Swimming in the Sink

by Lynne Cox

  Each day I walked in the water along the edge of the bay. Tiny waves rushed over my feet and tugged me toward the sea. I felt more peaceful than before, and stronger. I gazed across the bright blue beveled water and up at the bright blue sky. I studied the line where the two met and thought the same thing I had dreamed about as a child: Maybe someday I will swim to the horizon.

  But before I could swim I needed to walk. For an hour each day I walked along the edge of the bay to acclimate to the cold water, and by June I was walking in knee-deep water the length of the shore. The shock of the cold diminished. My heart was beating stronger, and I was happier than I had been for years.

  Every day I walked, I had the chance to jump in the water and swim, but something was holding me back.

  Martha Kaplan invited me to spend the Fourth of July weekend in the country with her, Vicky, Andy, Kathy, and other friends from Knopf. It sounded like it would be a fun and fascinating weekend. The Knopf family always had intriguing discussions, and I was so happy to be part of that group. Martha told me I could swim in Andy’s new pond. It sounded like a good idea, but I was reluctant.

  Joe once told me that before he went into a burning building, he planned his exit, and he made sure he had multiple exits. The pond was in the country where cell phones didn’t work. If I had a problem in the water, Martha wasn’t strong enough to pull me out, and she didn’t know CPR. It would take fifteen minutes or more for the first responders to reach the pond. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get in the water.

  We arrived at Martha’s place in the late afternoon. The air was hot, heavy, and humid, and our clothes and bugs were biting us. Martha spoke with Andy and said the pond was warm and perfect for a swim.

  It was strange: for months I had dreamed about swimming again, but it was much easier to dream about it and work toward it than it was to do it. It was like life—easier to dream about than to do.

  I had fallen so far. I was afraid that I might not be able to swim across the pond. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what I could do. My heart was improving, but I hadn’t been swimming, and my body was weak. I was worried that if I got into the pond, I might not be able to climb out.

  “Martha, if something happens, you need to know that I’m not your responsibility, okay?” I said.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said in her happy voice.

  She didn’t know that my arms were weak and flabby. She didn’t know how much I had lost.

  I changed into my swimsuit and rode with Martha and her dog Frankie to Andy’s.

  The shrubs around his home that had been bare in December were now covered with lush green foliage. The elegant magnolias and roses were blooming and perfuming the air. And the once-frozen stream was flowing fast. All the air bubbles had been released from the ice and the water was tumbling over rocks. I had been sabotaging myself, limiting myself with doubt.

  We climbed the hill in Andy’s backyard. Frankie led the way. She held her spotted black-and-white tail high and wagged it. She reminded me of Beth Snow Flower, my Dalmatian, the dog I swam with in my grandparents’ pond when I was a child. Snow Pond was where I learned to swim, and I remembered how much I loved it.

  The air was sweltering and oppressive. Perspiration was running down my cheeks and the back of my knees. I told myself it would feel so good to get into the water.

  Andy’s pond was small and perfectly round. I thought, I am coming full circle. It’s so strange how life is; you never know where it’s going to take you. I was grateful I had the chance to come full circle and had the chance to try to swim again.

  It started sprinkling. The sky was pastel shades of gray that were growing darker with the clouds building on the horizon. The wind was increasing, and the clouds were moving toward us.

  On a steep hill high above Andy’s pond, black-and-white dairy cattle were grazing on tender green grass. In an adjacent field a farmer was riding his red tractor and cutting hay. He increased his speed. If we were going to swim, we needed to do it quickly; it looked like the clouds were thunderheads.

  Martha jumped into the pond with Frankie. White water exploded around them like an uncorked bottle of champagne. The sounds of their splashes sounded like fun. I wanted to jump in too, but I sat on a flat rock, dipped my legs in the warm water, and kicked slowly to awaken and stretch my muscles. The warm water pulled the heat from my body and it felt wonderful. I wasn’t sure what I would be able to do. I wasn’t sure if my arms would support me. I was scared. I was scared of the water. Was I going to be okay?

  “Come on in. The water’s great,” Martha exclaimed and rolled onto her back, exhaled, and swam backstroke. Ripples of slivery water flowed off her muscular arms, red swimsuit, and long legs. The tiny waves slid to the sides of the pond.

  The pond was small and sensitive to the slightest movement. It would only take four or five strokes to swim across. I stopped kicking and let my feet float to the surface. They looked so pale, but they weren’t swollen.

  I stepped into the water and felt my feet sink deep into the silty bottom. The silt rose up in a cloud around me. The water was hot along the pond’s edge, but when I stepped into deeper water, the temperature dropped and took my breath away. The pond was fed by cold artesian springs.

  I looked at the sky. The wind was blowing even harder and black clouds were racing toward us.

  If you’re going to get in, get in now, or you won’t have a chance today, I told myself. Remember to get in slowly, give yourself and your heart time to adjust to the water.

  I walked in. The water was marbled warm and cold. I lay on my stomach and floated facedown, dropped my ears below the surface so I could listen to the silence. I loved that silence. I loved the way the water smelled so sweet. I turned my head and listened to the water’s song, grabbed my knees, and did the jellyfish float like I did as a child. I listed to one side and then the other, adjusted my balance, and found my center. My heart was beating in my ears: it was strong and steady, and everything was okay.

  Rolling onto my back, I floated and felt soft raindrops tickle my face. I floated in the space between the earth and sky. My body and spirit felt light.

  The rain pattered on my face. I loved being in the water during a storm. The pond was covered with large waves, trees were swaying, creaking, and bending, and leaves were blowing in a wild frenzy.

  In the distance, above steep hills, red lightning flashed in the black sky, and thunder rumbled. The wind increased. Dark clouds were moving fast. Tendrils of white lightning lit the sky. Thunder crackled and boomed. I counted the number of seconds between the thunder and lightning. For every five seconds that separated the two, the storm was one mile away. I counted fifty seconds. The heart of the storm was ten miles away, but there was a lot of energy in the storm. It was approaching fast. Black clouds were dropping to earth and the lightning was beginning to glow neon blue.

  I had only floated for fifteen minutes, and I wanted to stay in longer, but the lightning was now less than three miles away. I picked up my soggy towel and ran with Martha and Frankie to the car. We jumped in and shut the doors just as lightning struck and lit the hill near the pond.

  Frankie panted and wisely crouched in the backseat. The rain fell so fast and heavy that all we saw was water pouring down on the windshield. Overhead the lightning flashed and thunder boomed louder. Nothing rivaled the beauty or power of nature’s fireworks. We waited until the storm subsided before Martha drove us home.

  The next day Martha, Vicky, and I took a road trip to Binghamton, New York, a city at the confluence of the Susquehanna and Chenango Rivers. We went hunting for antiques, but I wasn’t a good shopper. After a few hours, I was ready to do something else, but Vicky and Martha were just starting their day of hunting.

  Martha told me, “These are things that someone once loved,” and that helped me appreciate the intrinsic value of these objects, but I didn’t need a wooden rocking horse, a statue of a giant frog, an ancient bicycle, or dishes. There were old books, and
I stopped to slowly flip through their pages.

  In the late afternoon we returned to Andy’s pond and I couldn’t wait to swim. I walked in and leaned forward so my chest touched the water and my arms floated on the surface. I started moving my arms like I was swimming. It was a lot easier swimming standing up in the water than it was swimming in the sink. I extended my arms as far as they could reach, pulled the water with my hands, kept my elbows high as I pulled, rotated my body to the side with each stroke, and pulled the water until I brushed my thumbs against my thighs.

  My arms and back felt sore from lack of conditioning. I dipped my face in the water. It woke something inside and I felt my heart beat faster.

  It’s time. You’re ready, I encouraged myself.

  I took a deep breath and pushed off the bottom. The cool water lifted and enveloped me and I was free from the weight of the earth and lighthearted. I swam four strokes, turned around, and swam back. I did it again and I felt the energy returning to my body. I swam faster and watched my arms move underwater. They were flabby, as the muscles had atrophied. I had lost a lot of weight and was able to swim easily, but my arms felt weak.

  I told myself it was okay. I needed to respect my body and give it time to rebuild and to become strong. I swam until I lost track of the laps. It felt like I was flying, gliding, and soaring across the pond as James Horner’s inspirational music “Flight” played in my head.

  I was regaining energy, and my life.

  I rolled over onto my back and swam backstroke.

  White clouds parted and the blue sky expanded. Frankie paddled next to me and I dog-paddled with her. She grinned and swam faster. She was so competitive. I had to work hard to stay at her shoulder.

  Three weeks later, on July 24, I saw Dr. Rawal. He planned to check my heart before I went on the book tour to make sure I was doing fine. I wanted to ask him something out of the ordinary, but I wasn’t sure how.

  He listened to my heart and lungs and said I was doing fantastic. I told him I swam in upstate New York. My longest swim was forty minutes, and I felt great during and after the swim. He was so pleased.

  “I’ve been trying to think of what else I can do to get my heart back to normal. Could I listen to your heartbeat so I can compare it with mine and try to make mine sound more like yours?”

  “Sure,” he said, grinning.

  I don’t think he ever had a patient ask him to do this.

  He put the stethoscope in his ears and the chest piece on my chest. He laughed and realized he needed to put the stethoscope in my ears and the chest piece on his chest.

  He took a deep breath and let me listen to his heart. His heartbeat was loud, strong, and even. It was beautiful. I closed my eyes and memorized his heartbeat. He moved the chest piece so I could hear the different sounds within each heartbeat. I held my breath and listened and memorized it.

  I looked up, and he switched the chest piece and placed it on my chest. I didn’t mean to, but I said, “Shit.” My heartbeat didn’t sound like his. It sounded soft, murky, almost evenly paced, but it had a long way to go before it sounded like his.

  I told him I was leaving in a week for the book tour and asked if he had any advice. He said to watch my salt intake. It would be difficult when I was on the road and eating out often. He told me to bring Lasix and take it if I retained water, and if I had any problems he wanted me to call him.

  27

  CRAWLING

  Bill Lee met me at his home in Wilmette, Illinois. We swam together as teenagers, and our swim teams competed against each other. He had been a Newport Beach lifeguard, and he escorted me on my swim in the iceberg-filled waters off Greenland. He was on the boat as a rescue swimmer, ready to jump in the water in his dry suit and pull me out if I went into hypothermia.

  Bill invited me to do a book signing in Chicago and swim with his friends in Lake Michigan. I was happy to do a book signing, but I wasn’t ready to swim with anyone. The longest I had swum in one stretch was four strokes across a pond. That wasn’t real swimming. Lake Michigan was so large that it had a tide of up to one inch. It would have waves, currents, and cold water if the wind was blowing. It was beyond my reach. I didn’t have time to build up to it. My body was recovering, but not that fast.

  We spoke a few times on the phone to coordinate the book signing, and each time we talked, Bill told me he wanted me to swim with him and his friends. I told him about my heart, and that I was a lot better but I was out of shape. My speed was less than half what it had been. I was back in the water, but I was weak and slow, and it wouldn’t be fun to be left behind. I had worked so hard to reach an elite level in the sport, and I had to let that go.

  Bill said to just come and swim, and enjoy the water.

  Lake Michigan was the color of blue diamonds, and sunlight reflected off the edges of the waves and made it sparkle. It flowed from one horizon to the other.

  Bill’s friends, two men and two women, jogged into the water. They dove under the waves, floated, adjusted their caps and goggles, and began sprinting toward a distant pier. Their arm strokes were fast, long, and strong, and their flutter kicks were even faster. They were four hundred meters ahead of Bill and me before we started swimming.

  They were fast swimmers. I tried not to let it bother me that we were so far behind. When I was a teenager and we moved from New Hampshire to California I started training with Don Gambril, the Olympic coach. I was one of the slowest swimmers in the pool and almost always finished last. I had worked hard for many years so I wouldn’t be last. It bothered me then and it bothered me now.

  I watched their bodies become smaller, until all I saw were splashes. They were more than six hundred meters ahead of us.

  Bill waited for me to put on my cap and goggles. He breaststroked beside me until I caught my breath. He said the water was beautiful. He loved swimming in the open water. It was wonderful to be swimming with him, but I wanted to swim close to shore.

  I watched him swim beside me. There was something special about swimming together. It was like playing music together or singing together, or being on the same wavelength. You flowed through the water side by side like dolphins. I watched silvery bubbles flow out of his mouth, matched my stroke with his, and shared beautiful sights below and above the water.

  Bill swam at my pace. He looked beautiful, efficient, strong, and balanced as his body moved through the water. He was lean and floating low. If he swam at his normal pace, he would have been swimming higher in the water, and more efficiently.

  My arms were weak and ached after swimming two hundred meters. I didn’t have the energy or the endurance to increase my pace. I used to be able to increase my speed, and my last miles would be faster than the first. It was hard to be so slow. I knew I had to be careful not to undo the gains I had made, but I wanted to swim faster. I decided to try to swim faster for a minute.

  Bill felt me increase my speed, and he increased his, and smiled. He thought I had found a second gear, but I only had one speed: slow.

  I had to tell myself, It’s okay. Respect your body. Eight months ago you were almost dead. You’re crawling back. You’ve come a long way. You’ve got a long way to go. You’ll be okay. You did okay. Be happy. Be happy to be here. Be happy you could swim with Bill. Be happy you are alive. I am happy and I am grateful.

  The four swimmers reached shore long before we did. But I loved swimming with Bill. I checked my watch when we climbed out of the lake. We swam for almost an hour. I told him it was the longest swim I had done since my illness.

  Bill said, “I had no idea. I hope I didn’t push you too hard.”

  “You didn’t, Bill. Sometimes I get discouraged because I am so slow. It feels like I have to start all over again, but I guess that gives me the chance to learn something new.”

  I had been given extra time to live. I had figured out that the most important thing was to spend more time with the people I loved. Life didn’t have to be lived in a blur; it could be slowed down and enjoyed
more.

  Signing books that evening in Chicago was great. I loved seeing old friends and meeting new ones. The next afternoon I flew to New York City. I couldn’t wait to see Sophie French. She lived on Long Island and helped arrange a venue to sign my books. We had met five years before at the New Yorker Festival. She came to listen to a panel I was on and waited so we could talk. She wanted to learn to swim, but she was afraid of the water. She asked what I advised, and I suggested that she talk with swimming coaches and find the most patient swimming instructor who knew how to adjust his or her teaching to her. Give herself time to learn and build confidence. Sometimes it takes a while to overcome fear.

  Sophie learned how to swim in the pool, and she found a great coach who helped her start swimming in the ocean. She asked me when I visited if we could swim in Long Island Sound.

  We swam in the Sound in the late afternoon. The water was gray blue and choppy.

  When we walked into the water, and the cold waves splashed us, we laughed and giggled like two little girls. We breaststroked with our heads above water, and talked, and stood up and touched the bottom, and dolphined through the water.

  Sophie didn’t know how to bodysurf, so I showed her how; she caught her first wave and it lifted her legs above her head and pushed her to shore. The lacy wave broke around her and she shouted and laughed, and we rode wave after wave. There was no pressure to swim fast or far. We just had fun.

  When we climbed out of the Sound, the strong wind blew the water off our bodies. We watched sailboats with large billowing sails race across the whitecapped Sound. Sophie said our swim together was a dream come true, and I said it was for me too.

  Friends met me in New York City, Maryland, Washington, D.C., and Virginia. Joe met me at the Miami airport. It was so good to see him after so many conversations and so much time. He looked fit and happy, but he was walking with a limp.

  He said I looked good, better than he thought I would.

  It was hot and humid and it felt like I was walking in a Jacuzzi wearing my clothes.