by Lynne Cox
The sea in the Strait of Magellan could become ferocious within twenty minutes. Storm fronts originating in Antarctica sweep northward across the Drake Passage, and without any real landmass to buffer them, they hit the Strait of Magellan suddenly and at full force. Fortunately, the Chilean navy had outposts and weather stations at Cape Horn, at the southernmost tip of Tierra del Fuego, and along the Antarctic Peninsula where men and equipment gathered meteorological information and transmitted it to the ship; they had alerted Captain Furniss. Without a doubt, it was an impossible day for a swim. Still, it was disappointing; we all had great expectations and underlying tensions, and we wanted to get the swim off as soon as possible. I think Captain Furniss understood this better than anyone. Perhaps it was to boost our confidence, to give us a chance to get to know Dr. Fernandez and the commander, or just to give them a break that Captain Furniss asked Dr. Fernandez and the commander to join us onshore for dinner while he stayed with the ship.
We hadn’t planned to spend the night at the First Narrows, but there was a small hotel very close by, and Captain Furniss had arranged for rooms for John and me. Over dinner, while John and the commander were engaged in conversation, Dr. Fernandez and I talked about everything from Patagonia to hypothermia. He discussed his concerns about the cold exposure; he told me to take core temperatures before and after the swim, and that he wanted me to rewarm as quickly as possible afterward. I had a wonderful time talking with him and found myself wishing the night wouldn’t end, but it was nearly eleven and both men had to return to the ship. All night long the wind blew so strongly that it tore shingles off the hotel roof. Somehow I managed to block the noise and wind vibrations and fall into restless sleep.
On December 28, 1976, as I took off my sweatsuit and waited for everyone to move into position, a light wet snow began falling. John was in a skiff twenty yards off my left side, seated near the crewman who would be operating the skiff. Off to my right side, in the rubber inflatable, were the three elite frogmen wearing dry suits and an official who would time the swim. If I showed any sign of distress, they had been ordered to pull me out of the water. The Elicura was waiting offshore; it would stay there until we passed and then follow from behind. Captain Furniss was communicating with the two small boats via walkie-talkies.
The delicate snowflakes melted on my shoulders, which were turning bright red. I was starting to get cold. This was not good; it increased my chances of going into hypothermia. There were a few strands of bull kelp offshore that were pointing west but just beginning to relax. This was exactly what we wanted. I knew we had to start now. Impatiently I waited for something; I had no idea what. There must have been delay on the ship.
I stood on the beach, hopping on one foot and then the other, trying to generate heat to stay warm. “What’s the problem, John?” I yelled through cupped hands. He was just as ready to go as I was. He borrowed the walkie-talkie from the skiff captain. The reporters were trying to convince Captain Furniss to come ashore for the start of the swim. We had already decided this was not a good idea; there just wasn’t time or enough boats to jockey them in to shore and out again. We couldn’t delay. The tide wasn’t going to wait for us, so I decided that if I began moving into the water, everyone would follow. Shouting to John, I asked him to have the crew synchronize their watches with the official starter. Then I asked him to give me the go signal.
Quickly I slipped into the water. It was funny—after standing in the snow flurry with tiny snowflakes melting on my cheeks, the forty-two-degree water didn’t feel as cold as it had during my training sessions. Taking a breath and dipping down quickly into the sea, I began sprinting. I knew that I was going to have to race the entire three-mile distance if I was going to make it in to shore before the tide pushed us too far one way or the other. I would have to swim faster than I ever had before.
Racing across the sea with the frogmen on my right side and John and the skiff captain on the left, I felt happy that they were there with me. Taking a long breath, I turned and smiled and looked into their eyes. Startled, they looked back into mine and smiled. Everything had been so serious, but now they knew that this was about enjoying the experience and sharing it. Everything was working just as we had planned. It almost seemed too easy. The current continued carrying us to the west; and then the waves started. Three-foot waves were breaking in the direction of the current. They pushed us farther west, more rapidly than we had anticipated. Looking up, I could see that we were moving out of the First Narrows. The shoreline in front of us was dropping back, perhaps five miles away now. In waters this cold, there was no way I could stay immersed for more than two hours; it was just too dangerous. The seas continued to grow, up to four feet, and then, thankfully, the tide went slack.
From the skiff, John yelled at me to sprint, to make as much forward distance as possible before the tide changed and carried us to the east. We were racing the tide, flying over the sea surface, airborne, caught in a shower of spray, then rolling, being lifted, and spun and driven deep under the waves, popping up, surfacing, seeing the frogmen with looks of concern on their faces, laughing at them, them waving, cheering, and laughing back. Moving fast, hearing John’s directions, staying near him, too. Watching him taking his gloves off, trying to wind his camera to take a picture. His hands were too cold and stiff; blowing on them, trying to warm them, he hunched over to shield the camera from the spray. Inside I laughed a little: I can do this; I really can do this, without a wet suit or anything to warm me. It is amazing how incredible the human body is that it can do so much. That it can go beyond the everydayness of life; that it can be extraordinary and powerful, and harbor a spirit of hope and pure will. I was so excited being out there, feeling the tide suddenly going slack. There was no more drift to the west except for the push of the waves. We were more than halfway across.
John pointed at shore and told me to aim for the beach in the distance. Lifting my head above the waves, I could see the gray-green brush and grasses. It was perhaps a mile away. Pulling harder, faster, I knew this was where I had to gain distance, where I had to get across as fast as I could before the tide changed. Catching, pulling, pushing the water, faster and faster, arm over arm, I sprinted. My lungs were burning, my arms on fire, my legs completely numb, my fingers dead. Turning, I took in a large breath of air and saw the intense blue sky, and pure white clouds rushing in. In a few more breaths, looking back, I saw big gray ones chasing them. Another storm was rapidly approaching.
I looked back again. There were bigger gray clouds, and Tierra del Fuego was sliding by to my right. The tide had changed; it was flowing from the west, toward the Atlantic, and it was building quickly, like a hose bent and suddenly released. The force was incredible—we were flying sideways to the west at three, maybe four knots. Now the waves and tidal current were in complete opposition, slamming into each other and rising up like small tsunamis. Swimming was very difficult. There was no rhythm to the sea. Turning to breathe, I drew in water; it flew up my nose and down my throat. Choking, lifting my head to get air, I looked across the sea, and it was chaos: green whitecaps darkening to a threatening gray. And the wind, sweeping across the water in forty-knot gusts, showered us with frothy spray.
John was hunched over in the bow of the skiff, using one arm to shield himself from the spray. The skiff captain was getting drenched. Both men looked miserable, and John’s face registered concern. He told me that we were too far west. He was trying to get the skiff captain to make a course correction, but Captain Furniss had given him an order to hold a specific heading, and he would not disobey that order. John continued trying to convince the skiff captain to change course. He wouldn’t listen.
The current was racing now, moving at up to nine knots, at full bore, like a raging river. I had never experienced swimming in anything like this. There was so much power and energy in the water surrounding me. It felt wild, wonderful, frightening, and fun. At that moment, I didn’t realize we were in real danger. Sonnichsen did,
though. He shouted at me, waving frantically. He told me to move close to his skiff. We were heading right for a whirlpool. It spanned fifty feet and it was spinning with dizzying speed, boiling, frothing, churning white water. I felt the whirlpool dragging us toward its center and knew that it would take us down.
John was trying to take the walkie-talkie from the skiff captain so he could talk directly to Captain Furniss. He shouted at me, but I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the water and wind. He cupped his hands around his mouth and told me to sprint with everything I had for the headland at the far right. The frogmen had been ordered to stay beside me no matter what, and he thought he could reach Captain Furniss in time to catch up to us. He told me to go. The tide was racing at maybe ten knots by now, and the strength of the whirlpool was growing. Immediately, I cut to the right and swam with all my strength. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw John and the skiff captain caught on the outer edge of the whirlpool.
The storm was strengthening, and the tide was surging, dragging me toward the Atlantic Ocean. The frogmen in the Zodiac were cheering and clapping. We were a quarter mile from shore. When I saw one of the frogmen point toward the headland, I summoned all the power I had. A second whirlpool was forming where we intended to finish. This one was one hundred yards across, and we were headed right for it. I glanced to my left and saw John and the skiff captain motoring toward us at full speed. They were okay. But everything was happening as if on fast forward. The frogmen were shouting at me at the top of their lungs to make a sharp right and sprint for shore. We were within fifty yards of the whirlpool off the headlands. And another one was taking shape, just below it.
We turned more sharply right. Now we were less than two hundred yards from shore. But the force of a whirlpool increases in shallow waters. For the moment, I was in ten feet of water. I saw the sandy bottom rushing to my left, felt the water coiling around me, felt my breath tightening, and saw the water grow murky. The whirlpool churned up sand, filled my swimsuit with it, and chafed my skin. I slid sideways toward the whirlpool’s center. The frogmen pulled within inches of my right side to protect me. One man leaned against a pontoon, steadying himself, about to grab me and pull me from the water. They were shouting, but their voices sounded distant behind the veil of wind and waves. With everything I had left, I sprinted.
When I tried to stand, the current ripped my feet out from under me. I tried again and tumbled. I was only five yards from shore and I couldn’t get in.
Sonnichsen and the skiff captain pulled ahead and landed. Two frogmen jumped into the water to help me in to shore. One attempted to grab hold of me, but I veered away. If he touched me, I would be disqualified, under channel swimming rules. I put my head down and sprinted until my stomach scraped the sand; then I crawled out on all fours. It wasn’t very graceful, but it didn’t matter. In one hour and three minutes we had made it across the Strait of Magellan. I was the first person in the world to make the swim.
The storm was hitting the strait hard now. This time, Captain Furniss didn’t even attempt to land the Elicura.
The frogmen quickly helped me into their boat, and we motored out to the ship. All of us were elated, but we couldn’t let our guard down yet; waves were washing into the inflatable and the skiff.
Climbing up the ship’s ladder was even hairier than the first time, but I was glad I’d done it before, because this time my hands were numb and I couldn’t tell if I had a good hold on the rungs. The boat was swaying more than before, and I was really scared, but kept moving up the ladder. When I reached the top Captain Furniss wrapped a towel around my shoulders, hugged me, and said congratulations. He said he was sorry, but it was too dangerous to land the ship, so we would have to ride back to Punta Arenas through the gale. Excited, I told him I thought that was great; I’d never been on a ship during a gale. Captain Furniss grinned; he was happy too—we had accomplished a lot. But he had to make sure that Sonnichsen and his men and their boat got safely on board, so he handed me over to Dr. Fernandez, who gave me a huge, warm hug.
13
Around the Cape of Good Hope
John Sonnichsen and I were driving south along the South African peninsula, toward the Cape of Good Hope, with Alex, Mario, and Doug—members of the Cape Town Police Department’s elite diving team who had volunteered to help me on my attempt to become the first person to swim around the Cape.
My previous swim, across the Strait of Magellan in forty-two-degree water, had made the Bering Strait seem physically possible. I had received information from the Alaska Department of Fish and Game that water temperatures in the Bering Strait ranged from thirty-eight to forty-four degrees in July and August. The question was, How much difference would three or four degrees make? Could I endure water temperatures below forty degrees? I wasn’t sure. So methodically, over the years, I had been making swims that I had hoped would be progressively colder and farther, swims between the Aleutian Islands off Alaska in the summer of 1976, between Norway and Sweden, and between Denmark and Sweden, all in pursuit of the Bering Strait goal. From one perspective or another, they were all challenging. In the case of the Aleutian Islands my swims were all firsts, and in the case of the Scandinavian swims, I set new records. Unfortunately, the water temperatures were always warmer than expected, with the exception of a swim in 1977 from Unalaska Island to Unalga Island in the Aleutian chain. There the water temperature was comparable to that in the Strait of Magellan, between forty-three and forty-four degrees. But the time it took me to complete it was long, an hour and a half. This gave me confidence that I could push further into the cold.
From a political standpoint, though, I was having great difficulty getting Soviet support. From my dorm room in 1976 I had begun a letter-writing campaign, contacting officials throughout the United States and the Soviet Union trying to obtain their support and get a visa to make the Bering Strait swim. It took months to hear back from American officials, because I actually think they didn’t believe the swim was possible. Worse, I’d gotten no response at all from the Soviets. So I decided to look at another goal, one that would be exciting, challenging, and something that had never been done before. Just as significantly, I wanted to explore the world, and understand it a little better.
My folks had been supportive of my swims, putting money into my swimming ventures and the goals of my siblings, rather than into material things for themselves. But these swims were getting expensive, so I began hunting for corporate sponsorship.
From the start, I was very fortunate; a friend put me in touch with a woman named Nancy Glascock. Her family had made money in the airplane business, manufacturing airplane blowers, those little devices on the ceiling that enable passengers to increase airflow on their faces.
Glascock said she admired my ability and wanted to support a woman who had adventurous goals. She said that women just didn’t get enough support as pioneers. Maybe she had discovered this for herself in business, being a company president. In any event, she agreed to underwrite the cost of the Cape of Good Hope swim.
Sonnichsen, the three policemen, and I were passing through Cape Peninsula National Park, heading toward Cape Point, at the tip of Africa. We turned a wide corner and encountered a herd of golden springbok leaping as if they had springs for legs, through dry grasses, across the beige plateau, beneath a brilliant rainbow that spanned the sky. Alex, the captain of the diving team, stomped on the brakes and told us to roll up our windows and lock our doors.
A troop of seven baboons broke from the bush, darted across the dirt road, and clambered onto the Range Rover’s roof. They tried to yank the doors open. Alex told us that baboon breakins were quite common along the Cape Peninsula. The adult males were tremendously strong and would rip door handles off vehicles or smash windows to get to whatever they wanted. They were notorious for stealing beach towels and sandals and helping themselves to your barbecue. When Alex said they once stole Mario’s swim fins, the three men broke into laughter.
It was
obvious that these three men were a close team. The elite diving team had been established to search for and recover human bodies and evidence. These bodies were victims who had drowned in the sea, lakes, and rivers around Cape Town, by accident or by foul play. The most difficult places to find people were in the black pools that dotted the rolling veldt. It could be dangerous and frightening work. There was no visibility in the black ponds, so after two members of the team roped themselves together, a third member would stand onshore and slowly lower them into the blackness. Sometimes the divers got tangled or pinned under tree stumps, or were sucked into thick muck, or lost their sense of direction, and were unable to figure out which way was up. Panic was not an option. If a diver moved the wrong way, he could inadvertently cut his own oxygen line. Despite the danger, he’d have to maintain his presence of mind and calmly wait for his team members to free him. This calmness under pressure was exactly what I needed for my attempted swim around the Cape of Good Hope. But they also had additional qualifications.
For fun, Alex, Doug, and Mario went spearfishing around Cape Point. The fish populations in that area were very high, due to an incredible amount of upwelling, which created an abundance of plankton, which the fish fed on. With many fish came seal herds, as well as large predatory sharks, including great whites. The great whites were eighteen to twenty-five feet long, and they could swallow a seal whole.
The white fishermen at Haut Bay, a suburb of Cape Town, told Sonnichsen and me that these great whites were common around the Cape. The fishermen even had names for them; one they called Big Ben, another the Torpedo. At first I thought they were telling us fish stories, but at Kalk Bay, another harbor near Cape Town, we found three black fishermen off-loading their morning’s catch. The oldest man in the group asked if he could help us. We were out of place, but neither Sonnichsen nor I knew that in South Africa at that time there were separate harbors, ones for blacks and ones for whites.
