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By Root 424 0

the land of Sir Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Mount Everest, and there was a certain national pride and character that was infused within them, too, a can-do attitude. People throughout the country began calling the boat. Mothers, fathers, sheep farmers, fishermen, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, bee farmers, people from the most remote farms and villages called. When I started getting really discouraged, the paddler had me swim close to the lead boat so Keith Hancox could tell me what was happening. He was elated. “A Girl Scout just called in from Nelson. She said to tell you to keep going; she thinks you will make it. A farmer called a minute ago from Christchurch; he said to send you his best wishes. So many people are calling, Lynne, to wish you their best. You’ve got the entire country of New Zealand pulling for you,” he said.

Cataldo had watched the weather reports on television the night before. A typhoon was hitting the Cook Islands, nearly fifteen hundred miles north of Cook Strait, and an Antarctic storm was raging about one thousand miles to the south. None of the forecasters thought the storms would affect us. But they did. Both storms were converging on Cook Strait, and we were sandwiched between them. That explained why the tides were so different from their normal pattern. It explained why we had been swept so far around the North Island. Although the storms were hundreds of miles from us, they were still affecting us. Without any landmasses to act as buffers, we were beginning to feel their effects as they continued their approach.

I felt as if I were swimming through a washing machine on spin cycle. Breathing was nearly impossible. I tried breathing later than normal, delaying my inhalation, letting my arms shield my face from the waves. But then my arms obscured my vision. That was dangerous. The skiff was becoming a real hazard. Cataldo was fighting to keep it on course, but the waves were lifting him four or five feet into the air, then tossing him sideways, right at me. I heard him shout, “Watch out, Lynne.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the skiff smashing down into a trough. Cutting quickly left, I felt the propeller graze my leg. Cataldo pulled hard to the right, knowing now that he had to, opening the space between us. This made navigation even more challenging for both of us. There were periods of time, ten or twenty seconds, when we couldn’t see each other at all. It was nuts. I felt as if I were swimming all over the ocean.

Sensing my frustration, a lifeguard from the support crew pulled his board closer to me. That made me feel better. There were sharks in Cook Strait, white pointers. A number of surfers had been killed by these sharks. We thought if there was any sign of a problem, such as a shark circling, I would get out. When in doubt, get out was always my axiom, but in this case, I don’t think we could really see anything.

Lifting my head again—it was becoming a very bad habit—I looked toward the South Island. The sea was a mass of white waves breaking helter-skelter, without even the outline of the island on the horizon. I made a decision. Calmly, I pulled off my cap and goggles and shouted to Sonnichsen, “I don’t think I can go any farther. I want to get out.”

“Just swim another half mile,” Sonnichsen coaxed through the megaphone.

I wanted to drown that megaphone.

“You’re going through a bad period,” he said.

You’re not kidding, I thought.

“Here, have some apple juice,” he said.

I wished I had a cork. If I had a cork, I could stick it into that megaphone, and then I wouldn’t have to hear him.

The apple juice tasted sweet, delicious. I grabbed my knees to stretch out my back. The crew in the boat waved, cheered, and shouted encouraging words. Keith Hancox told me I was doing an incredible job. He said he had never seen a swimmer persevere through conditions like this. He was very impressed. That gave me a real lift. I respected him—now more than ever since I understood what he had achieved—and his encouragement helped me find my resolve.

For the next half an hour we made