by Lynne Cox
From time to time I would call her, asking questions like “Did you coat yourself with Vaseline or lanolin for your swim across the Channel?”
She had used lanolin and told me that I could get it at a chemist’s and she explained that in England, a chemist’s was the name for a pharmacy. I often thought of Florence and how she too had trained for her swims and how she had wanted to be the best. Sometimes I imagined that I was swimming beside her, staying right with her; although she’d told me that I was much faster than she’d been, I still wanted to swim with her.
During my winter workouts, Ron Blackledge would meet me at Seal Beach, dressed in a heavy parka with a wool hat and gloves, his eyes and nose running from the cold. He would watch me from the pier and often he’d say, “I really can’t believe you’re doing this. It’s so cold. There was frost on the windshield of my car this morning.”
It wasn’t easy. Sometimes the beach sand was so cold that I felt as if I were standing in snow. Only half an hour after crawling out of a warm bed, I’d be walking into the water, each shocking cold wave hitting me higher, taking more of my body’s sleepy warmth.
For the most part, though, I really enjoyed being in the ocean before the dawn, immersed in the water and bathed in the light of sunrise. It was a great and beautiful adventure. Sure, most people in California were at home sound asleep in their beds, and that was the normal thing to do, but I knew I was doing something really special, having experiences that no one else I knew of was having.
There were days when Ron and I would set off on a long swim; he would row a dory and I would follow close behind. We started from the pier in Seal Beach, and I swam out to the end of the pier, then headed north, toward Long Beach. This first half mile was well sheltered, and in the early morning the water was as flat as black ice. As we passed the river jetty, we altered our course slightly, turning west, toward the man-made oil islands about a mile from Long Beach’s shore. The islands were named White, Grissom, and Chaffee, for the astronauts who’d been killed in a launch test preparatory to the inaugural Apollo mission.
As we passed each island, I thought of them, and the intense training and the courage it must have taken to break through the stratosphere and fly into space. Compared to theirs, my goal was very small, but they inspired me, and I thought of them before the tragedy, on other missions, blasting off the launchpad and floating in space, and I wondered if it was the same sensation as floating in the water.
Sometimes as I swam across the black water, I imagined that we were in outer space, traveling to distant planets instead of man-made oil islands. It was fun being out so far from shore, exploring places most people got to see only from boats.
Ron continued to work with me in the mornings in the ocean, and with his help, I got stronger and faster. He seemed very pleased with my progress and had only encouraging things to say. About a month before we were supposed to leave for England for the Channel attempt, Ron called me and said that he didn’t think he could go. He said that he couldn’t afford to be away from the Seal Beach team for two or three weeks. A lot of people didn’t think a fifteen-year-old girl could swim the Channel and had spoken to Ron about it. My father thought that had strongly influenced his decision. It was very tough for me because I had depended on him, and I felt let down. What I had to do was to recognize that Ron had taken me as far as he could, and I needed to continue moving forward.
“Why don’t you talk to Coach Gambril?” my mother suggested. “I bet he’ll coach you if you ask him. Your father and I have been discussing this situation, and we know that he would not be able to go to England with you, so either Dad or I will.”
This made me happy, and I recognized just how much they believed in me. That day I called Coach Gambril, who said that he would be happy to coach me, but he was concerned that he had not coached a long-distance swimmer before. I told him that was okay; I had never swum the English Channel before. Coach Gambril adapted his workouts from the pool to the ocean. He had me doing interval training and pyramids, and he incorporated stroke work into my workouts. This was an entirely new method for long-distance training.
In the mornings I worked out with Coach Gambril and his college team at California State University Long Beach, but soon we discovered that it was counterproductive for me to swim in the seventy-six-degree pool. It reduced my ability to adjust to cold water. So I started doing all my workouts in the ocean. My mother accompanied me in the morning, and in the afternoon, my father and mother alternated beach-walking days. One would walk with me along the shores of Long Beach, while the other went inside the Belmont Plaza complex to watch my brother and sisters work out. Once in a while, though, they would walk together. Having them with me was very useful. They helped me develop a pace. They walked at a constant speed along the shore, and I had to stay up with them, whether I was hitting currents or swimming into wind and waves. This was challenging, but it taught me how to feel the current and wave-pattern changes and how to adjust my technique accordingly, so that no matter what I faced, I knew what speed I needed to maintain; for the most part, I was able to do so.
There were times, though, during a winter storm, for instance, when I couldn’t maintain my speed against the currents, but I kept working at it, day by day, hoping it would be enough to get me across the Channel.
Having my parents with me also boosted my spirits. Knowing that they cared enough about me helped me to pursue this dream. I didn’t really know then that not all parents are as supportive, although I did realize that mine had made a large commitment to my dream, and it was one that we really shared. It was great at the end of an especially tough workout to hear my mother or father say, “You did a really good job.” They also gave me constructive criticism. Sometimes I was happy to receive it; other times, I didn’t want them telling me what I should be doing. For the most part, though, their suggestions helped.
As June 1972 approached, we decided my mother would accompany me to England, while my father would stay home, work, and take care of the family. At the end of June, my mom and I boarded a plane for England.
6
White Cliffs of Dover
Thoughts about the Channel were always in my conscious mind. They infiltrated my subconscious so that whether I was awake or asleep, I was constantly rehearsing the swim. Working off what Fahmy had told me, I imagined what it would be like when I pushed off the English shore, what the water would be like, the way the current would be moving, and I pictured what it would feel like landing on the French shore. I had never been to England or France, so I studied a map of England and Europe, studied the white space between England and the Continent, and pinpointed the starting place— Shakespeare Beach near Dover—and the finish, in an area called Cape Gris-Nez near Wissant, France.
Fahmy and I spoke often those two weeks before my mother and I left for England. He fed my mind with descriptions of London, of tall red-brick apartments with small garden plots filled with beautiful roses and multitudes of other flowers. He gave us instructions about catching the train at Victoria Station and what we would see along the way. And as my mother and I rode the train to Dover, his voice played in my head, as we moved through the enormous city of London, past wide expanses of greenbelts, and by tiny villages made mostly of stone, always centered around old stone churches with high pointed steeples.
We arrived in a city called Folkestone, ten miles from Dover. Fahmy had recommended staying in Folkestone because there was an outdoor saltwater swimming pool where I could train when a storm moved through England and the water in Dover Harbour was too rough for swimming. He also recommended Folkestone because every year ten to thirty Channel swimmers from all around the world arrived in Dover with the hope of making the crossing. It could be an intense scene, a place where swimmers were vying for pilots, waiting for favorable tides and weather, and competing to break the record; it could also be a place where swimmers from all over the world met, shared their dreams and hopes with new friends, and enjoyed being wi
th others who understood what it took to arrive at that place at that time. Fahmy wasn’t sure what I would face—perhaps a bit of both— and he knew that I would look at all of it as something new and exciting. But he also knew what it was like to be surrounded by this kind of intensity on a daily basis. By staying in Folkestone, I could get away from it whenever I needed a reprieve, or be in Dover when I needed company. It was only a ten-mile bus trip from Folkestone to Dover.
As soon as we checked into the Prince’s Hotel in Folkestone, my mother gave me a list of names of pilots that the Channel Swimming Association had sent us, and I chose the first one on the list. Picking up the phone, I felt my excitement and impatience growing as I put my index finger in the hole above a number and dialed, watching and listening to the sound of the disk slowly rotating back into the starting position. Finally the call went through. As I listened to the double ring, waiting for someone to pick up, I anticipated a voice on the end and rapidly rehearsed in my head what I was going to say. But there was no answer.
I selected the second name on the list and dialed the number. After only the first two rings, I heard a man’s voice say, “Hello, this is Reg Brickell.”
I had no idea that Reg Brickell was the top pilot for the English Channel. All I knew was that I had finally connected with a real live English Channel swimming pilot, and I was one step closer to realizing my dream.
“Mr. Brickell, my name is Lynne Cox. I got your number from the Channel Swimming Association. I want to swim the English Channel, and I am hoping that you will be my pilot for the swim.”
There was a pause. “Oh, you just caught me. I just got ’ome from fishing. Could you speak a bit more slowly, please? Are you from the States?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifteen.”
“Hmmm. That is quite young. Have you ever done a channel swim before?”
“Yes, I swam across the Catalina Channel last year. It’s twenty-one miles in a straight line, just like the English Channel, but because of the currents, I swam twenty-seven. It took me twelve hours and thirty-six minutes. I swam it with a group of other kids, and I think I could have swum a lot faster, but we’d agreed to finish the swim together.”
“Who is your coach?”
“Don Gambril. He’s the U.S. Olympic swimming coach. I’ve been training with him since I was twelve years old.”
“You sound quite serious. Is he with you?”
“No, he’s coaching the team for the Olympic Games. My mother came with me to help me on the swim.”
“Okay then. Do you think you and your mother could come by my home this afternoon around teatime, say, four o’clock? My home is on the Stade in Folkestone Harbour. If you have any trouble, just ask around—everyone knows me, and you won’t have any problem finding it.”
From the manager at the hotel my mother and I got detailed directions. He said Folkestone Harbour was about a twenty-minute walk. On that day, I think it took us only ten minutes. Lifting the heavy gold knocker on Reg Brickell’s red door, I knocked three times, then held my breath and waited.
Mr. Brickell opened the door; he was about five foot eight, perhaps in his late forties. He had short blond hair, bright blue eyes, and fair skin that had been weathered by sun and wind. His face lit up as he smiled. In the background a teakettle was whistling loudly. “Please ’ave a seat while I get the tea,” he said, pointing to the sitting area.
The furniture in the room was cozy, frilly, and feminine—not at all what I expected of him until he introduced his wife, who came out briefly, then retired to a back room. Mr. Brickell poured us tea and offered us shortbread biscuits from a colorful round tin.
For the next hour or so he interviewed me, making sure that I was serious, that I had trained hard, and that this was a swim I wanted to do, not something my parents were pushing me into. At first he just seemed agreeable to being my pilot; when he discovered that my average speed was two and a half miles an hour, he grew more enthusiastic. And when I explained that my goal was to break the men’s and women’s world records, he got excited about escorting me on the attempt.
I asked him if he had taken many swimmers across the Channel. Had he taken any world-record-breaking swimmers? How much did he charge? How did he select the day for the swim, and how did he inform us about it? What kind of boat did he use: a wet stack, which discharged engine fumes into the water, or a dry stack, which discharged its fumes into the air? What was the size of his boat, and how large was his crew? Did he have a small boat for backup in case anything disabled his engine? What navigational systems did he use? And when would he be available to escort me on the swim?
Brickell seemed rather surprised that I would ask him such detailed questions. Usually he was the one who conducted the interview. From my questions, however, he gathered that I was serious about the swim, and he gave me an overview of navigating through the English Channel.
He went into another room for a moment and came back with a chart. Unfurling it on the table and anchoring it with teacups, he explained the process of a swim from start to finish. The day for a swim is first selected based on the tide. Back then, English Channel swims were always done on a neap tide. Neap tides last for four to five days. They happen when the moon is half full, as well as two days before and two days after the half moon. They are the tides when there is the least movement between high and low water. Spring tides are those that occur when the moon is full. During this time there is a great deal of water movement through the Channel, meaning that the currents are much stronger.
For a very fast swimmer, these currents could be an advantage: if they are caught at just the right time, they could help push a swimmer across faster. Brickell said that because I was such a fast swimmer, he would think about having me on a spring tide, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take that risk. If our timing was off, I might wind up too far off course to complete the swim. He would consider it, but he favored the tried-and-true neaps.
Brickell used a Loran navigational system, which today has been outdated by GPS (global positioning system) systems. He used the Loran to plot latitude and longitude navigational points that would get us within a half mile of our target (today a GPS would get a swimmer within a few meters of the desired course and finishing point). Brickell also used radar, as well as a compass, and he navigated by dead reckoning and by sight. As a fisherman, as well as the son of a fisherman, Brickell knew the English Channel intimately. He’d spent more of his life on the water than he had on shore. From being out at sea every day he’d developed an ability to read the currents and tides, and could also read a forecast and predict which direction the wind would blow and how strong it would become. The ocean has a certain rhythm to it and follows certain patterns, much like a human being. He could look at a stretch of water, see a slight change in color from light to dark, and know that the wind was increasing and which direction it was moving.
Weather played as significant a role in selecting a day for a Channel crossing as the tide did. The wind must be light and variable or less for an attempt to occur. Anything above that, Brickell said, and the ocean would be covered with white horses—whitecaps. Once that happened, he explained, conditions in the Channel would deteriorate before they improved.
“Which direction would you like to swim?” he asked.
“Either from England to France, or France to England. Does it make any real difference?” I asked.
“Yes, it does make quite a bit of difference,” he said, and picked up a pen to use as a pointer. “The straight-line distance from England to France, or vice versa, is twenty-one miles. Because of the tidal changes in and out of the Channel, you will swim an inverted-S course. The tide will carry you north this way, toward the North Sea, or this way, south toward the Atlantic Ocean. It will also push you backward and forward. Sometimes you will even find yourself swimming right in place. How much you move depends on current strength and, somewhat, on wind speed. The
more current, the bigger the S, the more distance you swim.” He looked up at my mother and me to make sure we understood what he was saying.
He continued, “You can swim in either direction. There are pluses and minuses for both. If you swim from England to France, you don’t have to travel to France a day ahead of the day you may be swimming and wait it out over there if you don’t go due to poor weather. If you leave from England, you know that you are starting the swim. There is quite a disadvantage, swimming from England to France, however. See how Cape Gris-Nez projects into the Channel? It’s a peninsula, and there are very strong currents off the point. There have been many swimmers, perhaps thirty, who have gotten within a mile or even half a mile of shore but couldn’t break through the current to reach the land. Sometimes they’ve been swept up to Belgium, or south to Brittany. The land falls back if you don’t hit Cape Gris-Nez, five miles on either side. And even if you have to keep swimming, there’s no guarantee that you’ll get in. It’s quite a heartbreaker, that is.” He didn’t say anything further for a moment, but his expression conveyed that he had some disappointing memories.
He pointed at Cape Gris-Nez again. “If you swim from France to England, you can face the current when you are fresh, and you may even be able to use it to your advantage. Also, if you look at the English coast, you can see how even it is—there are no big projections like you see with the coast of France, so the currents along shore aren’t as strong, and you have a large landing area. If you miss Dover, you really have the whole British coast upon which to land.
