Swimming to Antarctica

by Lynne Cox

  Rich Roberts, Dr. Nyboer Jr., and I stood onshore and studied Big Diomede. We didn’t know it then, but the Soviets were looking back across at Little Diomede through binoculars, wondering what had happened to us. They had had three more false alarms—all seal sightings—and they were beginning to wonder if we were ever going to come across. The last thing we had heard from Moscow was that at 8:00 a.m., we were supposed to release our balloons and push off from Little Diomede, then meet the Soviet boats at the border.

  The Inuit families sang and danced all night long in celebration of the border opening. At 7:00 a.m., when we were supposed to shove off from shore and motor to the southern tip of Little Diomede, most of the villagers were sound asleep. Looking out of the window from a schoolhouse apartment where I had spent the night, I could clearly see Big Diomede, a snowcapped volcanic cone rising majestically out of the Bering Sea, which was as flat as a mirror, reflecting the wide blue heavens. It made me feel that there were no limits to the sky, and the world seemed to be filled with energy; everything seemed possible. I wanted to go, to start. I was so excited and nervous, so ready, I didn’t want to wait another moment. But we needed to wake the villagers and I needed to tell Kozlovsky that there was a delay. I called and reached an operator, but I couldn’t speak much Russian, and she couldn’t speak much English. She did know my name, though, and Kozlovsky’s, but that’s as far as I got. So I tried to reach Gene Fisher in Bob Walsh’s office. He was on his way to work.

  Worse than that, a milky-gray fog bank was rapidly moving into the strait, snaking its way in front of Little Diomede. In a span of ten minutes the visibility to the north and south of us had dropped from one mile to less than half a mile, and I was becoming agitated. I hated fog. I had been lost in it during the Catalina Channel swim and scared out of my wits. If I got lost in the Bering Sea, in water this cold, I wouldn’t only be lost, I’d be dead.

  Fog continued streaming into the strait, filling it with clouds that were strangling the light. I knew we had to move, so I started to gather the crew together. I asked Dr. Keatinge if we could get started now. That’s when I found out that the Soviets and my crew already knew about the delay. Without consulting me, someone in my crew had spoken with Gene Fisher at Walsh’s office and had postponed our departure time until noon. Fisher had immediately transmitted this information to Moscow, and they’d confirmed the update. The Soviets would have their boats at the border to escort us at noon. There was no way we could wait until then; it was too dangerous. And there was no way I wanted to delay the swim for another day. Conditions could get worse, and we had only a small window of opportunity to make the crossing. On our side of the strait it was August 7, while on the Soviet side it was August 8. We had only five days to get this off, and then I didn’t know what would happen.

  Looking out the window, I could see wind ripples on the sea surface. I was getting nervous. Just the week before, I had seen the straits when they were rough, and I couldn’t get that image out of my mind: the Bering Sea as a raging hell. If the wind increased quickly I knew, we would have to postpone the swim. Even though the distance was only 2.7 miles in a straight line from our side to theirs, we couldn’t start in marginal conditions. It was just too dangerous. There was no way I was going to wait until noon. I thought that any delay now reduced our chances of getting across.

  Dr. Nyboer Jr. came down to the beach to find me. He said that Dr. Keatinge wanted to begin the preswim tests on me. I asked him if he could make it quick. I had changed the plan, I told him; we were going to start the swim at nine. But Dr. Nyboer Jr. didn’t think we could get our Inuit crew together in that time.

  We couldn’t wait. I told him conditions were beginning to change. He said he would go tell Pat Omiak, and he asked me if I’d lie down and relax in a room in the community center so he and Dr. Keatinge could get their preswim readings.

  As I lay on the table waiting for Dr. Nyboer’s return, I heard Dr. Keatinge talking with a crew member. They had found an uninflated Zodiac and had decided to inflate it and tow along it on the swim. The Zodiac would provide a more stable base for them to hold their equipment and get readings. Dr. Keatinge unrolled the rubber boat, and Pat Omiak began reading directions for inserting its floorboards.

  While this was happening, Dr. Nyboer Jr. returned and took my pulse. He couldn’t believe how slow and calm it was: forty-four beats per minute. I was doing my best to be calm, but I was itching to go. This wait was killing me. My skin temperature was the same as the air temperature, seventy degrees, and my core temperature was all the way up to 100.7, three degrees above my normal temperature. My mind must have told my body to turn up the heater.

  Dr. Keatinge handed me a large silver capsule and explained that it was the thermopill, a metal pill the size of a horse pill that contained a radio transmitter. This device would measure my internal temperature. As backup, I would insert a thin rectal probe connected to a twenty-foot-long lead that would be coiled up in the bottom of my swimsuit. To get a body-temperature reading, the doctors would have me roll over onto my back while they held a receiver attached to a long broomstick near my stomach, to get a transmission from the thermopill.

  Dr. Keatinge handed me a large cup of coffee, explaining that some subjects had difficulty swallowing the thermopill. I wasn’t worried about swallowing; I was more concerned about getting it out afterward. But I wasn’t sure how to ask Dr. Keatinge this delicate question.

  Fortunately, he volunteered the information. The pill was worth about a thousand dollars, and Dr. Keatinge wanted me to recover it once it passed through my system. He told me that a plastic bag worked nicely for the recovery phase. I hesitated before I swallowed it, wondering, Was this pill new or had it been used? Dr. Keatinge assured me that it was new. They wanted to sterilize it and reuse it for future experiments and to check the calibrations after the swim.

  Everyone in the village turned out for the swim—the village elders, men, women, and children. Some were blowing up red, white, and blue balloons, while others carried the umiaks from the racks and placed them in the water.

  The journalists—Rich Roberts, Jack Kelley, Jim McHugh, and Claire Richardson—climbed into one umiak with David Soolook, their pilot, while the ABC cameraman and Pat Omiak boarded the other umiak. As Dr. Nyboer Jr. and Dr. Keatinge climbed into the Zodiac, the village children released the balloons to signal the start of the swim.

  The fog was so heavy it was drizzling, and the balloons sank to the water’s surface and floated rapidly northward. No one on the Soviet side of the border could have seen them anyway; the fog was too thick.

  Just as we were about to shove off and head to the very southern tip of Little Diomede to start the swim, David Soolook said something in Inuit to Omiak, then jumped out of the boat and headed uphill toward the village. While we waited, the fog grew heavier and the villagers put five more boats in the water. Pat informed me that the villagers wanted to share in this celebration, so they had decided to join us.

  What’s going to happen next? I wondered, shaking my head. This created a real problem. None of these villagers had clearance to enter Soviet waters except our immediate crew. None of their boats had life jackets, and none of the villagers could swim. Worse, they were using some of the older boats, and the skins were stretched, tattered, and worn. I voiced my concern to Omiak and he assured me that the boats would be fine and promised that the villagers would not enter Soviet waters. They would only go halfway. None of this made me feel comfortable. And then it got worse.

  When David Soolook returned, he was carrying seven rifles. The crew had decided to go seal hunting during the swim. Somehow I had to tell them that it wasn’t the right time to hunt seal. I was concerned that they might miss and hit me, or attract sharks, but what worried me more than that was the Soviets’ perception of the rifles. What would they think if they saw the Inuit landing with rifles?

  David Soolook and his crew were not prepared to relinquish their weapons; they didn’t trust the
Soviets. So I explained that things were changing, that the reason for this swim was to foster trust; we had to put aside the fear and work together.

  After a tense and long discussion with David Soolook and Pat Omiak, the villagers agreed to leave their rifles at home. But by now our visibility was less than two hundred yards, and it was drizzling hard. We were just about to push off when David Soolook again jumped out of the umiak and ran back up the beach. Ten minutes later he returned with a rusty old compass. When he tried to start the motor, it wouldn’t start. Finally, after another ten minutes, we were moving.

  On the outer edges of Big Diomede, long trailing bands of fog were forming, like warning signs. Fog was gathering into sheets, and trying to see through these bands was like looking through cotton batting. How would we see the Soviets if the fog filled the strait? Where would we meet them? What would happen if we landed in a spot where we weren’t supposed to? What would they think when we reached the border ahead of schedule? Would they understand? All I knew was that I had to get in and swim soon, because I couldn’t stand one more delay.

  By eight-thirty, the entire village had finally assembled by the edge of the Bering Sea. They shouted good wishes to us in our two boats and to the group of villagers, along with Maria Sullivan and Dr. Nyboer Sr., who were climbing into the five additional umiaks.

  20

  Across the Bering Strait

  We motored south in the umiaks, along the craggy shore of Little Diomede toward the southern tip of the island, where we would begin the swim. Ethereal clouds swirled around the island, and the air was filled with the smell of seabirds and salt and charged with expectation. As we reached the southern section of the island, we moved through a heavy blue fog. Our visibility decreased to one hundred yards; we could just see the shore. It was very rocky, and we could not land the boats. We were afraid that the rocks would puncture the walrus skins.

  At that same time, I was thinking of my own skin. Take your sweats off. Let your skin cool down to the air temperature. That way it won’t be such a shock when you hit the water. I cringed. I knew it was going to be cold, really cold, but I had asked that no one tell me the water temperature until I finished. I didn’t want to psych myself out before I got into the water. I told myself, Be calm; focus on what you are going to do. Don’t get distracted, don’t get overwhelmed, take it all as it comes. You are ready for this; you’ve prepared for years. This is it, your time to shine. Go forth with all your powers. Go forth with everything in you. Make it work.

  Oh, shoot. Okay, wait a minute; wait until everyone is in position. When it’s time to go, you just want to go; you don’t want to stop for anything. The water’s going to be too cold. You can’t stop for anything. You will lose heat too fast if you do. Don’t stop for a second. If the boats stray off course, just head straight. Keep going. Move forward. Sprint. Sprint the whole way across. Stop for nothing. This is it. It is time.

  Take a deep breath. Okay, take another one. Steady your heart. You’re shaking. You’re scared, cold, excited. You’ll be fine. You’ll do fine. Look at the crew. They are smiling. They are excited. They are so ready too. Okay, climb onto the Zodiac’s pontoon. Look, Dr. Nyboer Jr. is offering a hand. Take it. Don’t let him see you shaking or he’ll be worried. Okay, balance yourself. Let your feet feel the water. Oh, it is cold. Wow. It’s colder than I expected. Okay, take another breath. You’re ready for this now. You’re smiling. Good. Okay, you’re going to have to slide in, off the pontoon. Take a deep breath first, let your body drop underwater, turn, swim toward shore as fast as you can, climb out of the water and clear it, and then shout to the crew that you’re starting. The journalists will keep track of your time.

  The boats have moved into position. Dr. Keatinge’s telling you he’s ready. The thermopill is working.

  Everything is set. Okay, slide feet-first into the water. You don’t want to have a heart attack. Oh my God. It’s like liquid ice— The frigid water punched the air out of my lungs. I popped up, gasping. Catch your breath; swim for shore. Put your face in the water. Sprint as fast as you can. My arms are numb. I don’t care. Climb out on the rocks. Oh, shoot, I just slipped, ripped the back of my thigh on some barnacles. It stings. It’s bleeding. So what—it will stop. Get focused. All right. You’ve got to stop smiling. But I’m so happy. After so many years, it’s hard to believe I’m here. You’ll believe it in a minute when you hit that water again. Come on. Let nothing stop you. Okay, they’re ready. Go!

  My heart was pounding in my chest. Hitting the water with a splash, I began stroking as fast as my arms would turn over. Nothing had ever felt as good as that moment. Finally I was swimming across the Bering Strait from the United States to the Soviet Union. I swam with absolute elation. My strokes—what I could feel with numb arms—were strong and powerful, and I moved rapidly across the Bering Sea’s calm surface. The sea’s tranquillity was in such contrast to the way I felt, so full of energy, of excitement, of utter happiness. I had dreamed, and so many others had embraced my dream. We were doing this together. Sure, I was out there in the water, but I had so many people I carried along with me in this dream and who carried me as well. It was absolutely fantastic.

  Within moments, the two escort boats were behind me, and in the fog. I had nothing to use in front of or behind me as a reference point for navigation. Little Diomede had already disappeared in a fog bank. The escort boats weren’t following the plan; they were supposed to be right beside me, guiding me. I started to get worried. I didn’t want to get lost. I later found out the water temperature at that point was forty-two degrees.

  The boats slid farther behind, and the crew didn’t appear to know where they were heading. In water that cold, every moment we strayed off course reduced our chances of making it across.

  Looking back over my right shoulder, I could barely see Dr. Keatinge and Dr. Nyboer Jr. in their black wet suits. They were fidgeting with the equipment, trying to get it to work properly. I became more agitated. Precious moments were ticking by, moments we would never get back.

  Lifting my head, I drew in a deep breath, continued spinning my arms, and yelled, “Bill, are we going straight or what?”

  Dr. Keatinge was involved with the equipment, so I shouted again.

  “Go straight ahead,” he shouted, then realized that I was being consumed by the fog. He shouted to Pat Omiak and David Soolook to move their boats to either side of me.

  I was still swimming as fast as my arms would turn over. It was like being on the very edge of life. Every moment I had to be acutely aware of everything, to stay attuned to my body, to make sure I wasn’t going into hypothermia.

  Looking down through the clear, icy, gray-blue water, I examined my hands. My fingers were together, my hands like paddles; that was good. It meant that I was maintaining fine motor control, and that my brain was warm. If my fingers started spreading apart, that would mean I was losing fine motor control and my brain was cooling down. This was dangerous. It was a sign that I was going into hypothermia, and also possibly losing my sense of judgment. I was okay. But my hands were numb. With each arm stroke, I had to wait to feel the water pushed by my hands against my thighs to know that my hands were pushing water and I was moving forward. I glanced at my shoulders; they were splotchy red and white. The blood from the exterior of my body was pooling in the core to protect my heart and vital organs. I began sprinting, faster and faster, trying to generate more heat than I was losing to the Bering Sea.

  Dr. Nyboer and Dr. Keatinge were waving and shouting at me.

  “Lynne, swim close to us and roll over. We need to take your temperature,” Dr. Nyboer said, grabbing the receiver attached to the broom handle. Dr. Keatinge moved to the opposite side of the Zodiac to counterbalance Dr. Nyboer. I rolled over onto my back and started backstroking, turning my arms over as fast as I could. When I did the backstroke, I didn’t produce as much heat as when I swam freestyle. So during this experiment, the cold water was rapidly sucking the heat from my body. I
t was like standing wet and naked in front of an air conditioner on high.

  Dr. Nyboer was trying to hold the receiver near my stomach to get a transmission from the thermopill, but the ocean waves were bouncing him slightly up and down and sideways. A freak wave hit the Zodiac and Dr. Nyboer missed the reading, nearly plunging headfirst into the water with me.

  I knew these temperature readings were necessary, to make sure that my core temperature was staying at normal levels, but I was getting annoyed. This was slowing me down and reducing my ability to create heat, and I was losing more now than I was making. I didn’t want to wait for him.

  “Let’s try again. Roll onto your back,” Dr. Nyboer shouted.

  He held the receiver near my stomach while Dr. Keatinge stared at a digital readout in a black box. This procedure would take only two or three minutes, but that was way too long. It was making me cold.

  “She’s cooling down a bit. She’s down to ninety-seven degrees. Lynne, are you doing all right?” Dr. Keatinge asked. His voice sounded edgy.

  “Yes, this is great,” I shouted happily, covering my real feelings. I didn’t want Dr. Keatinge or Dr. Nyboer to panic, to think that I was getting too cold. I didn’t want them to pull me out of the water. I had to appear warm to them—as if this swim were easy. But I was a little worried. Before the swim, my temperature had been 100.7. That was pretty normal for me before a big swim, but it had already dropped three degrees, and I’d been in the water for only about half an hour. My cutoff point was ninety-four degrees. That was the beginning of hypothermia.

  From the onset, Dr. Keatinge, Dr. Nyboer, and I had decided that I would have a three-hour limit in the water. By that time, the water would have cooled my peripheral areas down, and after the swim was completed, my core temperature would fall further. We didn’t want it to drop too far.