for support from my mother and father, and for them to underwrite the cost of the trip.
Entering high school at Los Alamitos helped me return to an almost normal teenage life. Studies were just as important to me as swimming.
It was water polo season when I entered high school, but there was no such thing as a girls’ water polo team. The boys’ swimming and water polo coaches, George Devina and Dennis Ploessel, knew about my background. My brother swam and played water polo on their teams during the school year. The coaches knew that I had played water polo on a girls’ club team that was a feeder program for the U.S. Women’s National Team. Mr. Devina and Mr. Ploessel recruited me for the boys’ high school team. I was excited about joining the team. I loved water polo; it was a lot of fun, and hard work, and it allowed me to be on a team where I played as a team member.
Coach Devina suggested that I try out for the boys’ team. Not everyone