Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [50]
Two men were standing thigh deep in the water, pushing the barrels aside so we could swim through a narrow opening. Here the water was so shallow that every time I took a stroke my arm sank down into the heavy, thick brown muck, to my shoulder. Waste swelled in clouds around my face and filled my swimsuit with putrid water. On my next stroke my hand sank more deeply into the goo, and I cut my fingertips on some broken glass. Knowing the water was like a test tube filled with virulent bacteria, I just about lost it. I didn’t realize at the time that the other swimmers had built up a resistance to the microbes in the water, or that those who hadn’t had stayed clear of the river until the day of the race.
Finally we cleared the barrels and moved offshore. Rounding the bottom loop of the figure eight, we turned directly into the current. Here my speed was cut in half. I was feeling weak and dizzy, but I was still in first place.
Stroking along at seventy strokes per minute, faster than my normal speed, I tried to compensate for the current and push ahead. Something large hit my arm. Then my hand hit it. It felt soft, spongy, and bony. The smell made my head spin.
“What was that?” I shouted to Dave.
“You don’t want to know,” he said, having turned away in disgust.
“What was it?”
“A dead dog. Your hand punched through its rib cage.”
Dave kept talking to me, encouraging me, saying that I was doing really well, that I was strong, that I’d never looked better, but I knew he wasn’t telling me the truth, and I knew he knew it too. I told him I was having a rough time. I didn’t feel good. I felt really cold in the water, and I was starting to shake. That made no sense at all, since the water temperature was in the high seventies. Dave urged me to continue. He suggested that I drink some canned apple juice. I tried it, but I had to fight to keep it down. Good coaches know when to push a swimmer and when to back off. David knew, and he understood that I was almost at my limit. “You’ve got an Egyptian swimmer about one hundred yards behind you,” he said.
I turned to breathe, and on that breath I could see it was Monir. Putting my head down, I tried to snap into gear, but he continued gaining on me. I pulled faster and deeper, but my arm strokes had no power behind them. When I glanced back, Monir had closed the space between us. He pulled alongside me so quickly that I felt as if I were going backward. Then I understood that he had the strength to fly right by me, but instead he slowed down and moved closer so I could ride on his slipstream. Matching my strokes with his, I paced with him. His arm strokes were long, smooth, powerful, and beautiful. Water flowed over him like a second skin and magnified the smooth contours of his body as he glided across the water’s surface. He grinned at me reassuringly and I smiled back at him. Finally this was fun. Pulling a little more strongly, he egged me on, and I met his strength, quickening my pace by a notch. He increased his pace, extended his arms out farther, dug deeper, and pulled more water. I tried to snap into my next gear, but I couldn’t. I tried again, but it wasn’t there. He waited and moved closer so that our arms were nearly touching. We breathed at the same moment and he smiled, letting me ride more of his slipstream.
From the boat Monir’s coach was shouting at him, but Monir was breathing only in my direction so that he didn’t have to look at his coach. But I could see the coach, and he was going nuts.
“I can’t hold this speed,” I said, lifting my head so he could hear me.
“Just try,” Monir said, and eased back.
When I turned to breathe, there was a Syrian swimmer gaining on us.
“Come on, pick it up,” Monir said.
My arms weren’t responding.
Monir slowed down. His coach was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was pointing at the Syrian swimmer, trying to get Monir’s attention to let him know that the Syrian was moving in.
“You’ve got to go now; you’ve got a guy right behind you,” I said.
“Try harder,” he coaxed. He knew, as all long-distance