Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [98]
Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when I met a real live Soviet official. My impression of Alexander Terehkin was: This man looks like a thin Santa Claus. He had beautiful white hair, bright blue eyes, a rosy complexion, and a wonderful smile. When he extended his hand and enthusiastically shook mine, my fear was almost completely converted to excitement. Mr. Terehkin led me into a small, musty room with heavy red drapes, opulent dark wooden furniture, and a plush Oriental carpet, and offered me a chair. The room was dim, the drapes were drawn so no one could see into or out of the room, and high in the right-hand corner of the room, near the ceiling, was a tiny, almost imperceptible red light. It was blinking. Beneath the light was a video camera, and it was focused on us.
Instead of being afraid or paranoid, I decided, this was my chance to take full advantage of the situation, to be bold and explain concisely to Mr. Terehkin, and whoever would see the video, what I wanted to do and why I wanted to do it. Mostly, this was my chance to let the Soviets know that my motives were straightforward and genuine.
Mr. Terehkin offered me a chair directly below the camera, and then sat down behind a large, imposing desk. For a moment he excused himself; he put on his reading glasses and glanced at a letter from Dr. Hammer. He asked me if I had been in touch with Mr. Potemkin, the cultural attaché at the Soviet embassy in Washington. I explained that I’d tried to reach him by letter and by phone at least five times. In fact, I told him I had begun writing to Soviet officials in 1976, beginning with Brezhnev, then Chernenko, Andropov, and finally Gorbachev. When there was no response, I wrote to Anatoliy Fedorovich Dobrynin, the Soviet ambassador to the United States. At the same time I wrote letters to President Reagan, Secretary of State George Shultz, Assistant Secretary of State Rozanne Ridgway, U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union Arthur Hartman, and the Soviet desk at the State Department. When there was no response, I wrote to Senators Frank Murkowski and Ted Stevens from Alaska, and Steve Cowper, the governor of Alaska. When I couldn’t get through to them, I contacted Congressman Dan Lungren, the pianist Vladimir Horowitz, the astronauts involved in the joint Soviet-U.S. space mission, and other people who were known for having some contact with the Soviet Union.
I did get a call from Congressman Lungren’s office saying that they would like to help, but I hadn’t heard back from them yet. And Vladimir Horowitz had called me from New York City and told me that I was on the right track. He couldn’t suggest anything further I could do. But his call had given me confidence that it was a good idea to pursue the Bering Strait crossing.
As I spoke, Mr. Terehkin’s interest increased; he smiled and nodded, and I could tell he was impressed with the time I’d spent and the number of contacts I had made. He asked me a number of questions about where and when I wanted to swim, and now my heart was pounding in my chest from sheer excitement. For so many years I had tried to get someone who could do something to listen, to understand, and Mr. Terehkin was perched upright in his chair, listening to every word.
He asked me about my background and what I had done to prepare, and he looked astonished when he found out I had swum the English Channel. Oh, but that was just the start of it all. The more questions he asked, the more excited I became. He was really interested. I spoke faster and faster, and sometimes had to slow myself down to make sure he understood. Then I got to the most important point, the part I hoped he would understand more than anything else.
“This swim is meant to be a gesture of goodwill between the United States and the Soviet Union, to open the border between the