Swimming the Sound

Swim Across America, a non-profit organization that raises funds for cancer-fighting causes around the U.S., offers several Long Island Sound swims every summer. I’d always wanted to swim across the Sound and four miles from Sands Point to Larchmont, NY sounded just right to me. I signed up for the July 28 event. It would be my longest open water swim to date. My personal goal was to raise $5,000.

Throughout the spring and summer of 2007, I continued my usual pool training, four or five days a week, about 15,000 yards or so. I also began to reach out to family and friends with news of my fundraising endeavor. I invited them to join June’s Swim for a Cure, and to my delight, they responded with enthusiasm.

This edition of my Open Water Log takes you inside my final preparations for the swim and the event itself. Together with my generous team of supporters, we accomplished something we can all be proud of. Over 50 donors have so far joined me in raising more than $8,000 for Swim Across America and its cancer-fighting beneficiaries. I am ever so grateful to my fundraising team. I promised them all a full account. This is their story as much as it is mine.


Friday, July 20, 2007

With one week to go before my big swim, I woke up in Santa Barbara half way through a Southern California college tour. To my delight I discovered a wonderful long-course pool located directly across the street from our hotel—and they had a Master’s workout. I was in heaven. We spent the day touring UCSB. Then, before joining the evening workout, I walked down to the nearby beach with my kids, with every intention of taking a dip in the ocean, my second of the season. The first had been a chilly, heart-jolting dive off the back of a sailboat off Catalina Island in mid June. People I know swim from that island 20+ miles across the shipping lanes back to Long Beach, without wetsuits—at night! Even in the blazing morning sun, I couldn’t withstand the bone-chilling temperature long enough to swim more than a few pathetic strokes. I’m guessing it was in the low 50s that day, better suited to the California Gray Whale I’d seen mid channel the day before.

At the beach in Santa Barbara now, I watched several swimmers enter and exit what appeared to be a busy swimming bay. Most were clad in wet suits—bad omen. Moments after we’d set down our towels, we watched a large pod of dolphins swim across my intended path. Exciting, and unnerving. After the large animals had moved up the coast and out of sight, I waded up to my knees into the murky, kelp-filled surf and stood there a long while before beating a reluctant retreat. As I sat back down on the beach watching my kids play in the waves, they egged me on. “Come on Mom, you like this, remember?”

I tried the positive approach. I do love the ocean, I do, I do, I do. Then the cowardly lion in me set my sunny side straight. I just don’t particularly like the thought of swimming out there all by myself…in unfamiliar waters…that you can’t even see through. This was typical self talk at the edge of the unknown. I’d been there many times. It was important mental exercise. The winner of the conversation would either be the hero or the victim. I knew I really had no choice.

After about 20 minutes of see-sawing, I mustered the nerve and ventured in long enough to swim about 250 uneasy yards out around one buoy and back. I wasn’t exactly hyperventilating. It was chilly, but not numbing. Still, I couldn’t see a thing below me. And nobody (at least nobody that I know of) was beside me. I was trying my best not to sprint.

Safely back on shore, I was elated. The accomplishment of overcoming my fear was far more satisfying than the swim itself had been, short as it was. My mental workout was officially over and it was a good one. I had emerged the hero. Wet and salty I arrived just in time for my physical workout in the pool.

I always enjoy dropping in on Masters workouts when I travel. As a visiting swimmer, choosing a lane is always a crap shoot. You don’t want to choose one that’s too fast, nor too slow. In this case, I sized up my pool mates on deck and chose the middle lane. It was a lucky guess. My two lane mates and I were right on par—except for one thing: It was backstroke day. This meant trading places. I’d lead in the freestyle sets, then I’d lag in the backstroke and kick sets. 3,100 meters later (half of them backstroke), my back muscles were thanking me, I think.

July 22, 2007

Today, down the coast a ways, I was finally able to swim long, comfortable “laps” along the beach, just outside the surf zone. I was in San Clemente, just north of the pier. The sky was overcast and drops fell intermittently. The water was clearer and much warmer than in Santa Barbara. The lifeguard stand said 68 degrees, but it felt more like 78. The surf was relatively flat, but my kids and I caught some good “body whompers” nonetheless. Yes, I do like this. I do, I do, I really do. And in less than one week, I reminded myself, I’ll be on the other coast, swimming across Long Island Sound.

“Ewwww, aren’t there, like, dirty diapers floating in that water?”
“How far is that?”
“Isn’t it freezing there?”
“You’re crazy.”

“I’ll let you know.”
“Four miles.”
“No, not in July.”
“Crazy for open water.”

I can’t help it. I was born half fish and raised in a salt water pool. Long Island Sound holds a special place in my heart. I grew up on the Connecticut side, gazing across its vast breadth at that piece of land, often wondering what it would be like to swim to the other side. I’ve seen its coves crusted over by ice in the winter. I’ve been rocked to sleep by its fog horns. I’ve watched sea gulls feast on oysters and mussels from its depths. I’ve fed dozens of loaves of bread to its ducks and swans. I’ve seen hurricane force winds whip it into a frenzy. I’ve sailed on it, waterskiied on it, hauled fish out of it, boated on it, fallen in it with my clothes on, and yes, swum in it countless times--just not yet across it.

I’d have to cross the country to get there first.

July 26, 2007

We rose at 4 a.m. Tucson time. By the time we laid our heads on our pillows in Connecticut that night, it was after midnight, east coast time. It had been a full, exhausting day of weather-related travel delays. I was glad I had a whole day to rest up before my event.

July 27, 2007

After waking up early to take my nieces to their swim practice, I enjoyed a nice swim in my original “home” pool, 25-meters of salt water, followed by a dip in the Sound. It was high tide, calm and perfect. The thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon never came. It was a beautiful day. The rest I so badly needed never materialized. I visited with old friends for dinner until way too late. Before retiring, I printed out the directions to Larchmont Yacht Club off the internet, and packed my swim bag—towel, water, goggles, and cap. It was after midnight again when I climbed into bed in the guest room on the second floor of the house where I grew up. My old neighborhood is surrounded on three sides by water, the same water I’d be swimming in just a few short hours from now.

July 28, 2007 Event Day

Predictably, I hardly slept a wink for the third night in a row. Intermittent rain showers pelted the roof throughout the night and early morning hours. In my semi-conscious state, I imagined stormy seas swallowing boats outside the windows. I was so tired from sleep deprivation. I half hoped that rain would force the event to be cancelled--just so I could sleep in.

The dawn was just breaking when I rose at 5:15. I peeked outside: The rain had stopped. A dull throb knocked inside my skull and I immediately downed two Advils. I brushed my teeth, put on my suit, slipped on some sweat pants, tee-shirt, hat, and was out the door while the rest of the household slept.

The lightening skies were overcast, and the air felt heavy with moisture. The pavement, leaves and grass were all wet. There was no wind. This was good.

Winding through the canopy of maple trees along the narrow streets of Riverside, mine was the only car on the road. Larchmont Yacht Club is situated a little more than half way between Riverside and New York City. The trip would take just about 30 minutes, I figured. I had left plenty of room for error, in order to ensure my check-in before the mandatory swimmers’ meeting on shore at 7 a.m.

Alone with my thoughts, but for the reassuring GPS voice guiding me to my destination, I was not at all nervous about the swim. I knew the distance would not be a factor, and it looked like the conditions wouldn’t be either. I’d seen glimpses of the Sound along the route. It was like glass. The closer I got, the more excited I became. Still, I strained to keep my bleary eyes open.

It was 6:20 when I pulled into the club parking lot. I found my way to the large tent where volunteers were checking in hundreds of swimmers for the one- and four-mile events. (The six-mile swimmers had been required to check in a whole hour earlier, and were already on their way across the Sound to their starting point on Long Island.)

After a mandatory interview during which I assured an official that I was capable of swimming one mile in less than 30 minutes, he cleared me for check in. I signed the waiver and my arms were marked “252” which matched the number on my neon pink swim cap. Officially registered, I strolled outside and took a seat on the sea wall to wait.

The harbor was peaceful and still, breathtaking with its moored sailboats rising with the bulging tide. The sunrise reflected pink against the lingering rain clouds. In the distance, an egret stood on a rock, eyes fixed on his breakfast in the shallows. To my right, the fog occluded the view of nearby Manhattan, which would have been clearly visible on a clear day. Even Long Island was barely visible through the mist.

I struck up a conversation with another swimmer seated to my left. It was not his first swim across the Sound. This was the 15th anniversary of this event and many locals, I learned, had done it every year. They came in various shapes and sizes, and all ages. Some had lost their hair, indicating an active battle with their disease. Others wore shirts in memory of loved ones lost. Many swam as teams, the team names emblazoned on banners. It was to find a cure that we were all here. In all, I estimated there were about 800 entered in the one-mile event, and about 100 of us entered in the four-mile event. Only four swimmers were doing six miles.

The meeting commenced by the flagpole at 7 sharp, right on cue, and the four-mile swimmers gathered around on the lawn to listen to the race director. It was not a race, we were reminded. Times would be displayed at the finish, but it would be our responsibility to make note of our own times, if we wished. This was a big part of the reason I was so calm. No competitive nerves today.

The incoming tide, we were told, would be pushing us west, toward the city, so we were to keep the large orange buoys lining the course to our left. Sometime during our swim, the tide would go slack. A giant balloon hoisted high above the clubhouse next door at Larchmont Shore Club marked our beach finish. (The distance was actually something less than four miles, I was disappointed to learn.) Kayakers would be present to assist anyone in distress. If we should experience any distress, such as numbness in our hands or feet, we should flag down a kayaker, but NOT try to board the kayak, he repeated. Hypothermia was not to be taken lightly. Boats would be standing by to provide emergency assistance.

I had not even brought my wetsuit with me. The water temperature was reported to be 68 degrees in this part of the Sound. But those thermometers were submerged on weather buoys, three feet under the surface. I guessed it had to be at least 75 on the surface. Very do-able. So why were all these people wearing wet suits, I wondered.

A few minutes later, we were being escorted down to the docks to board one of three large fishing yachts for the 20-minute ride over to Sands Point. I boarded one called The Impatience. The deck was crowded with swimmers who mostly seemed to know each other. One woman had had a baby three months ago. Now that’s brave. She was not wearing a wet suit and looked like an unlikely new mother to me. Her friend commented that she’d tried to keep up with her. They reminisced about the first time they’d done this event, 15 years ago, when they were 27. “The waves were three feet and it was so windy and cold, you couldn’t see anything or anyone around you, and we didn’t think to wear wet suits that year” one of them said.

Like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, you just never know what you’re going to get in open water. You just deal with the conditions Mother Nature dishes out, just as cancer patients deal with their cancer. Today the conditions looked like they’d be smooth as nougat, no nuts.

As we pulled away from Larchmont, the nauseating diesel smell of the engines dispersed. I contemplated the color of the Sound in the propeller wash. It wasn’t anything remotely like the electric blue of the Maui Channel. Nor was it like the chalky aqua hue of the San Francisco Bay, or the warm gray-blue of the Pacific off La Jolla Cove. This was a brownish, greenish, dark gray color with a hint of orange, perhaps. I could not quite put my finger on it. It was a color Ralph Lauren might be bold enough to introduce into his autumn design palette, or not. It really was not pretty.

Aboard the Impatience, I met a guy with a nice smile, from Michigan, or was it Chicago? His name was John. I forget whether John’s boss was one of the event’s founders or a major sponsor, but he’d flown in just for the event. Adopting my tour guide persona, I pointed off the starboard side to where would be New York City but for the poor visibility. “Really?” he sounded impressed as we gazed into the haze. I’d grown up seeing that impressive skyline across the water, and would never forget the day it changed forever.

It was to be John’s first swim ever in Long Island Sound. He’d done a training swim in Lake Michigan the week before. That water’s cold. Now he was squeezing himself into a full wet suit. I helped him stretch out the rubber around his shoulders and zipped him in.

Soon, we slowed to an idle off the coast of Long Island and awaited the 8 a.m. start. There would be an electronic beep signaling us to begin jumping off the sides of the boat and start swimming back from whence we came. Swimmers were now busy greasing themselves up with chafe-resistant salves and sticks. The clouds above looked dark. I put on my cap, goggles and sunscreen. I was ready.

Sands Point looked like it had some nice, private estates on the waterfront, their expansive lawns stretching down to the shore. Gatsby-esque. Kayakers made figure eights around the idling fishing boats. I exchanged waves with Janel Jorgenson on the committee boat. I’d had lunch with the former Olympian/executive director of Swim Across America last Summer on Cape Cod, to discuss the possibility of starting a SAA event in one of Arizona’s lakes. When I’d said hello to her earlier back in Larchmont, she was surprised to see me, and sounded delighted to hear how much money my team had raised.

Now, all the training and fundraising behind me, it was time. The long anticipation for every big swim always comes to an abrupt end. Suddenly, the signal came and people were jumping. I looked around for some empty water below and aimed for it with my pointed toes. I submerged a few feet and came up swimming, careful not to collide with anyone. I would not stop until I got to shore.

It was not the least bit cold on the surface. And there it was again, that color, up close and personal. Was it gold? Was it brown? There was not even a tinge of blue in it. Then again, my goggles were red. In spite of its unidentifiable color, the water was pretty clean. No flotsam or jetsam to speak of. Certainly no dirty diapers. No seaweed. No jellyfish, at least not the big, ugly red ones. (The little clear ones don’t count.) There weren’t even any noticeable lines of frothy brown sludge, the kind that look like the head on a root beer float, that you can usually count on seeing in the Sound, especially after a storm. I was grateful.

The current was with me and the salinity was buoying me high in the water. I stroked on, avoiding other bodies that seemed to be changing direction erratically. The big orange buoys were lining the course to my left, each about ¼ mile apart. They were easy to see and I was on course. Just keep swimming, Dory. Reach and roll. I thought about all of my sponsors, most of whom were asleep in their beds back in Arizona. Their support of my swim and this cause was truly overwhelming. And I thought of the many people I know whose lives have been touched, or snuffed out, by cancer. I swam for them all.

I couldn’t believe it. I felt so good. This could be the easiest open water event ever. Sure, I gulped a few mouthfuls of salt water and who knows what bacteria. But no waves were slapping me up side the head, giving me a black eye. And I was sure there were no man eaters lurking just out of sight, waiting for me to look appetizing. Neither were any man ’o’ wars wrapping their long tentacles around my leg. In fact, nothing at all was stinging me, at least not at first.

About mid race, as the water got noticeably warmer, I did feel a few sea lice stinging me inside my suit. Elsewhere they call them sea wasps. Whatever they are, they’re invisible creatures that inject their poison and leave a small welt, not unlike a mosquito bite. Nothing more than an annoyance. I tried not to think about them.

I broke stride only a few times, to readjust my ill-chosen, too-small suit and navigate through a few areas congested with swimmers. Other than that, it was a straight shot home. I never looked at my watch, but knew from the stiffness in my shoulders when I had about a mile to go. I then started overtaking lots of swimmers with yellow caps. These were the one-mile swimmers who’d started at 9. They were everywhere all at once. I threaded my way through them.

At 9:20, my feet touched down on silt and slippery, seaweed-covered rocks. I was on terra firma again, and weightless no more. I made note of the time on the official race clock as I trudged uphill through the sand.

“Congratulations. How are you feeling?” came a voice. The safety squad was making sure nobody was delirious.

“Fine, I feel great. It was great,” I sputtered. I did feel great, in a tired kind of way.

Wet and wobbly, I checked in at the finish table. They handed me a commemorative medal and a towel. I took them and strained to climb the steep cement steps. My quads were fatigued. I grabbed a Gatorade, put it to my pruned lips, and chugged the sweet beverage down.

Shower. I needed to shower. Those little buggers in my suit had to go. In the locker room, I had to wait for a free stall. One of the six-mile swimmers was washing her hair. “How was it?” I asked. I was wishing I had done the longer event.

“It was awful,” she said. “I was so hot. I almost stopped to take off my wetsuit and throw it in the kayak.” She did not look well. I waited patiently.

After a quick rinse, I discovered my skin was still covered with a thin film of microscopic brownish-green algae. It formed streaks on my new white towel. There was that color again. I felt like I needed another shower. But I also needed breakfast.

A full buffet awaited us and it tasted good. At 10 o’clock a siren sounded, declaring the end of the event. All swimmers that weren’t in by now were brought in. Janel addressed the crowd of swimmers and volunteers, thanking them for making this the longest-standing and most successful of Swim Across America’s numerous fundraising events. Beneficiaries, including Memorial Sloan Kettering, were presented a ceremonious check for One Million Dollars.

Never before had I participated in a fundraising event of this magnitude. Swimming for a cure was awesome. I was grateful for the opportunity to swim four miles in these oddly-tinted yet calm seas and also for the new-found camaraderie with swimmers I’d never met. But the money we raised for a good cause was the best part of this experience, by far.

Total exhaustion was now setting in. I needed sleep, badly. On my way out, I saw John in the crowd. His neck was chafed raw by his wetsuit, but he was still smiling. “See you next year,” he said.

I could barely keep my eyes open on the drive home. A good shower and a nap were in my immediate future. The whole morning felt ethereal. Back in my bed again, I slept soundly, another dream accomplished.

P.S. (Post Swim)
July 29, 2007

We enjoyed a celebratory dinner last night at the home of one of my oldest friends (also a major donor on my Swim for a Cure team). This morning, we departed on a drive up the coast to enjoy a visit with Bill’s sister, Sara, and her family. Sara’s son, Andrew, our seven-year-old nephew, is in his third year of treatment for Leukemia and his immune system is totally compromised. We had arranged to meet in a park, just as we had the last few visits, on account of the germs prevalent in closed public spaces.

Andrew looked like any normal seven-year-old boy, with a gleam in his eye and a cut on his chin. He ran and played with sticks and his eyes gleamed when he un-wrapped the Battleship game we brought him. He didn’t complain when he couldn’t accompany us inside the Gillette Castle. He knows the routine. So do his brother and sister. It’s been this way practically their whole lives, since his initial diagnosis in Spring of 2005, after he complained to his mother that he couldn’t sleep because his bones hurt. At seven, he’s seen more hospital rooms, needles, IVs and pills than anyone should ever have to see. “I threw up this morning,” he told me nonchalantly. Just another part of the routine. Andrew’s treatment is going well and we pray that it continues. He’s looking forward to visiting us in Arizona when he’s all better. Christmas 2008 is the goal.

Even though none of the money raised by Swim Across America goes directly to help Andrew, it will help to prevent suffering among other cancer patients like him, young and old. Until the day a cure is found, we will keep making waves. For more information, or to make a donation to Swim Across America, visit Swim Across America today.