Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [89]
“I don’t understand—what kind of ice are you looking for?” I said.
“Pan ice. It’s ice on the top inches of the water, about a quarter of an inch to half an inch thick. And it’s round, shaped like a pan. See, there’s some.”
I could barely see the ten-foot-wide section floating on the water.
“I’m not sure how far we’re going to be able to go. Pan ice can slice through the wooden hull of my boat. It could sink us in a matter of minutes. I don’t like this at all,” Koshman said.
As if we were moving through a minefield, we zigzagged northward through Glacier Bay, past tall dark pines, small rocky islands, and fishing camps that had been closed for the season. We motored deep into the Alaskan wilderness. The sputter of the boat’s tiny motor was the only engine voice in the bay. We were alone, and beside the mountain walls we were very small.
As Koshman turned his head to steer the boat, we plowed into a transparent sheet of pan ice. It sounded like something snapped, and then there was a heavy thud. The boat shuddered, and so did we.
“I don’t know how much farther we’re going to be able to go. I’m going to have to go slower. And I need all of you to look for the ice.” Koshman sighed deeply.
“This is really dangerous for a boat,” Debbie Woodruff said, staring into the water.
Dangerous for a boat—what would it do to a swimmer?
Woodruff knew how dangerous the bay could be; she’d spent years fishing for crab there. She was a large, strong, capable woman with long, wavy brown hair, a small round face, and brown eyes. As an added bonus, she was also a certified emergency medical technician. In case something went really wrong during the swim, she had spoken with her fishermen colleagues. Because of the high mountain walls surrounding Glacier Bay, it would not be possible to directly radio an emergency team for help. So she had contacted her fishermen friends who were fishing south of us out of the bay, where there wasn’t a problem with ice. If we had an emergency, she would radio them, and they would pass that information to the rescue team.
Fritz Koshman stifled a curse as a piece of ice cracked and shattered. “I don’t like this at all,” he said.
I turned to Woodruff. “If it’s that dangerous, do you think I should ask him to turn around?” I was filled with mixed thoughts and emotions. No matter how you looked at it, this swim was dangerous. Admittedly, that’s what made it very exciting. But there was a point where it would be too dangerous, a point beyond any reason, and I didn’t want to reach that point before I climbed into the water. I didn’t want to endanger the lives of the crew or hurt myself; no swim, however important to the end goal, was worth that.
“Fritz knows what he’s doing. If he doesn’t think it’s safe, he’ll turn back,” Woodruff said confidently.
The boat moved as if in slow motion into Glacier Bay.
“There’s ice off the bow—ten yards! Steer right, more right!” Debbie yelled.
Koshman turned the wheel, leaning and pulling with his entire large body, and he managed to steer the thirty-foot boat out of harm’s way. He kept adjusting the course, making sudden abrupt turns. This took an enormous amount of concentration, skill, and nerve—especially when he came upon a section of pan ice and had to choose whether to steer around the larger pieces, knowing that he was going to snap through smaller pieces and possibly damage his boat.
We motored deeper into the bay, where there was more freshwater runoff from streams, rivers, and brooks, and the pan ice became even more abundant. Navigation was a nightmare. We heard ice snapping and crunching beneath the bow, then more crackling as the boat moved over it. The sound penetrated the boat’s floorboards and traveled through our bodies.
Fritz ran to the bow and looked over the side. The wood hadn’t been cut—at least, not yet. He hurried back to the steering house. He wiped sweat off his brow and sucked in air nervously. “I’m not sure we can go much farther,” he said. “I don’t want to damage my boat,