Swimming to Antarctica

by Lynne Cox

  He had thought I would return when my time was broken, to try to recapture the record. But I told him that I had helped coach the woman who had beaten my time, and that swimming the English Channel no longer had a great appeal for me; I had other things I wanted to do, things that had never been done before. But I was really sorry that he had not broken my record. It was very difficult to have that goal and not fulfill it. In the summer of 1975, Dave had attempted the English Channel. He was successful on the swim, but he didn’t break the record and he was very disappointed. I thought that was sad; it seemed so much out of perspective to train so hard, to have such a high goal, and then to discount it all because you didn’t break the record. There was still a great challenge in just completing the swim. Channel swimming was so different from pool swimming. So much could change in the space of eight hours. Monir laughed hard at that; he remembered that this was what I’d said to him just before we’d swum in the Nile race.

  So much had happened in our lives, but it was simply wonderful to be there with him. Time had changed things, and he had changed too; but the core of him was the same, and I knew I was attracted to him more than ever before. I don’t know what signaled it, but he suddenly reached out to hug me, and we kissed. From the look on his face, he felt the same way I did. I’d never experienced anything like this before. We held hands and talked about what we had been doing, and then we had to leave to take care of our swimmers.

  When I saw Monir the next morning, my feelings for him were so strong that I decided I had to avoid him or see him only when someone else was around. My responsibility, I told myself, was to be there for Sandy; she was my priority. After we finished coaching I met him again on the beach. I had never been drawn to someone that strongly. It surprised me. We kissed again, almost as if to confirm our feelings, and it happened again, that electrical charge.

  A few days later Sandy started her swim from England to France. The weather was good, and she was well prepared. But seven miles from the French coast she became disoriented; shivering, she disqualified herself by touching the boat. That evening, we discussed what had happened and we decided that she had simply psyched herself out. She had stopped in the exact same place the year before, just within sight of the French coast. I suggested that she take some time to collect her thoughts, rest up, wait until the following year, and then make another attempt. I promised I would be back to help her.

  For the next couple of weeks I explored France and Switzerland. After I swam across Lake Geneva, I called Sandy to find out how she was doing.

  She didn’t sound very good. Less than a week after her attempt she had tried again. She had gotten within seven miles of the French shore and had passed out. Having been through a similar situation before in the Nile River, I tried to help her evaluate her swim. She decided to stay in England and train and attempt the Channel again the following year.

  Then I called home to check on David Yudovin, who had attempted to swim from Anacapa Island to the mainland. He had gotten within four hundred yards from shore and then gone into complete cardiac arrest. Fortunately, the coast guard had been nearby, and an emergency crew had raced him to an ambulance and then to the hospital. It had taken doctors more than an hour to get his heart beating again. He had pneumonia, cracked ribs, and was in the hospital in Ventura. I had to get home.

  I stopped off in Dover on the way back from Europe and said goodbye to Monir. I had hoped to see him for a few days before I left England, but it was probably a good thing that I didn’t get romantically involved. With Yudovin in the hospital, I knew I had to get home and see him. When I reached London, Dr. William Keatinge met me and had me stay at his and his wife’s home. A physician and a physiologist at the University of London, Dr. Keatinge was also a friend of Dr. McCafferty’s at UCSB. He and I had met at UCSB, and I had started corresponding with him to find out more about the human body’s responses to cold.

  Most of the evening we talked about his research, my swims, and Yudovin’s condition. In the morning, Dr. Keatinge took me to Heathrow Airport. Unfortunately, the airline I was taking home was overbooked by hundreds of people, so for four days I had to sleep in an alley with two hundred other people outside the Pan Am terminal. All in all, it was a good experience. It gave me a small sense of what it would be like to have to live on the streets, and it also showed me how situations like that can bring out the best in people. Everyone shared what they had, and told stories about their families and their homeland.

  By the time I arrived in California, Yudovin was out of the hospital and was home recovering. It would take him six months to be healthy enough to get back in the water again. Years later he would make that swim from Anacapa Island, a double triumph this time.

  14

  Around the World in Eighty Days

  By 1985 I had been working on the Bering Strait project for nine years. Every day I wrote at least one letter to someone in either the United States or the Soviet Union, seeking permission to make the swim. To pay the bills, I worked as a reference librarian, wrote magazine articles, taught swimming lessons, and worked with a group of physical therapists. The librarian job was so helpful; during breaks each day I could look up information on the Soviet Union, or talk with the other librarians to find out if they had any new suggestions for establishing contact with the Soviets.

  For years, I didn’t get any answer from them, so I tried to make contact through congressional and Senate offices. I didn’t make much headway there either. And I still had the challenge of paying for all of it. My folks helped by letting me live at home so I could save money; at the same time, I was writing letters to Fortune 500 companies, seeking sponsorship. The problem was that no one believed the Soviets would allow the swim to occur. My family and friends questioned my tenacity. They could not understand why the Bering Strait project had taken on such importance for me. Part of my conviction came from the realization that if I gave up, I would wonder all my life if I might have been able to make a positive difference in the world. If I gave up, I would throw away all that I had done to reach that point. In many ways, the effort to obtain permission and support for this swim reflected life and the essence of long-distance swimming: as long as you hang in there and keep going, you have a chance at succeeding. Once you give up, you’re done.

  To generate interest and push my physical limits, I decided to attempt a series of swims that would take me around the world in eighty days. The idea was to swim across ten of the coldest and most difficult waterways in the world. With the amount of press I had had through the years, I hoped to secure corporate sponsorship for the around-the-world journey, but I got only limited support. It was partly because I didn’t allow enough time and partly, my father said, because I was a woman. Whatever the reason, I didn’t get enough support for the swim around the world. So I finally asked myself, How can anyone believe in me unless I believe in myself? I cleared out my bank account and paid the expenses for Jeffrey Cardenas, a photographer from the Miami Herald, to accompany me and document the journey. From the onset of the trip we knew it was going to be a challenge. My funds were very limited, so I would have to find corporate sponsorship en route. That would be challenging; in addition, I would have to find boat support, coordinate each of the ten swims, inform the local press so they could document the swim, and do a major swim every four to eight days depending on our travel schedule, the time it took to coordinate a swim and find sponsorship.

  We began the journey. In Washington, D.C., I swam ten miles, up the Potomac River to the Jefferson Memorial. From there, Jeffrey and I traveled to Iceland, where I planned to swim across Lake Myvatn, the third-largest lake in Iceland and one of the coldest in the country.

  By the time we reached Iceland, I knew I was going to have to get corporate sponsorship. At a hotel in Reykjavík I met an American man who said there were five large corporations in Iceland, one of them being Coca-Cola. It was a consumer-based corporation with American ties, so I pulled out the phone book, found the nu
mber, took a deep breath, and asked to speak to the president of the company, a man named Petur Bjornsson. He wasn’t in, but his vice president of sales was. Would I be willing to speak to him?

  At the end of our conversation, the vice president said he would talk to Mr. Bjornsson and get back to me. That afternoon he called back and asked if I would meet with Mr. Bjornsson at ten o’clock in the morning, at his office.

  The next morning I put on my red sweatsuit with the white stripes up the sleeve and down the leg and looked in the mirror. I looked just like a Coke can, which was what I wanted.

  Mr. Bjornsson met me in the lobby; he was a very tall gentleman wearing a sport jacket and a great smile. He shook my hand enthusiastically and led me down a corridor, past pictures of him along with Jack Nicklaus on a golf course, and then he directed me to a large leather chair in his office. There were paintings on the walls and bronze sculptures on the end tables. One painting was of a white dove flapping her wings, trying to fly out of a human rib cage.

  Mr. Bjornsson saw me staring at it and said that he liked to support local artists, and all the work in the room had been done by Icelandic artists. The one of the dove, the artist had said, was a symbol of herself—of her inner emotions and passions and her trying to break out of life’s cage to soar. It was an amazing piece, and I thought, If he understands this, then he will understand what I’m trying to do.

  Quickly I gave him an overview of my background and told him that I wanted to swim across Lake Myvatn because I understood that the lake had never been swum, but also because the lake was very cold and it might help me on my quest for the Bering Strait. I had also promised to supply the physiologists at UCSB and Dr. Keatinge at the University of London with data from the cold swims. And I told him that I would be willing to stencil a Coca-Cola logo on my swim cap, and tell the local media about his support.

  As I related all of this to Mr. Bjornsson, I was both very excited and nervous. It had been so difficult to get corporate sponsorship, because at the time few people understood what I was trying to do. But Mr. Bjornsson completely got it. He leaned forward in his chair and said, “You know, people contact me from all over the world all the time for sponsorship. They write to me about a hot-air balloon expedition or something. But they are just talking about going out there and doing it. You are actually doing it. I greatly admire that. Yes, of course, I’d love to sponsor you. How much support do you need?”

  We needed to cover the air transportation to Lake Myvatn, escort boats, accommodations, food, and communications for five days. He was very agreeable, explaining that swimming was the national sport in Iceland and would instantly gain media attention and help market his products. But more than that, he said, the people who live in the area near Lake Myvatn are like Texans; they think their region is the biggest and the best part of Iceland. He knew the local people would support the swim, open their homes, and share some of their traditions with us. He asked if I would mind meeting with the press that day and also meeting with some local young swimmers to inspire them. I was happy to do both.

  The next morning Mr. Bjornsson and I met on the shores of the North Atlantic. He had come to walk with me and watch me train. He had no idea how wonderful it was to have him there; it made me feel very much at home again, having an adult walking beside me on the shore. After the hour workout in the forty-five-degree water, Mr. Bjornsson told me that when he’d heard that I was in town, the day before, he had cut his business trip short to meet with me. He was so enthusiastic. After seeing me train, he said, he was confident I would be able to swim across Lake Myvatn.

  Jeffrey Cardenas and I flew to northeastern Iceland, and for the next three days I trained in the lake. Each day an elderly woman, whose name I couldn’t pronounce—she finally told me just to call her Sigga—invited me into her home to take a hot bath in her tub. After swimming in the forty-five-degree water, nothing felt as good. The first day she invited me upstairs into her kitchen, lit long blue candles, poured hot chocolate for me, and offered me homemade cookies. I was touched and grateful for her kindness. It didn’t matter that we couldn’t speak to each other; we simply looked at each other and enjoyed each other’s company.

  The next day, after my workout, as we stood by the window overlooking the village, she pointed out the natural hot springs off to our right. She waved to passing neighbors and made sure I saw the herd of tiny white Icelandic horses that were smaller than ponies. Without speaking, she revealed to me so much of Iceland’s natural and wild beauty.

  She seemed to be waiting for something, and then her daughter arrived to interpret for us. She said her mother thought I was brave to swim across Lake Myvatn. Sigga asked, “Have you been bitten by the mee flies—microscopic mosquito larva?”

  “Oh, I thought I had a bad case of hives,” I said. My body was completely covered with pink spots that itched like poison ivy. “Is there anything I can do to stop the itching?”

  Sigga shook her head. Her husband wore gloves when he fished on the lake, but she didn’t know of anything that I could use to stop the itching or prevent more bites.

  I told her that it was okay; it would just be part of my story about swimming Lake Myvatn. She smiled; she liked the idea that one day I would tell a story about her home, a place she had never left. I was astonished. Hadn’t she been curious? Didn’t she want to see the world, understand life, have adventures? She smiled at me and said her world contained everything she needed. She had her family, the magnificent beauty of Lake Myvatn, and friends everywhere in the village. She didn’t need to travel.

  The following morning, on August 14, 1985, we met on the shores of Geiteyjarstönd, on the eastern side of Myvatn. Sovar Kristjansson, Finnur Baldursson, Ellert Hauksson, and Bjorguin Arnalosson, all tall, strong Nordic men from the Icelandic Lifesaving Association, prepared the rubber inflatable boats. They were excited about the swim. No one ever swam in the lake, let alone crossed it. They were volunteer lifeguards; their primary job was to rescue fishermen and tourists who fell into the lake. They each had a pioneer spirit; there was a feeling around the Lake Myvatn area that anything was possible.

  Nearly the entire village of Myvatn came to see us off. All thirty or so villagers, including the family we had met the night before as well as Sigga and her daughter, lined the black volcanic beach in their parkas and hats and mittens, smiling and bidding us farewell. There was also an entourage of journalists and television people. It was an exciting day for the local people, and it was for me too.

  At 9:14 a.m., I began walking into Lake Myvatn. The water was as glassy as ice and felt just about as cold. In the background I heard people clapping as I started swimming, and I smiled. It was such an honor to be swimming in this Icelandic lake and to have the support and encouragement of the local people. Even though we hadn’t spent much time together, I believed they were with me, and I felt a special connection with them. I think they understood that these swims were far more than just athletic adventures for me; they were a way of bridging cultural distances. They had made me feel very welcome there, and very special. It was thrilling to be making this swim with them with me in spirit.

  The water was the same temperature as that in the Strait of Magellan, between forty-two and forty-four degrees, but for some unexplained reason, freshwater always feels colder than salt water. The distance I would be swimming across Lake Myvatn would be seven miles in a straight line, more than double the distance of the Strait of Magellan. The cold water coupled with distance would make the swim challenging and also, perhaps, build my confidence for the Bering Strait.

  Positioned on my left side were Sovar and his lifeguard crew in one Zodiac; on the right were Jeffrey Cardenas, Arni Saeberg, and a couple of reporters. We were aiming for the volcanic point of Vindbelgur; it would take perhaps an hour and a half to reach that point, the deepest part of the lake. If I was not going into hypothermia, at that point I would extend the swim to include the widest portion of the lake, near Vagnbrekka.

&
nbsp; By forty-five minutes into the swim, my arms were completely numb. The lifeguard crew watched me closely, and smiled. It was a spectacular morning, and we moved quickly across the glassy water, past two tiny lush green islands. Here the water, incredibly, changed from cold forty-three-degree water to hot ninety-degree water, as I cut across icy streams of water fed by mountain brooks and geothermal rivers from deep below the lake. It was like swimming across the face of a guitar, each string or stream a different temperature, and I never knew what to expect until my body played it.

  When we hit the cold strings of water I swam faster, breathing every three to five strokes, trying to create more heat. When we crossed the hot strings, I stretched out. The contrast between hot and cold water, though, made it very difficult to adjust to the cold and it made the cold water seem even colder.

  Realizing the dangers of this, Sovar and his crew didn’t take their eyes off me, and I felt very confident in them and very happy they were with me. In less than half an hour we were within reach of the Vindbelgur volcano, and we decided to go for the second point. This would make the swim one-third longer, but I wanted to stretch my limits, and the crew was right with me.

  Once we passed the Vindbelgur volcano, I stopped for two or three seconds for a drink of Hi-C, and for the next half hour I sprinted. Solvar guided me past a white house at Vagnbrekka, then around the Stekkjarnes peninsula. A crowd had gathered: children, grown-ups, farmers with Icelandic horses, families we had met in the past three days. All were standing and cheering. The black volcanic shore was less than two hundred yards away. When I saw the bottom, I stood up. Someone pulled an incredibly warm and beautiful Icelandic sweater over my head, an old man offered me a bottle of whiskey, and the mayor came to invite Jeffrey and me for lunch. I had completed the crossing in just under two hours, and we were thrilled.

  But I was extremely cold.

  Someone gave us a ride to the local swimming pool, where I jumped into the water to get warm. That was a huge mistake. The water in the pool was eighty degrees, and my skin temperature was in the low thirties.