Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [86]
The next morning Mr. Bjornsson and I met on the shores of the North Atlantic. He had come to walk with me and watch me train. He had no idea how wonderful it was to have him there; it made me feel very much at home again, having an adult walking beside me on the shore. After the hour workout in the forty-five-degree water, Mr. Bjornsson told me that when he’d heard that I was in town, the day before, he had cut his business trip short to meet with me. He was so enthusiastic. After seeing me train, he said, he was confident I would be able to swim across Lake Myvatn.
Jeffrey Cardenas and I flew to northeastern Iceland, and for the next three days I trained in the lake. Each day an elderly woman, whose name I couldn’t pronounce—she finally told me just to call her Sigga—invited me into her home to take a hot bath in her tub. After swimming in the forty-five-degree water, nothing felt as good. The first day she invited me upstairs into her kitchen, lit long blue candles, poured hot chocolate for me, and offered me homemade cookies. I was touched and grateful for her kindness. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t speak to each other; we simply looked at each other and enjoyed each other’s company.
The next day, after my workout, as we stood by the window overlooking the village, she pointed out the natural hot springs off to our right. She waved to passing neighbors and made sure I saw the herd of tiny white Icelandic horses that were smaller than ponies. Without speaking, she revealed to me so much of Iceland’s natural and wild beauty.
She seemed to be waiting for something, and then her daughter arrived to interpret for us. She said her mother thought I was brave to swim across Lake Myvatn. Sigga asked, “Have you been bitten by the mee flies—microscopic mosquito larva?”
“Oh, I thought I had a bad case of hives,” I said. My body was completely covered with pink spots that itched like poison ivy. “Is there anything I can do to stop the itching?”
Sigga shook her head. Her husband wore gloves when he fished on the lake, but she didn’t know of anything that I could use to stop the itching or prevent more bites.
I told her that it was okay; it would just be part of my story about swimming Lake Myvatn. She smiled; she liked the idea that one day I would tell a story about her home, a place she had never left. I was astonished. Hadn’t she been curious? Didn’t she want to see the world, understand life, have adventures? She smiled at me and said her world contained everything she needed. She had her family, the magnificent beauty of Lake Myvatn, and friends everywhere in the village. She didn’t need to travel.
The following morning, on August 14, 1985, we met on the shores of Geiteyjarstönd, on the eastern side of Myvatn. Sovar Kristjansson, Finnur Baldursson, Ellert Hauksson, and Bjorguin Arnalosson, all tall, strong Nordic men from the Icelandic Lifesaving Association, prepared the rubber inflatable boats. They were excited about the swim. No one ever swam in the lake, let alone crossed it. They were volunteer lifeguards; their primary job was to rescue fishermen and tourists who fell into the lake. They each had a pioneer spirit; there was a feeling around the Lake Myvatn area that anything was possible.
Nearly the entire village of Myvatn came to see us off. All thirty or so villagers, including the family we had met the night before as well as Sigga and her daughter, lined the black volcanic beach in their parkas and hats and mittens, smiling and bidding us farewell. There was also an entourage of journalists and television people. It was an exciting day for the local people, and it was for me