Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [75]
From the skiff, John yelled at me to sprint, to make as much forward distance as possible before the tide changed and carried us to the east. We were racing the tide, flying over the sea surface, airborne, caught in a shower of spray, then rolling, being lifted, and spun and driven deep under the waves, popping up, surfacing, seeing the frogmen with looks of concern on their faces, laughing at them, them waving, cheering, and laughing back. Moving fast, hearing John’s directions, staying near him, too. Watching him taking his gloves off, trying to wind his camera to take a picture. His hands were too cold and stiff; blowing on them, trying to warm them, he hunched over to shield the camera from the spray. Inside I laughed a little: I can do this; I really can do this, without a wet suit or anything to warm me. It is amazing how incredible the human body is that it can do so much. That it can go beyond the everydayness of life; that it can be extraordinary and powerful, and harbor a spirit of hope and pure will. I was so excited being out there, feeling the tide suddenly going slack. There was no more drift to the west except for the push of the waves. We were more than halfway across.
John pointed at shore and told me to aim for the beach in the distance. Lifting my head above the waves, I could see the gray-green brush and grasses. It was perhaps a mile away. Pulling harder, faster, I knew this was where I had to gain distance, where I had to get across as fast as I could before the tide changed. Catching, pulling, pushing the water, faster and faster, arm over arm, I sprinted. My lungs were burning, my arms on fire, my legs completely numb, my fingers dead. Turning, I took in a large breath of air and saw the intense blue sky, and pure white clouds rushing in. In a few more breaths, looking back, I saw big gray ones chasing them. Another storm was rapidly approaching.
I looked back again. There were bigger gray clouds, and Tierra del Fuego was sliding by to my right. The tide had changed; it was flowing from the west, toward the Atlantic, and it was building quickly, like a hose bent and suddenly released. The force was incredible—we were flying sideways to the west at three, maybe four knots. Now the waves and tidal current were in complete opposition, slamming into each other and rising up like small tsunamis. Swimming was very difficult. There was no rhythm to the sea. Turning to breathe, I drew in water; it flew up my nose and down my throat. Choking, lifting my head to get air, I looked across the sea, and it was chaos: green white-caps darkening to a threatening gray. And the wind, sweeping across the water in forty-knot gusts, showered us with frothy spray.
John was hunched over in the bow of the skiff, using one arm to shield himself from the spray. The skiff captain was getting drenched. Both men looked miserable, and John’s face registered concern. He told me that we were too far west. He was trying to get the skiff captain to make a course correction, but Captain Furniss had given him an order to hold a specific heading, and he would not disobey that order. John continued trying to convince the skiff captain to change course. He wouldn’t listen.
The current was racing now, moving at up to nine knots, at full bore, like a raging river. I had never experienced swimming in anything like this. There was so much power and energy in the water surrounding me. It felt wild, wonderful, frightening, and fun. At that moment, I didn’t realize we were in real danger. Sonnichsen did, though. He shouted at me, waving frantically. He told me to move close to his skiff. We were heading right for a whirlpool. It spanned fifty feet and it was spinning with dizzying speed, boiling, frothing, churning white water. I felt the whirlpool dragging us toward its center and