Swimming to Antarctica

by Lynne Cox

  Her boat became a mini ice breaker. She parted the ice and I followed her through the break, feeling the sharp ice sticking into my chest and forearms.

  “Watch out for that berg!” Dena shouted a warning. “Head right. No—more. More. It’s wider than you think.”

  Turning hard right, I followed Dena around a large iceberg six feet high and eight feet wide. We were within a foot of the iceberg, and as I swam, I stared at it. This was the first time I had ever been so close to an iceberg, and it was magnificent, a piece off the Riggs Glacier. At the bottom, the iceberg was bright glacial blue. In the middle, it was deeper blue and marbled with snow. The top of the iceberg had been sculpted by wind and rain into a thin, wavering, and silvery edge.

  I swam as fast as my arms would turn over, trying to beat the cold and create heat. With my head up, I was able to see the bay ahead and to my right and left sides. The sun emerged from behind a cloud, and I looked across the Tiffany blue water, where a dozen icebergs shimmered like diamonds, bobbing slightly as they slowly slid downstream toward us.

  “Look out, pan ice!” Matkin shouted. She broke a wedge through it with her bow so I could follow. It was a wide piece, and the unbroken part shifted around in front of me. I thought, Maybe I should wait and let it flow past me; then I won’t have to swim through it. That won’t work. It’s too cold. Dena was yelling for me to swim around it, but that would take too much time. I had to swim through it. Using my right arm I made my hand flat, as if I were going to do karate. Then I chopped it down onto the ice. It hurt; my hand only bounced back up, reverberating like a bell. I did it again, harder this time, and felt the ice start to give. I hit it again in the same spot, and my forearm went through the ice and down into the water. I used my left arm next, and slammed it down. It worked. The ice cracked a bit more. I checked my arm. No blood. I hit the pan ice again, and it snapped and cracked open. Hmm, this is actually kind of fun. I carefully swam between the sharp pieces. I felt them jab into my arms, but I now knew that they weren’t cutting me, and somehow that made me feel more confident.

  Another piece of pan ice bobbed in Dena’s path. She rowed onto it and smacked it with her oars. It wouldn’t break. Turning my arms over quickly, I swam in place. She tried again. It still didn’t break. She tried hitting the ice with one oar at different angles, but it still didn’t work. Dena was struggling now. Gripping the gunwales, she stood up and jumped down in the boat, trying to use her weight to crack the ice, but she was such a featherweight, she couldn’t do it. She held the gunwales, coiled her knees up to her body, and bounced up and down in the boat. I couldn’t help myself; I started laughing. It was contagious—soon Debbie and Fritz were laughing so hard they were bent over.

  Dena wouldn’t give up. She rocked the boat back and forth, and then pushed herself high into the air. When she hit the floorboards, the pan ice heaved, groaned, and cracked. Dena grinned triumphantly, then laughed, her brown eyes radiating sheer delight, and she motioned for me to follow quickly.

  This time, it felt as if I were swimming through ice soup. Tiny blades of ice ricocheted off my body. With a quick sigh, I made it through that section. But a large berg was now directly beside us. There was no way I could swim over it, so I decided to stop for a moment and let it slide pass. That was a mistake. The icy cold water quickly seemed to pull the warmth from the marrow of my bones.

  We were about halfway across the Muir Inlet now, and I was starting to think about the finish. When we landed and I climbed out of the water, the cooled blood from my extremities would be pumped back into my heart. If the blood was too cold, it could cause my heart to beat irregularly. Getting cold now could have more serious consequences later. In the afterdrop phase, I could go into severe hypothermia and pass out, or my heart could stop. So far I felt I was okay. Actually, my confidence was growing. It was really strange; I could feel heat from my abdomen as if it were a radiator, and I could feel it moving up through my body. I dipped my chin into the water, then my lips and face. Instantly my face went numb, but I didn’t get a headache. I tried again, longer this time. The water tasted sweet, just a little salty. Glacier Bay was different from any waterway I’d ever swum. My lips were numb.

  Jeffrey Cardenas looked at me from the boat; I could tell he was becoming increasingly concerned. We had traveled around the world together, and we had become good friends. Jeffrey had been the person who had suggested this area; he said it would be an incredible spot for a swim. Jeffrey knew that my original plan had been to keep my head up during the entire swim. Knowing that a person loses up to 80 percent of their body heat through their head, I’d thought I would be able to keep my body temperature up by keeping my head up. But during the crossing I changed my mind.

  “Are you okay?” Cardenas shouted. His teeth were chattering. He was from Florida, and he didn’t like the cold.

  “I’m fine. Just experimenting,” I said between quick breaths. My neck and shoulders were sore from holding my head up for so long. But I also wanted to see what I was capable of doing. I needed to know for the Bering Strait. The farther I could push myself now, the more I would know.

  Kicking my feet to increase my tempo and to get my numb arms to turn over faster, I put my head down for a couple of minutes and sprinted. My face ached. But I could do it. I lifted my head and looked around. Dena was waving at me again, telling me to swim around another iceberg.

  When I cleared it, I put my head down again. My face was already numb, so it didn’t feel as cold this time. I counted my strokes up to one thousand. This time my face was in for maybe three minutes.

  Jeffrey Cardenas shouted, “I thought you were going to swim all the way with your head up.” He was worried. I think he thought I was losing it, or on the verge of hypothermia.

  It took so much additional energy to talk. “Don’t worry. I’m okay. I just need to see what I can do,” I said.

  He looked at me through his Nikon’s long lens. “Your face is bright red and swollen. So are your shoulders. Your lips aren’t purple, and I don’t see any discoloration in your shoulders.”

  “Thanks, Jeffrey.” He was telling me I wasn’t hypothermic. That was very good news.

  I continued sprinting. We were three-quarters of the way across the inlet, and to our left, the Riggs Glacier was calling. Wind-driven plumes of snow were rising above the glacier’s face. Massive chunks of ice were exploding into pieces as they tumbled into the inlet with such force that the waves reached us in a matter of minutes. They were a couple feet high, making the icebergs twist, turn, and bob around us. Swimming around them became trickier. We had to give them more space—they were becoming tipsy and they could roll over on Matkin and submerge her or me. We watched more intently, reacted more rapidly. The intensity of this swim was like nothing I had ever experienced. It was unbelievable. There was so much to be aware of, and yet, throughout it all, I had to stay absolutely focused on how my body was responding. The icebergs I passed seemed to be exhaling breaths of icy air. Despite the cold, I was enjoying the swim. It was absolutely beautiful, seeing the icebergs dancing in the water currents, watching them as they changed colors—blue, green, white, silver, and gold—and brightened with light and deepened with shadow.

  The Muir Inlet was like a natural amphitheater as the wind in the bay increased to five knots. The sounds of the moving ice, creaking and moaning, grew louder, and with the movement of the water and wind, the earth and trees, the high notes became sweeter and longer sustained. We were listening to a symphony of Alaska sounds. This was something I had never heard before, something I had never imagined, something beautifully new.

  Koshman checked the thermometer and noted that the air temperature had dropped to thirty-three degrees. The sun’s warmth was completely extinguished by thick gray clouds. If the temperature dropped any further, we would have real problems with pan ice and getting back home.

  My feet, arms, and legs felt like stumps, and for the first time I noticed sharp, cold pain shooting into my armpi
ts. Matkin and I approached another iceberg and she motioned for me to go left. But I didn’t follow her. She had taken a course against the current that added twenty yards. It would take too much effort. Instead, I swam right toward the iceberg, thinking that the current would move it out of my way before I reached it. Poor physics. The iceberg and I were moving downstream at the same speed. Caught on an underwater ledge, I had to drag my chest, stomach, and legs off the iceberg, and it felt like I was sliding naked down a snowbank covered with rough ice crystals and nodules.

  Matkin broke through another ice panel and pulled ahead. By the time I reached the panel, it had twisted completely around in the current. There wasn’t time for me to swim around it; I was too cold, too tired. It was thicker than the pan ice from before, and I knew I had to break it with my arms. I was scared. I lifted my arm and slammed it down against the ice. It didn’t break. I tried again. It hurt a lot. I was glad my arm was already numb. I took three quick strokes and used the weight of my body to break through it, the ice splintering around me.

  “Swim closer to me,” Matkin urged, pulling her red cap down tightly on her head.

  This time I listened to her and stayed right behind her stern.

  Debbie and Jeffrey were leaning over the boat’s railing, shouting ice warnings for us and for Fritz. We continued twisting and turning, abruptly shifting from one direction to the other, until we were four hundred yards from the landing point. I began sprinting with my head down, with all the strength I had remaining. I didn’t see the iceberg on my left and I smacked my left hand into it. The impact and pain rang through my arm and body, and I shouted a curse into the water. Oh, it hurt. I scraped the torn skin off, and my arm was bleeding.

  I couldn’t afford to stop and examine the wound, but looking down through the water, I tried to determine how bad it was without interrupting my stroke. I couldn’t see anything. The water was filled with glacial silt, and it was milky white and opaque. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter, I told myself. We’re almost three hundred yards from shore. I looked down the beach. Maybe I can swim to that next beach. It’s another half a mile. That would increase my distance by half, and it would help me see if the Bering Strait is really possible. Maybe I can push farther. “How are you feeling?” Jeffrey called from the boat. I couldn’t feel my arms or legs or my face; they were numb. And my eyes ached.

  Maybe I can go farther. That’s not a good idea. Because if you do, and you’re okay, you’ll want to go farther again. What’s wrong with that? You can’t feel your body. You’re ice-cold. Can you imagine what’s going to happen when you stop swimming? I don’t want to think about that. Right, and it’s going to be worse if you keep going. Remember, you have to think of the afterdrop. You’re going to get colder if you continue. The cold will penetrate deeper when you’re tired. You had better stop now. I know. But I really want to try it. The crew’s watching me. Sure they are, and they’re making sure you’re coherent, but your brain could have cooled down without them or you knowing it. And you know that’s bad news. You may be losing your sense of judgment without knowing it. And that means you could push yourself too far. Remember what happened to David Yudovin on his Anacapa attempt? He thought he was fine. He had no idea he was dying. His brain had cooled down and he lost all sense of reality. I think I’m okay. Sure, but if you cut right and head for that other beach, you’ll be riding the current, and you’ll be in this iceberg-filled water for at least twenty more minutes. You’ve been going flat out for more than half an hour. And this cold is sapping your energy. Do you really think you can continue? Do you think you can make that shore? No. I’m too cold. Okay, then you’d better get out. But where am I going to get a chance to swim in water as cold as this before the Bering Strait? I don’t know. But you’d better be satisfied with what you’ve done today. You’ll find another time to test yourself. Honestly, you’ve reached your limit. Be happy. You’ve made it. You’re fifty yards from shore.

  It looked like it would be an easy landing, but the current along the shore suddenly increased, and there was a cluster of icebergs and huge boulders clogging the entrance to the shore. We tried, but the ice pack was so tight we couldn’t get through them. Fritz shouted at Dena, directing her to paddle to the right, to a smaller cove. I was hitting icebergs with each arm stroke; it was like swimming through an ice maze. Suddenly I felt waves of cold rippling through my body. Something had broken. Some defense mechanism that had kept me warm had been breached. Tremors were surging through my body, radiating out across my back and shoulders. You’ve got to sprint now. Now, with all you have. Don’t let up for anything. I can’t. I can’t find a place for my arms to move. Then push off that berg with your feet, cut left, no, right—that way you won’t have to swim against the current. Go around the berg. But Dena’s on my left; we’ll get separated. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter now. You’re only ten yards from shore. Keep going. Fast. Okay, careful. There are rocks below your feet. And rocks between the bergs. At least there’s no surf.

  Put your feet down carefully. You’re not going to be able to feel them at all. They are dead numb. So watch them when you put them down. Don’t step on anything that can hurt them. You’re fine. Oh my God, we’re almost there.

  Turning back for one last second, I looked at all of the Muir Inlet. I wanted to hold that image in my head forever. When things got difficult in life, I would pull it up and remember how amazing it was to be there, to push the limits with the crew, and remember how inspiring the entire experience was.

  When my body cleared the water, I could hear the crew cheering. Remember, you’re going to have a big blood-pressure shift when you go from lying down to standing up. It’s going to make you feel dizzy. Whoa, wow, the world feels very unsteady. Whoa, I think I’m going to fall on my face. Stick your arms out, just get your balance. Ah, there’s Dena. Oh, she’s putting a blanket over your shoulders. She’s holding your shoulder, helping you balance. Smile. Your hand, it’s bleeding—just a superficial cut, and water always makes it look worse. You’re okay, right? Your entire body’s numb and you’re shaking so hard your head’s bouncing, but you’re okay, right? Yes. Okay, then, get back into the boat. Look, Fritz is pulling onshore. Debbie has the hot-water bottles to put under your arms, the back of your neck, and your groin area to start rewarming.

  You can crawl into the sleeping bag now with the hot-water bottles and a blanket. Won’t that feel great?

  Oh, yes, I’m so cold. It will feel wonderful. I’m breathing so fast and hard. My body is shivering hard; my muscles are instinctively working to make heat. Okay, stop thinking and just get into that bag and get warm. The air temperature now has to be below freezing. Ah, they have the heat on belowdecks. Wow, how wonderful it feels to be immersed in swirls of heat. Fritz must have put the heater on full force. I can feel my body thawing. It’s going to feel like pins and needles all over, but it won’t be that way for long, and then you’ll be warm and you can rest. Hot chocolate. That would taste so good, once I can feel my lips and tongue. Dena and Debbie are all smiles. They did so well. What an incredible team. Jeffrey must be on deck with Fritz. I can feel the boat turning; he’s probably helping Fritz spot ice. Hope that we can get out of here okay.

  “Dena, did anyone get my time for the swim?”

  “Yes, you were in the water for twenty-eight minutes. You’ve changed a lot of minds about people’s ability to handle the cold,” she said, her voice high with excitement.

  I felt so fortunate that I had been able to find a group of people who thought of what could be instead of being stuck on what was. That’s where progress came from, imagining the possibilities. Alaskans were like that, though. Maybe because of the openness of their environment or maybe because of the danger of it, they had to find new ways to work together to survive. They lived a lot on the outer edge, so I think that’s what made it easier for them to understand what I wanted to do and then to embrace it.

  After the swim, Dena told me that I had swum in thirty-eight-de
gree water. It took me at least two hours of shivering to get my body temperature back to normal. We took it immediately after I got out of the water, and it was the same as when I’d started the swim. I’m sure it dropped once the swim was over, but I wasn’t interested in trying to get a temperature by that point; all I wanted to do was to get warm.

  When we reached Gustavus, we celebrated with a great Alaskan salmon dinner—you are what you eat. All of us were happy and satisfied. A day later, Jeffrey Cardenas and I flew to San Francisco so I could finish my around-the-world swim with a crossing of the Golden Gate. It was a fun, current-filled swim. It was challenging, and it was so beautiful to swim through San Francisco Bay.

  When I got home to southern California I knew that the Bering Strait might be possible. I knew that I could swim one mile in thirty-eight-degree water. Could I swim five times as far in water that cold? Could I swim if the water temperature was colder? I wasn’t sure, but I was sure that the only way I would ever know was if I tried.

  16

  Facing the Bomb

  Pulling my hood over my head, zipping my raincoat, and stepping out of the taxi, I ran across Green Street through a series of puddles and gutter spray, to the black wrought-iron fence rimming the perimeter of the Soviet consulate in San Francisco. It was the spring of 1986, and for ten years I had been working, nearly every day, on trying to obtain permission from the Soviets to swim across the Bering Strait.

  I had written to Brezhnev, Chernenko, Andropov, and Gorbachev, as well as ambassadors and other diplomats. No one in the Soviet Union, at the Soviet embassy in Washington, or at our embassy in Moscow had responded to my inquiries. At the time, there was only one man at the State Department who believed that I had any chance of getting permission. But then a friend put me in touch with Armand Hammer.