Swimming to Antarctica

by Lynne Cox

  My body resisted it. The air was too cold. My body didn’t want to draw the cold air deep into my lungs and cool myself from the inside. It wanted to take short breaths so the cold air would be warmed in my mouth before it reached my lungs. I was fighting against myself. I noticed my arms. They were bright red, and I felt like I was swimming through slush. My arms were thirty-two degrees, as cold as the sea. They were going numb, and so were my legs. I pulled my hands right under my chest so that I was swimming on the upper inches of the sea, trying to minimize my contact with the water. I was swimming fast and it was hard to get enough air. I began to notice that the cold was pressurizing my body like a giant tourniquet. It was squeezing the blood from the exterior part of my body and pushing it into the core. Everything felt tight. Focus on your breath, I told myself. Slow it down. Let it fill your lungs. You’re not going to be able to make it if you keep going at this rate.

  It wasn’t working. I was laboring for breath harder than on the test swim. I was in oxygen debt, panting, gasping. My breath was inefficient, and the oxygen debt was compounding. In an attempt to create heat, I was spinning my arms wildly, faster than I’d ever turned them over before. Laura later told me that I was swimming at a rate of ninety strokes per minute, thirty strokes per minute quicker than my normal rate. My body was demanding more oxygen, but I couldn’t slow down. Not for a nanosecond. Or I would freeze up and the swim would be over.

  An icy wave slapped my face: I choked and felt a wave of panic rise within me. My throat tightened. I tried to clear my throat and breathe. My breath didn’t come out. I couldn’t get enough air in to clear my throat. I glanced at the crew. They couldn’t tell I was in trouble. If I stopped, Dan would jump in and pull me out. I still couldn’t get a good breath. I thought of rolling on my back to give myself time to breathe, but I couldn’t. It was too cold. I closed my mouth, overrode everything my body was telling me to do, held my breath, and gasped, coughed, cleared my windpipe, and relaxed just a little, just enough to let my guard down and catch another wave in the face. I choked again. I put my face down into the water, hoping this time I could slow my heart rate down. I held my face in the water for two strokes and told myself, Relax, just turn your head and breathe.

  It was easier to breathe in a more horizontal position. I thought it might be helping. I drew in a deep breath and put my face down again. I knew I couldn’t do this for long. I was losing too much heat through my face. The intensity of the cold was as sharp as broken glass. I’d thought that swimming across the Bering Strait in thirty-eight-degree water had been tough, but there was a world of difference between thirty-eight degrees and thirty-two. In a few seconds, the cold pierced my skin and penetrated into my muscles. It felt like freezer burn, like touching wet fingers to frozen metal.

  Finally I was able to gain control of my breath. I was inhaling and exhaling so deeply I could hear the breath moving in and out of my mouth even though I was wearing earplugs. I kept thinking about breathing, working on keeping it deep and even; that way I didn’t have time to think about the cold.

  My brain wasn’t working as it normally did. It wasn’t flowing freely from one idea to another—it was moving mechanically, as if my awareness came from somewhere deep inside my brain. Maybe it was because my body was being assaulted with so many sensations, too different and too complex to recognize. Or maybe it was because my blood and oxygen were going out to the working muscles. I didn’t know.

  For the next five or six minutes, I continued swimming, telling myself that I was doing well, telling myself that this was what I had trained for. Then something clicked, as if my body had gained equilibrium. It had fully closed down the blood flow in my skin and fingers and toes. My arms and legs were as cold as the water, but I could feel the heat radiating deep within my torso and head, and this gave me confidence. I knew that my body was protecting my brain and vital organs. Staring through the clear, silver-blue water, I examined my fingers; they were red and swollen. They were different than when I’d been swimming in the Bering Strait, when they’d looked like the fingers of a dead person. They looked healthy, and I thought their swollenness would give me more surface area, more to pull with.

  I smiled and looked up at the crew, who were in the Zodiacs on either side of me. Each of them was leaning forward, willing me ahead. Their faces were filled with tension. Gabriella, Barry, Dan, and Scott were leaning so far over the Zodiac’s pontoon I felt as if they were swimming right beside me. I was sprinting faster than I ever had before, moving faster than the Zodiac, and I was getting fatigued quickly. The water was thicker than on the test swim, and it took more force to pull through on each stroke. My arms ached. I didn’t feel right; I couldn’t seem to get into any kind of a rhythm. Then I sensed that something was wrong.

  We were heading to the left, toward some glaciers. This didn’t make sense; we couldn’t land there. It was too dangerous. The glaciers could calve and kill us.

  “Barry, where are we going?” I shouted, using air I needed for breathing.

  He pointed out our direction—right toward the glaciers. I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to go that way. I wanted to aim for the beach. I was confused. I was moving my arms as fast as they would go, and it was taking all I had. From each moment to the next, I had to tell myself to keep going. The water felt so much colder than on the test swim. It had already worked its way deep into my muscles. My arms and legs were stiff. My strokes were short and choppy. But I kept going, telling myself to trust the crew and focus on the glaciers to watch the outcropping of rocks that was growing larger. I couldn’t get into any kind of pace.

  Abruptly the Zodiacs zagged to the right. I looked up and thought, Wow, okay; we’re heading for the beach now. For a moment, I started to feel better. I was able to extend my reach farther, and I could see passengers from the Orlova walking along the snowbanks. In the distance, their clothes lost their color and they looked black, like giant penguins. I saw smaller black figures, too—real penguins nesting near the edge of the shore. For a few moments, I felt like I was going to be okay, like I was going to make it in to shore, but then the Zodiacs abruptly turned farther to the right, and we were headed past the beach for another range of glaciers.

  Finally, it occurred to me that the Orlova had anchored too close to shore for me to swim a mile, so Barry was adding distance by altering the course. And the ship’s captain was on the bridge monitoring our course on his GPS and radioing our Zodiacs, updating them on the distance we had traveled. One of the passengers, Mrs. Stokie, who was on the bridge with him, told me later, “The captain was watching you and he was shaking his head. He was an older man, and he had experienced everything. And now he was seeing something new. It was good for him. Still, I think he couldn’t believe it.”

  We continued on right past the beach, toward more glaciers.

  “How long have I been swimming?” I asked.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Barry said.

  I had swum a little more than half a mile. I looked up at the shore. If I turned left, I could make it in. I could reach the shore. This struggle could be over. But I wouldn’t complete the mile. I had swum farther two days before. But I was tired now, and this was so much harder. I just didn’t feel right. I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. I kept talking to myself, coaching myself to keep going. Then I felt it; it was the water pressure, and it was increasing on my back. It meant there was a strong current behind me. I looked at the glaciers onshore, using the fixed points to gauge how fast the current was flowing. It was flowing at over a knot. I wondered if I would have enough strength to fight it when we turned around and headed back for the beach. It would cut my speed by half and could cause me to lose heat more rapidly.

  Barry and the crew in the Zodiacs couldn’t feel what was happening. They had no idea we were moving into a risky area. If the current grew any stronger, it could cost us the swim. Barry motioned for me to swim past a peninsula and across a narrow channel. I lifted my head and pulled my hands di
rectly under my chest, to gain more lift, so I could look across the bay and see if we had any other options for landing. There were no alternatives. This made me very uncomfortable. Chances were good that there would be a strong current flowing into or out of the narrow bay. And if we got caught in that current, all would be lost.

  We started across the inlet, and within a moment I could feel that second current, slamming into our right side at two knots, pushing us into the inlet. Without any explanation, I spun around, put my head down, dug my arms into the water, and crabbed into the current. I focused on repositioning myself so I could parallel shore again and head toward Neko Harbor. Barry knew I knew what I was doing. But the abrupt course change caught the Zodiac drivers by surprise. They scattered in different directions, trying to avoid ramming into each other and trying to catch up with me. The motor on the lead Zodiac on my left sputtered and stopped. The second Zodiac immediately pulled up beside me. I sprinted against the current.

  “How long have I been swimming?”

  “Twenty-one minutes,” Barry said. He and all the crew were watching me intently, their faces filled with tension and concern.

  I put my head down, and something suddenly clicked. Maybe it was because I knew shore was within reach, or maybe because I got a second wind; I don’t know. But I was finally swimming strongly, stretching out and moving fluidly My arms and legs were as cold as the sea, but I felt the heat within my head and contained in my torso and I thrilled to it, knowing my body had carried me to places no one else had been in only a bathing suit. I looked down into the water; it was a bright blue-gray and so clear that it appeared as if I were swimming through air. The viscosity of the water was different, too; it was thicker than any I had ever swum in. It felt like I was swimming through gelato. And I got more push out of each arm stroke than I ever had before. I looked at the crew. They were leaning so far over the pontoons, as if they were right there with me. I needed to let them know I was okay.

  I lifted my head, took a big breath, and shouted, “Barry, I’m swimming to Antarctica!”

  I saw the smiles, heard the cheers and laughs, and I felt their energy lift me. They were as thrilled as I was. I swam faster, extending my arms, pulling more strongly, reaching for the shores of Antarctica. Now I knew we were almost there.

  The crew was shouting warnings about ice. I swerved around two icebergs. Some chunks looked sharp, but I was too tired to care. I swam into whatever was in my path. It hurt, but all I wanted now was to finish.

  As we neared shore, I lifted my head and saw the other passengers from the Orlova, in their bright red and yellow hats and parkas, tromping down the snowbanks, spreading their feet and arms wide for balance, racing to the water’s edge to meet us. I lifted my foot and waved and saw my crew break into bigger smiles.

  I’m almost done, I thought. I feel okay. I feel strong. I feel warm inside. My arms and legs are thirty-two degrees. But I feel good. I can stretch out my strokes and put my face in the water. Maybe I can go a little farther. Maybe I can see what more I can do. Maybe I can swim five or ten more minutes. Or maybe I should be happy with what I’ve done. My skin is so cold I can’t feel it, and when I stop swimming, I don’t know how far my temperature’s going to drop. I looked at my watch. Twenty-three minutes. I’d been in a minute longer than two days before. How much difference would a minute make? I asked myself. How much difference is there between thirty-two-degree and thirty-three-degree water? Remember what Dr. Keatinge said: once your temperature starts to drop, it will drop very fast. If you continue swimming, you’re going to cool down even more. Remember how hard you shivered last time? Remember how much work it was? Remember how uncomfortable you were? This is the place where people make mistakes, when they’re tired and cold and they push too far into the unknown. You could really hurt yourself. Finish now. You’ve done a good job. Be satisfied with what you’ve done. Go celebrate with your friends.

  Turning in toward shore, I again lifted my foot and waved it, and my friends waved back and cheered. One hundred yards from shore, I saw chinstrap penguins sliding headfirst, like tiny black toboggans, down a steep snowbank. When they reached the base of the hill, they used their bristly tails like brakes, sticking them into the snow to stop their momentum. They waddled across the beach at full tilt, holding their wings out at their sides for balance. Reaching the water, they dove in headfirst, then porpoised across it, clearing it by one or two feet with each surface dive. They tucked their wings back by their sides so they would be more aerodynamic. When they neared the Zodiacs, they dove and flapped their wings under the water as if they were flying through air. It was amazing to think this was the only place they would fly. They zoomed under me in bursts of speed, and their bubbles exploded like white fireworks. More penguins joined in. One cannonballed off a ledge, another slipped on some ice and belly flopped, and three penguins swam within inches of my hands. I reached out to touch one, but he swerved and flapped his wings, so he moved just beyond my fingertips. I had no idea why they were swimming with me, but I knew it was a good sign; it meant there were no killer whales or leopard seals in the area.

  When I reached knee-deep water, Dan jumped in, ran through the water, looped his arm through mine, and helped me stand. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes. We made it!” I said.

  Everyone around me was crying. Susan Adie helped Dan pull me up the incline. Martha wrapped a towel around my shoulders. Barry hugged me tightly. Laura and Susan began drying me off. I was so cold I was already starting to shiver hard. My legs were stiffer than after the other swim. The crew helped me into the Zodiac and I flopped onto the floor. Laura and Susan piled on top of me to protect me from the wind, and we pounded across the water, my head slamming into the Zodiac’s floor. I managed to lift my head so that someone could place a hand under it to buffer the impact. I was so cold and stiff and shaking harder than before.

  When we reached the Orlova, it took me a minute to stand, to gain my balance, and as I climbed the ramp’s steps I clung to the railing and pulled myself up, shaking hard. By the time I reached the top of the ramp, my teeth were chattering and I was breathing harder and faster than when I had been swimming. I didn’t like being so cold. I didn’t like my body having to work so hard. My temperature had dropped to 95.5 degrees, and I couldn’t control my shaking. I just let go, and my body bounced up and down with shakes and shivers.

  Quickly Martha and Dan and the three doctors huddled around me like emperor penguins, and their combined comfort and body heat began to warm me. It seemed as if I would never stop shaking, and I was completely exhausted. Within half an hour my shivering had subsided to small body shudders. Once I was able to stand and maintain my balance, the doctors helped me pull on a special top and pants that had been designed by a friend. She had sewn pockets under the arms, in the groin area, and into a scarf and had placed chemical packs that emitted heat inside the pockets. Their placement in the clothing warmed the major blood-flow areas of my body so that I was heated from the inside out. It was effective, and within an hour my temperature was back to normal.

  That night we celebrated with everyone aboard the Orlova. I had swum the first Antarctic mile—a distance of 1.06 miles, in fact—in thirty-two-degree water in twenty-five minutes. I had been able to do what had seemed impossible because I’d had a crew who believed in me and in what we as human beings were capable of. It was a great dream, swimming to Antarctica.

  Afterword

  When we sailed into Ushuaia harbor, Dan Cohen and I were standing on the bow of the Orlova, watching the Andes Mountains that embraced the city become steeper as the city grew larger and the gap between the sea and land diminished. Off to the right of the Orlova, we saw an Argentine coast guard cutter racing toward us, and it pulled up alongside us. Eight or nine men in uniform moved to the ship’s stern. The men onboard jumped up and down, waved, and cheered. It took me a few minutes to realize what they were doing. Someone blew the cutter’s horn three times. Dan and I waved
and applauded them. I wondered how they had known about the swim, and then I remembered that I had seen the bright red Argentine navy ship, the Antarctica, in the Gerlache Strait. When I completed the swim in Neko Harbor, Susan Adie had radioed the other ships in the area, including the Antarctica, to let them know about our success. The navy must have called the coast guard, who in turn escorted us all the way to the docks, giving us a hero’s welcome.

  For the next month few people knew about the swim, but when the story came out in The New Yorker and on 60 Minutes II and I was invited on the David Letterman show, I heard from friends and family I hadn’t heard from in years.

  I gave a lecture to a group of elementary and high school teenagers in Callaway, Nebraska, and was asked countless questions about the Antarctica swim and my other swims before it. One of the questions that made me pause was from a seven-year-old boy. He asked, “If you had a goal and worked very very hard toward it, but you didn’t accomplish it, would you still be happy?” I wondered what kind of goal a seven-year-old could have worked so hard toward and not achieved, and how such a young boy could have such a profound question.

  I answered him as best I could: “I would have been happy that I tried to reach my goal, but if I didn’t succeed, I would want to go back and figure out what I thought I needed to do to accomplish it, and then try again.”

  He smiled and nodded; he appeared to understand so much beyond his years. I still wonder about him and if what I told him was helpful. One friend said I should have told him to reevaluate his goals and to lower the bar if the goal was too high. I asked myself if I would follow that advice, and I decided that’s not the way I do things. I don’t lower the bar. Maybe it’s because the bar’s not high enough or maybe it’s because I work toward goals in reachable steps. The swim to Antarctica was the culmination of thirty years of swimming and two years of complete focus on one big goal. Achieving it was satisfying, and I know that that success will now allow me to do something more. It may be in swimming or another adventure—I don’t know yet. I do know that the nerves in my fingers, toes, and skin are regrowing, and I’m gradually getting the sensation back; it will just take time for my body to fully recover. Until then I’ll be thinking about what’s next, and beginning to work toward it.