Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [49]
Monir was standing on a hill above the Egyptian Swimming Federation’s boat, studying the river below, ablaze with brilliantly colored flags with interesting crests and insignias and designs. There were over one hundred rowboats on the water, and there would be at least a dozen swimmers from the Egyptian team competing in the race. Monir was having a difficult time locating his boat.
Below was a scene of chaos; with the strong south-flowing current, none of the boats could hold their positions. They were slamming into each other, jockeying for position. Tempers were flaring, crews were screaming, and everyone was using expressive hand gestures. Finally Monir found his boat.
I had no difficulty finding mine. It was the only one with the American flag, positioned a hundred yards ahead of the starting line.
Monir noticed me and hurried over. He wanted to know how I was feeling. I told him much better, but it wasn’t true. I had lost nearly twenty pounds in ten days, most of it from dehydration, and my stomach was cramping and killing me, but I didn’t want to tell him that. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“Just a bit nervous,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry—so much can happen in eight or nine hours. Just take it as it comes. Sometimes it seems like a lifetime can pass in eight or nine hours,” I said to exaggerate the point.
That was exactly what Monir needed to hear, and he repeated it and visibly relaxed.
Thousands of people lined the racecourse, many waving small Egyptian flags and shouting the names of their favorite swimmers. A loudspeaker was blaring; an announcer was introducing the athletes’ names as if a horse race were about to start. More people kept arriving.
A few moments later I lined up with the other swimmers, and the announcer shouted something in Arabic. It must have been “Go!” because all the swimmers were running into the water except me. Pulling on my cap and goggles, I dove into the river.
The pack was already heading north, toward a buoy in the center of the Nile. All one hundred swimmers were trying to squeeze around that buoy and locate their crew. It was more crowded than Times Square at rush hour, and more competitive. Someone kicked me in the stomach. Someone else elbowed me in the ribs. I felt as if I were back on the water polo team. Looking up, I found a hole in the pack and zigzagged toward it, then crossed to the opposite shore, where the current was weaker. Dave was calling me, and when I looked up I saw the American flag, the beautiful white stars and red stripes reflected in the wavering brown water. “You’re right on pace and in first place. Good job!” he shouted so I could hear him above the cheering crowd.
We rounded the northern tip of the north island, then turned south. There we moved into the middle of the river to take full advantage of the current. The city, the crowds—people washing clothes, fishing, and defecating in the water—flew past like a video on fast forward.
We cut back across the center of the eight and entered an area where I had not practiced before. Dave had tried to convince me to swim there, but the stench had made me gag. The water was stagnant, hot, and as thick as engine oil, and it was filled with chunks of brown sewage. It got worse. We came to an area about two hundred yards long where large metal barrels had been strung together and placed parallel to the shore. During the war, the Egyptians had placed the barrels in the Nile in an area where the current slowed so that if the Israelis mined the river, the mines would collect in this area and unexploded mines wouldn’t explode on shore. The Egyptians admitted that the chances of this happening were remote, but the barrels were still in place. They also believed that the mines would drift into the barrel area and this would help protect