Swimming to Antarctica

by Lynne Cox

  The research team was doing physiological studies on body type and athletic performance, as well as acclimatization to cold. They had just completed a series of tests on Jacqueline Hansen, the women’s world-record holder in the marathon, and they wanted to run some comparison tests on me.

  Dr. Drinkwater suspected that because of my background in long-distance cold-water swimming, I might somehow respond differently to the cold than the average person. She explained that when most people enter a cold environment without adequate clothing, they eventually go into hypothermia—their internal, or “core,” temperature drops. Cold water leaches the heat from the body twenty-five to thirty times faster than cold air. People keep their bodies warm through a variety of defense mechanisms. As a first line of defense, the body narrows the blood vessels under the skin, forcing warm blood into the brain and the core of the body to protect the vital organs. Also, the skin temperature drops to reflect the surrounding environment. Second, the body attempts to generate heat by shivering. If the body temperature drops too low, the cold blood becomes acidic from lack of oxygen. This results in arrhythmia; the heart doesn’t beat effectively, and cardiac arrest can occur.

  From the onset, Dr. Drinkwater explained that by participating in these studies I could help them better understand how the human body functioned. It could help them figure out basic human responses to the cold, and maybe increase people’s survival rates. It was also basic research and what they discovered might not be directly applicable for years. Dr. Drinkwater also told me that whatever they learned, they would share with me, so that I would be able to better understand what my body was doing on my long swims. I was excited about participating, and a little scared, but I agreed to be part of the study.

  The scientists began by running a number of underwater weighing tests to determine my percentage of body fat. Healthy men have a low percentage of body fat, and that fat is usually distributed around the abdomen. This generally makes them negatively buoyant, which means they tend to sink. Most women, on the other hand, have a higher percentage of body fat that is well distributed throughout their bodies, making them positively buoyant, which means they float.

  Dr. Drinkwater told me, “You’re different. You have neutral buoyancy. That means your body density is exactly the same as seawater. Your proportion of fat to muscle is perfectly balanced so you don’t float or sink in the water; you’re at one with the water. We’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  Her Zen-like finding meant that I didn’t have to use energy to either fight against sinking or pull myself down into the water to counteract buoyancy. This enabled me to swim more efficiently, and it helped me conserve energy—energy that I could use for propelling myself forward.

  Researchers began observing my workout sessions along the Santa Barbara coast. In the early morning, just before sunrise, Dr. McCafferty, and sometimes his wife and their small dog, Sunshine, walked along the beach below the university dorms as I swam from Coal Oil Point to the pier and back. Before and after these workouts, I’d hide behind a bush and take my core temperature using a rectal thermometer, the only way to get an accurate reading after immersion in cold water. I always made a point of telling Dr. McCafferty my temperature just as joggers were passing; they’d give him quizzical looks, since it appeared to them that he was talking to the bushes.

  Through the course of these observations, as well as countless others, Dr. McCafferty discovered that my body temperature before a workout was usually a degree below what was considered normal. By the end of a two-hour workout, after swimming in water between fifty and sixty-five degrees, my temperature had risen to a degree or two above normal. Dr. McCafferty explained that the human body has a natural thermostat that strives to keep its temperature at a set point. What my body did was to lower that set point so it didn’t have to work as hard to stay warm. This was all new and exciting information for the scientists and for me.

  Dr. Drinkwater and Anne Loucks also made some interesting findings. They were thrilled when they discovered that I reacted completely differently than the average person when I swam in cold water. Most people who swim in fifty-degree water lose body heat more rapidly than they can create it, and so they go into hypothermia in a relatively short amount of time, depending on their conditioning, body fat, and many other factors. But the scientists discovered that I was different. After I’d been swimming for four hours in fifty-degree water, working out at a fast pace, Dr. Drinkwater and Anne Loucks measured my core temperature and found that it was up to 101 degrees. They hypothesized that I was working at such a high rate I was creating more heat than I was losing, I was able to reduce blood flow to my extremities efficiently, and my well-distributed body fat acted like an internal wet suit that kept me warm.

  What I decided I needed to do was to swim in water temperatures that would simulate those in the Bering Strait or the Strait of Magellan. It was apparent that obtaining permission for the Bering Strait was not going to happen quickly, so I’d decided to shift my goals and set my sights on the Strait of Magellan. No one had ever attempted this swim. I thought it would be exciting and romantic to attempt a swim across a waterway where ships had difficulty navigating. It seemed like a big challenge, but I also thought that I could collect research information, core-temperature measurements and the like, that might be useful to the doctors.

  I asked Dr. Drinkwater and Dr. McCafferty if it might be possible for me to swim in the cold-water research tank at the institute while they gradually lowered the water temperature over a two-to three-week period. Both Dr. Drinkwater and Dr. McCafferty were excited about the proposal, but when they approached the director of the institute, Dr. Steven Horvath, he said he would not permit it. Dr. Horvath was afraid that I would endanger myself if I attempted swimming the Strait of Magellan, but Dr. Drinkwater and Dr. McCafferty helped me convince him that this was my next goal whether or not I had his support. It would be better, the doctors argued on my behalf, if we got a chance to see what the effects of forty-two-degree water would be like in the lab, in a controlled environment, rather than out in the wilds of the Strait of Magellan. And, the doctors added, they would obtain valuable research data otherwise unattainable.

  Dr. Horvath begrudgingly relented, although he didn’t go along with the idea of gradually lowering the water temperature and doing daily studies. He told us he would give me a onetime deal only: the water temperature in the cold tank would be dropped to forty-two degrees, and he would let me swim while being supervised by his research team. A cardiologist and an internist would also be present in case we ran into any problems.

  Brigette, the nurse at the Institute of Environmental Stress, led me to a tiny white cubicle and had me take off my sweatsuit jacket. Sitting down facing me, she picked up a piece of fine-grit sandpaper, leaned over, and began sanding my chest as if it were a coarse two-by-four. After rubbing two quarter-sized bright pink spots on my upper chest, she had me take off my swimsuit top so she could sand three more spots around my left breast. The skin there was very tender, and she quickly reached the nerves. I held tightly to the chair arm.

  Brigette explained that she needed to sand the skin away to ensure good contact with the EKG leads. An accurate reading was critical. Based on normal responses of human beings, the experiment could put an enormous stress on my heart. No one was sure how I would respond, so the cardiologist present in the lab would be watching the EKG monitor throughout the test.

  To prevent water from getting into the EKG circuitry and shorting out the system while I was in the water, Brigette attached twelve long wire leads to the electrodes and then covered the electrodes with airplane glue and a thin layer of plastic. Then she broke out a fresh piece of sandpaper and lightly sanded my big toes, fingertips, and a couple of spots on my forehead. To these areas she attached thermocouples that held the electrodes on my skin; the electrodes would measure my skin temperature during the experiment. Using waterproof tape, she taped more leads to my big toes, fingers, and
forehead. By the time she finished I looked like Medusa.

  She collected the leads, held them while I pulled up my suit, and then draped them over my right shoulder. She gathered the thermocouple wires and let them rest in a pile on the floor. Just before we left the cubicle she handed me a tube of K-Y Jelly and a lead that was at least twenty feet long. She explained that the lead was called a rectal probe; it was a thermometer that would measure my core temperature during the experiment. I needed to insert it so they could get the necessary readings. She left me standing there with the jelly in one hand and the twenty-foot-long probe in the other. I was completely baffled. The whole thing? I wondered. Too embarrassed to ask, I stood there wondering what I should do. Thankfully, Anne Loucks came by to check on me and explained that all I needed to insert was four inches; then the lead would be taped to my upper thigh so it wouldn’t slide out during the test.

  Once we secured the probe, Anne untangled the leads and held on to the cluster of EKG leads with one hand and the thermocouples with the other. Following her into the lab, filing past the researchers and lab assistants, I felt very self-conscious, especially with a twenty-foot-long tail wagging behind me.

  When we entered the cold-tank area, it looked like NASA’s mission control. Dr. Drinkwater, Dr. McCafferty, Dr. Horvath, and two other physiologists, as well as Dr. Reyburn, an internist, and Dr. Borjia, a cardiologist, were standing around the tank, all wearing white lab coats, checking their equipment, and calibrating it to ensure that the measurements would be accurate. Some were making notes on their clipboards, others rehearsing the test.

  Lab assistants, computer experts, and the man in charge of the lab’s technical equipment were wheeling equipment in on dollies. Printers were buzzing, the tank was gurgling, and Dr. Reyburn and Dr. Borjia were on the phone with their colleagues at Cottage Hospital, alerting them to the experiment and asking them to be prepared if there was an emergency. This, they assured me, was just to make sure that nothing got out of hand.

  A lab assistant wheeled a dolly to the doorway and left it outside the room.

  “Anne, are those defibrillating paddles?” I asked.

  She nodded. “We’re placing them within reach of the tank in case your heart stops during the experiment. We won’t need them unless something really goes wrong,” she reassured me.

  “Why aren’t they placed closer to the tank?” I asked, feeling a little apprehensive.

  “We don’t want them too close to the tank. The defibrillator could accidentally discharge while you’re in the water and electrocute you. If we need to use them, we have to make sure you’re clear of the tank.”

  “If that happens, I’m going to be deadweight,” I said, starting to worry.

  Dr. McCafferty, who overheard our conversation, ripped his lab coat open like Superman and said, “That’s why I’m wearing a wet suit, so I can jump into the water and pull you out if I need to.” Dr. McCafferty was a tall, strawberry-blond, blue-eyed, fit surfer boy and a vegetarian. In a short time, he had become one of my best friends and supporters. He had also become a mentor to me, teaching me about human physiology, as well as life philosophy. He looked at what we were doing as a great adventure, an exploration into the limits of human endurance, and he was just really a great guy.

  Dr. McCafferty explained that he would be getting into the tank with me. He would tie a rope around my waist like a surfboard leash in case they needed to drag me out of the water. They would also have me wear an army belt that would have a long piece of surgical cord attached to the belt and to the tank wall, so that I could swim tethered.

  The water in the tank was radiating so much cold that some of the technicians had to leave to get coats and sweaters. Dr. Drinkwater handed me a nose plug and asked me to put it on so that I could get used to breathing through my mouth. As I started climbing down a ladder into the tank, Dr. McCafferty handed me a mouthpiece that resembled a diver’s regulator. He instructed me to clamp down on the mouthpiece with my teeth. The mouthpiece was connected to two long plastic tubes, devices that would allow them to capture gases during the experiment to measure my oxygen intake, which would enable them to see how hard my body was working.

  Dr. McCafferty gathered some of the leads while Anne took the remaining ones, and they plugged them into their respective monitoring devices.

  Dr. McCafferty asked me how long I intended to swim. I told him an hour, and he raised an eyebrow. He said that since this was the first time anyone he knew of would be swimming in forty-two-degree water, perhaps it would be wise to reconsider. He said that in a wet suit, before the experiment, when he was setting up the devices in the tank, he had only been able to stay in the water for five minutes. I told him I understood, but I really wanted to see how far I could go in the controlled setting.

  Dr. Drinkwater completely understood, although she cautioned me. She said if I started feeling very cold in the water, I should get out. I promised her that I would.

  The noise in the room had dulled to a low-pitched buzz. The doctors and lab techs went to their stations. My heart began beating faster.

  The tank was about half the size of a backyard swimming pool and that, coupled with the surgical-tubing leash, wouldn’t allow for much movement. I looked around the room. Dr. Horvath was just entering the lab; he asked some questions, checked the equipment, and made sure I was okay. He was about to turn and leave but I stopped him. I was afraid that at the end of the experiment I would be so cold that I wouldn’t be able to talk, so I said, “Dr. Horvath, I just want to thank you for letting me do this, and I want everyone here to know how much I appreciate their help.”

  It took him by surprise, but he smiled, and so did the entire research team.

  “We’re ready when you are,” Dr. Drinkwater said, smiling confidently at me.

  Nodding and focusing inward, I climbed down the steps into the tank. In seconds my feet went numb, then my calves, and my entire body tightened. It was so cold it hurt. Pushing myself, I took another step down. Now I was immersed to my waist, and my breathing was rapid, my eyes wide open. Remembering to pull my goggles down over my eyes, I stopped and looked at the water. Forty-two degrees was a lot colder than anything I’d ever swum in before; it took my breath away. My legs were aching. Stepping down onto the next rung, I was immersed to my shoulders and focusing hard to bring my breathing back to normal. “Lynne, you doing okay?” Dr. McCafferty asked.

  I knew that once I put my face in the water, my heart would slow down and in a minute or two I would gain control over my breathing and get back into a natural rhythm.

  Dr. McCafferty followed me down the stairs to make sure all the lines remained untangled. He winced when the water reached his waist, and I wanted to laugh. He smiled at me and reminded me, “Take your time. Remember that you’re accustomed to walking into the water slowly. Let your body gradually adjust to the temperature change.”

  Dipping my chin in the water, I let it go numb, then immersed my lips. I told myself to put my nose in very slowly. There is a nerve in the nose called the vagus nerve. It’s what triggers a response called the diver’s reflex. When someone falls suddenly into extremely cold water, this nerve is stimulated and can cause the heart to suddenly stop beating. So I dipped in the tip of my nose, then ever so slowly placed my face in the water. It was like pressing my face against a block of ice.

  My goggles were fogging up. Dr. McCafferty took them off and licked them for me—the protein in saliva inhibits fogging—and then put them back over my eyes. “You okay?” he asked again.

  I nodded and he climbed out of the tank; then I started swimming. Tethered on every side by leads, probes, a mouthpiece, and the army belt, I felt as if I were trapped inside a spider’s web. Batting the leads away with my hands, I tried to make room for my arms to move, but I couldn’t turn them over as quickly as normal.

  “Five minutes,” Dr. McCafferty shouted, looking at his stopwatch.

  It had seemed like fifteen; it had seemed like forever. An
d I was feeling a little claustrophobic.

  The water was so cold that my arms were completely numb. When I pulled, I couldn’t feel anything. I was so frustrated. I knew then that there was no way I could swim for an hour. But I told myself to break it down into smaller pieces, to think not in terms of an hour, but of five-minute blocks. In theory, that should have worked, but I didn’t know if I could last for even another five minutes. I was discouraged. How could I even consider swimming the Strait of Magellan if I couldn’t last more than five minutes in forty-two-degree water? Focus. Keep going. Count your strokes to one thousand. Okay, again.

  Lifting my head, I heard Dr. McCafferty say, “You’ve been in for twenty minutes.”

  That was all I could stand. Putting my hand up, I knew I couldn’t go any further. I was just too cold. Dr. McCafferty and Dr. Drinkwater grabbed me under the arms when I reached the top of the stairs; Anne held on to all the leads. Someone threw a towel over my shoulders, and Dr. Drinkwater asked me if I could stay in the room for a bit while they finished gathering all the gases and data. Unable to talk with the mouthpiece still in, I nodded. I was so disappointed. My time in the water had been brief.

  Dr. McCafferty was right beside me. “You did a great job. Really amazing,” he said.

  I was shaking very hard as Anne walked with me to the shower. She turned on only the cold water first because it felt warm to me, and because there was no feeling in my hands. Gradually, as I warmed up, she added more warm water. Maybe twenty minutes later, she helped me take off all the gear.

  Later that day, Dr. McCafferty met me outside the lab, at an overlook above Goleta Bay near Santa Cruz Dorm. He was tremendously excited about the preliminary data the research team had gathered. From it, he saw that my body performed differently than those of all the other research subjects he had worked with in the past. My core temperature had increased by a degree at first; ten minutes or so into the experiment, it had dropped only a couple degrees, then stabilized. All the other subjects he had worked with were in water temperatures in the sixties, but they had continuously lost body heat. Dr. McCafferty was fascinated that, in forty-two-degree water without any training, I had been able to stabilize my core temperature.