Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [95]
I couldn’t afford to stop and examine the wound, but looking down through the water, I tried to determine how bad it was without interrupting my stroke. I couldn’t see anything. The water was filled with glacial silt, and it was milky white and opaque. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. We’re almost three hundred yards from shore. I looked down the beach. Maybe I can swim to that next beach. It’s another half a mile. That would increase my distance by half, and it would help me see if the Bering Strait is really possible. Maybe I can push farther. “How are you feeling?” Jeffrey called from the boat. I couldn’t feel my arms or legs or my face; they were numb. And my eyes ached.
Maybe I can go farther. That’s not a good idea. Because if you do, and you’re okay, you’ll want to go farther again. What’s wrong with that? You can’t feel your body. You’re ice-cold. Can you imagine what’s going to happen when you stop swimming? I don’t want to think about that. Right, and it’s going to be worse if you keep going. Remember, you have to think of the afterdrop. You’re going to get colder if you continue. The cold will penetrate deeper when you’re tired. You had better stop now. I know. But I really want to try it. The crew’s watching me. Sure they are, and they’re making sure you’re coherent, but your brain could have cooled down without them or you knowing it. And you know that’s bad news. You may be losing your sense of judgment without knowing it. And that means you could push yourself too far. Remember what happened to David Yudovin on his Anacapa attempt? He thought he was fine. He had no idea he was dying. His brain had cooled down and he lost all sense of reality. I think I’m okay. Sure, but if you cut right and head for that other beach, you’ll be riding the current, and you’ll be in this iceberg-filled water for at least twenty more minutes. You’ve been going flat out for more than half an hour. And this cold is sapping your energy. Do you really think you can continue? Do you think you can make that shore? No. I’m too cold. Okay, then you’d better get out. But where am I going to get a chance to swim in water as cold as this before the Bering Strait? I don’t know. But you’d better be satisfied with what you’ve done today. You’ll find another time to test yourself. Honestly, you’ve reached your limit. Be happy. You’ve made it. You’re fifty yards from shore.
It looked like it would be an easy landing, but the current along the shore suddenly increased, and there was a cluster of icebergs and huge boulders clogging the entrance to the shore. We tried, but the ice pack was so tight we couldn’t get through them. Fritz shouted at Dena, directing her to paddle to the right, to a smaller cove. I was hitting icebergs with each arm stroke; it was like swimming through an ice maze. Suddenly I felt waves of cold rippling through my body. Something had broken. Some defense mechanism that had kept me warm had been breached. Tremors were surging through my body, radiating out across my back and shoulders. You’ve got to sprint now. Now, with all you have. Don’t let up for anything. I can’t. I can’t find a place for my arms to move. Then push off that berg with your feet, cut left, no, right—that way you won’t have to swim against the current. Go around the berg. But Dena’s on my left; we’ll get separated. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now. You’re only ten yards from shore. Keep going. Fast. Okay, careful. There are rocks below your feet. And rocks between the bergs. At least there’s no surf.
Put your feet down carefully.