Swimming to Antarctica

by Lynne Cox

  She continued: “You and your crew will have to wait until the other passengers are ashore before you make your swim, and if the weather changes during that time, you won’t be able to go.”

  “What about tides? Is there any way we can look at tidal charts and figure out the best time to swim?” I asked.

  “You’re fortunate because you’re here on a neap tide, so there’s less water movement. But tidal charts won’t help. We don’t have any for this area. Even though scientists have been studying tides at Palmer Station, the American research base, for twenty-seven years, no one knows what the tides here are doing. Some days we get two tides; other days we get only one. Sometimes there’s a strong tidal current, and sometimes you don’t have much current at all. You just have to go when the weather looks good,” she said.

  This was something I had never done before. Usually the tides were a large factor in planning a swim. I guessed I would just have to go with whatever I was given and make the most of it. I understood that this swim would draw on everything I knew and many things I didn’t know. That’s what made it exciting to me, exploring and extending beyond myself; but I did have some concerns. “What about wildlife? Will leopard seals or orcas be a problem?” I asked. I didn’t mention that Jack Baldelli, a friend of mine who had dived for nine seasons in Antarctica for the National Science Foundation, had told me that he had watched leopard seals rip penguins out of their skins. Once, a leopard seal had pinned him to the bottom of the ocean; he waited until the thousand-pound animal swam away before he surfaced. He also said there was only one incident of an orca killing a person. Experts thought it was a case of mistaken identity, but if he saw orcas in the area, he got out of the water and recommended I do the same. I wasn’t sure if I could get out of the water quickly enough in an emergency, or if I would be able to get out at all.

  The doctors—Gabriella Miotto, Laura King, and Susan Sklar— were to be positioned in two Zodiacs so they could monitor me during the swim. If one Zodiac broke down, the other could pull alongside me so I could continue. If a life-threatening situation developed during the swim, Anthony Block, the ship’s physician, would be in charge on board the ship.

  We figured out where to position each of my crew members, as well as the CBS crew. Then Dr. Block had a request: he wanted to go through a drill with the doctors on the ship so they would know where everything was (medications, IV fluids, defibrillator, and so on) in case they needed to work with him on me. He asked me if I went into cardiac arrest during the swim and they brought me back aboard the ship did I want CBS to film it? I tried to think of how it could be useful, and the producer for CBS tried to convince us it was the right thing to do. Fortunately, Dan Cohen was sitting beside me. He could see that I was very uncomfortable with this, and he whispered, “Is this what you want?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then tell them,” Dan encouraged me.

  My voice went kind of weirdly deep from the stress. “I don’t want anyone filming me if I’m like that,” I said.

  The producer nodded. He said they would be able to document my being pulled out of the water, and that would be enough to show what happened.

  This was tough stuff for me. I understood we had to be prepared, to have an emergency plan, but all this focus on death was pushing my mind to a place it didn’t want to go.

  Dr. Block’s run-through drill with my three doctors—Laura, Gabriella, and Susan—made sense to me, but then he asked me to participate in a stretcher drill. I would lie on a stretcher while Barry Binder and Scott Pelley carried me up the gangway to the ship.

  I couldn’t practice my own death, especially if I was going to do a test swim immediately afterward. All of my thoughts about the swim had been focused on success. I had looked at George Butler’s films on Shackleton and used them as scouting reports. I had imagined myself swimming in Antarctic waters, past icebergs, and onto the shore. I had imagined success, not death.

  This talk about death was something I balked against. I felt I would be okay if I paid attention the whole time, listened to my body, and had the courage to stop swimming if necessary, even if it meant I’d only be in the water a short amount of time. That would be the difficult part, but I knew I’d have to do it; otherwise I couldn’t make the attempt.

  The day after my crew’s logistics meeting, we planned to do a test swim if the weather cooperated. I was eager to find out how far I could swim in the cold. More than that, I just wondered what it would be like to swim Antarctic waters.

  During this test swim, we would rehearse what we would do on the actual swim. The doctors would get water temperatures and stroke rate, Bob Griffith would get air temperature, and Martha would have the clothes and blankets on hand and would be watching for wildlife. Barry would be giving me directions, Gabriella would be watching my responses to the cold, and Dan, sitting on the pontoon in a dry suit, would be prepared to jump in and drag me toward the boat if need be. At the end of this test swim, while I was strong and doing okay, Barry and Scott Pelley would pull me out of the water to simulate a mock rescue in case they needed to do it during the official swim.

  Half an hour before the test swim, Dr. Block asked me to come with him so we could go through the stretcher drill. I told him I was sorry, but I just couldn’t do it. He thought about it for a moment, then apologized. He said he was just trying to go through a drill and make sure the crew knew what they were doing. He hadn’t considered how it would affect me. It disturbed me so much that I didn’t want to see the stretcher drill. I didn’t want to have that image in my mind. Martha Kaplan volunteered to be my body double. I retreated to the ship’s lounge—as far as I could get from the drill—and started drinking four eight-ounce mugs of hot water, to warm my body from the inside out. That way I could make myself into a human thermos. It would also counteract the possible dehydration caused by exposure to extreme cold.

  We had anchored off Admiralty Harbor, near the Polish research station called Arctowski Base. The base was made up of seven small, bright yellow buildings, set on a rocky beach encircled by steep, curvaceous mountains covered with ice and snow. There were thick glaciers along the mountains’ peaks and deep within their recesses, set against a light blue sky filtered by moving clouds. The roof of one building had blown off in the same storm we’d experienced going through the Drake Passage. Studying the geography, I picked out places on land, ones I could use as reference points. I replayed the voices of friends and their encouraging words in my head. I had prepared as well as I could for this swim, down to the last details. I had grown my hair long to insulate my head; I had let the hair grow on my legs, which would make me less sensitive to the cold; I had even let my toenails grow to the edge of my toes to protect them from rocks at the end of the swim.

  My friend Arthur Sulzberger, who has read more about Antarctic exploration than anyone I know, had suggested that I pay attention to my teeth. He pointed to the story of Apsley Cherry-Garrard, one of the early explorers of Antarctica in the Scott expedition, whose teeth had shattered in weather sixty-six degrees below zero. While I knew I wouldn’t be in air that cold, I wondered if my teeth would conduct the cold through my body since I knew it could be conducted through the mouths of mammals. Studies done by Dr. John Heyning at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County had shown that humpback whales divert blood flow away from their tongues when they are feeding so that their core temperatures are not cooled down. I went to my dentist, Dr. William Poe, and asked him about my teeth. He explained that teeth are porous, and the more porous they are, the more likely they are to be sensitive to the cold. He said that Cherry-Garrard’s teeth might have been filled with tiny droplets of water; when he opened his mouth in the subzero weather, the water instantly froze, and the quick expansion of water into ice shattered his teeth. Dr. Poe gave me three fluoride treatments to fill in the pores in my teeth. He also removed three old silver fillings and replaced them with enamel crowns.

  One other concern was protecting m
y eardrums. I was worried that intensely cold water would damage them and possibly cool down my brain temperature. Dr. Poe came up with a solution; he made formfitting earplugs out of dental-impression material to protect my eardrums.

  While I sat in my cabin trying to stay calm and mentally preparing myself, Barry and Scott had been trying to lift Martha Kaplan on a stretcher up the gangway. She’d bravely lain there on the stretcher with her eyes closed while they’d tried numerous times to bring the stretcher up the gangway, once nearly dropping her overboard. They finally realized that the gangway was too steep to get her up that way. Barry and Dan then suggested that if necessary they put me in the Zodiac, get back to the ship, and use the ship’s crane to lift the Zodiac onto the deck. This was the way Zodiacs were put into and taken out of the water every day. They felt certain they could get me out of the water in this fashion. I had been waiting for nearly two hours to start the test swim, and they decided it would be better to get me now rather than delay any longer.

  I had been sitting still in the cabin, focusing on my breathing, working on staying calm and relaxed. Barry came down to my room and threaded a short rope through the top of my swimsuit and tied it in a double knot. It would serve as a handhold in case he needed to pull me into the boat. As backup, Bob had made a lasso, which he gave to Dan, because he would be closer to me in his Zodiac. If Dan couldn’t grab the loop on my suit, he could leap into the water himself, slip the lasso over my head and shoulders, tighten it under my arms, drag me back to the boat, and inflate his dry suit to bring me to the surface, after which the crew would pull me into the boat.

  At the ship’s door, I pulled off my shoes, then took off my sweat suit and folded it. I held on to the railing and walked slowly down the ramp, so I wouldn’t slip and fall. I stepped outside the icebreaker. Glacial winds hit my body at thirty knots. The hairs on my arms and neck stood up as goose bumps raced up my legs and back and out along my arms. My skin turned red. The Zodiacs were moving into position, one on either side of a platform at the base of the long ramp, and one out in front. In their three layers of heavy clothes and waterproof outer gear, I could not distinguish one crew member from another, but I knew they would be where they were supposed to be. Martha Kaplan and Bob Griffith were in the lead Zodiac. They would be watching for killer whales, leopard seals, icebergs, and brash ice. Adam Ravetch, who was shooting the underwater footage for the story for CBS’s 60 Minutes II, would also be watching the water and let us know if he saw anything.

  If Martha or Bob spotted a killer whale while I was swimming, the crew member from Quark Expeditions who was operating the Zodiac would radio the other two Zodiac drivers in the boats that would be on either side of me. If the orca or leopard seal was moving in close and looked threatening, the crew would immediately pull me out of the water.

  None of us knew how long I could swim. None of us knew how I would react to water temperatures ranging from thirty-three to thirty-five degrees. None of us knew if I would push too far without realizing it. Dr. Gabriella Miotto was in the Zodiac to my left, and she would be watching me to make sure I wasn’t becoming disoriented or losing fine motor control, letting my fingers splay. Dr. Laura King and Dr. Susan Sklar, in the Zodiac to my right, would observe me during the swim, taking water temperatures and measuring my stroke rate—counting the number of strokes I was taking each minute to see if I was on or off pace. If my stroke rate fell off rapidly, it could indicate that I was going into hypothermia. Laura and Susan would also serve as backups for Gabriella in case her boat broke down. That way they could take over as the main observers, enabling me to continue swimming.

  Knowing that we had a rescue plan in place and a team of experienced, fast-thinking, and quick-reacting friends who were there, gave me the confidence that I could push as far as I could go. Without them, I wouldn’t have attempted an Antarctic swim.

  Quickly I retreated inside, divided my long hair in half, wound one half around my left hand, and pushed it into the right side of my swimming cap, then did the opposite with the other half. Your long hair will help keep your head warm; it will be like penguin feathers, I told myself. Leave a little space on top so you can trap some air; it will give you more insulation. Remember to keep your head up as long as you can; that will give you more time in the water.

  I stuck my head outside again, determined to maintain my calm. It was so cold. They still weren’t ready. The waiting was nearly the hardest part—the hardest part would be jumping into the frigid water and making the swim. I smiled. I thought back to what a friend had told me: “You’re so ready for this. Have no doubts.” He was right. I was ready. I didn’t doubt. Taking another deep breath, I looked out again. Everything was set. I started down the gangway, holding tight to the ice-cold railing with my right hand, hanging on to my goggles with my left hand, and watching my feet, making sure I placed each solidly on each step. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I sat down on a platform and looked at the crew. They were smiling reassuringly. They were as ready and as apprehensive and excited as I was. I smiled at them, and then I retreated deep into my mind and took one last moment to focus within myself. I didn’t want to remain there long; the platform was so cold I felt like I was sitting on a giant ice-cube tray. My feet dangled inches above the water.

  The waves looked molten. They rose to two to three feet, coming from my left side, then flowed slowly forward as if they were melted glass. They were Payne’s gray, the same color as the blue-gray highlights on emperor penguin feathers. I was afraid looking at the water for too long would psych me out. I placed my hands on either side of my body and reminded myself not to press the air out of my swim cap, the way I normally did. I wondered if I should lick my goggles so they wouldn’t fog up. I had thought this through before, but I still wasn’t sure what to do. If I licked them, would that help keep them clear, or would that moisture turn to ice? If they iced up, I’d have to take them off to see, and how would the frigid water affect my eyes? It would be painful, and I’d lose the heat more quickly through my unprotected eyes. But the most troubling question was, Would the extreme cold permanently damage my eyes? I decided to do what I normally did and licked the goggles, then pulled them over my head. If I couldn’t see through them, I’d just have to swim the whole way with my head up.

  This was the hardest part, the first step. I was afraid, but I wanted to be there; I wanted to see what I could do. A wave rose to within an inch of my feet and instinctively I lifted them up. I didn’t want to touch the water before I slid in, afraid it would psych me out. The wind was blowing at around thirty knots right off the glaciers, right into me. I was already losing body heat.

  I took a deep breath, leaned back, and threw my torso forward, keeping my feet under me. In flight, my body braced itself. My feet hit first, then my knees, thighs, chest, and face. I didn’t want my head to go under, but I couldn’t help it. I rapidly dog-paddled myself to the surface, got my head above the water, and gasped for air as the molten ice water shattered around me. All I could feel was cold. All I could do was turn over my arms as fast as they would go and breathe. All I could think about was moving forward. There were so many alarming sensations that my mind could not distinguish what was happening to my body. I just kept swimming.

  The water was searingly cold, pervasive, and it stung. It was so cold I had to constantly tell myself to keep going, that I could do this. Gradually, I lowered my face into the water, and my body shuddered and stiffened like a block of ice. I turned my head, drew in a deep breath, put my face back into the water, and for the first time, I looked at my watch on my left arm to check my time. I thought I had been swimming for at least ten minutes. I looked again. I had been swimming for only one minute. I thought, Oh my God! How am I ever going to keep going at this rate? I told myself, You’ve got to. You can’t bring these people with you all the way to Antarctica and swim for only a minute. You’ve got to keep going. A wave hit me in the face and I experimented; I let the water fill my mouth. It didn’
t hurt my teeth, and it tasted surprisingly more sweet than salty. It must have been because the sun was shining and the glaciers were melting.

  I was swimming at eighty strokes per minute, working harder than I had ever worked before, fighting the cold, going as fast as I could. This was taking everything I had. The crew watched me closely. Their expressions were tense and worried. I continued sprinting. When I reached the ten-minute mark, I thought, Okay, I can stop now. But it occurred to me that if I was going to swim a full mile in another day or two, I needed to swim at least five more minutes, at least half a mile, today. Come on, you can do it, you’re ready for this, I coached myself, and I pulled more forcefully with each stroke.

  A few minutes later, I lifted my right foot and waved to Laura and Susan in one Zodiac. They smiled, and I heard Shawn laugh. Shawn waved back with his hand. I took a big breath and and shouted to the crew in the other Zodiac: “Are you doing okay?”

  Chris, the cameraman, said, “Did she just say what I thought she said?”

  I extended my reach into the water. The crew couldn’t believe I was still swimming. And I was surprising myself. Lifting my right foot, I waved again. The crew waved back. I checked my watch. I had completed fifteen minutes. My skin was freezing cold and I was tired, but I thought, This was supposed to be a test swim, and the crew was supposed to practice pulling me out, but I don’t want to practice being pulled out. I’m very cold on the outside, but on the inside, I feel warm. I want to push farther. Besides, this may be the only swim I get to do. The weather could turn bad in the next day or so. I think I can keep going.

  I stretched out my pull and looked down into the water. Seventeen minutes, nineteen minutes. We were paralleling large icebergs, some as big as houses; others were the size of hockey pucks. Some were box-shaped, as if they had snapped off the glaciers; others were exquisitely carved and curved by the wind and smoothed by the sea. They were dancing ice sculptures, gliding and spinning on the current.