Six Miles for a Cure

Open Water Log
July 28, 2009

Exactly three days ago, at 5:45 Eastern time, I was sitting in a small outboard motorboat tied to the dock at Larchmont Yacht Club in Westchester County, New York. The stars were still out when I’d arrived at 5 to check in for the 6-mile swim. Stars were a good sign. It meant the sky had cleared after the long night of thunderstorms. I was awake on and off all night listening to them.

Now dawn was breaking and the eastern sky shone pink over the still harbor. Tide was ebbing to a dead low. My boat captain, Walt, was on his third cigarette, and I was choking.

Relieved when he’d finished his last drag, I was struck by the irony. This was a swim to help find a cure for cancer, after all. Walt threw the butt overboard. It sizzled and I watched it float under the dock. I wondered what other floating debris I might encounter during my three-hour tour.

It was July 25, 2009, the date of the 17th annual Long Island Sound Swim. In spite of the worst economy in 20 years, this Swim Across America fundraiser had drawn the largest number of swimmers to date. Most would swim the one-mile event. Some would swim the four-mile event. I was one of four registered to swim the full distance from Glen Cove, Long Island back to Larchmont. It would be my longest open water swim to date.

As we awaited the other three swimmers at the dock, Walt answered my navigational questions. The total distance was 6.2 miles point to point. I could see for myself that there’d be no waves to contend with. There wasn’t a ripple in the water. In a shorter swim, I’d always be up for waves, but today, I was perfectly content with calm. The swim would be direct, Walt said, because the tide was still on its way out and wouldn’t turn until around 8:25. By then, I figured, I’d be more than halfway across and the incoming tide might even help push me to shore.


Tides can push you to either side of your intended landing spot, forcing you to plan ahead and navigate accordingly. Ever since this tide had reached its high mark earlier that morning at 1:56 a.m., lunar gravity had been pulling more than eight feet of water out of the Sound. That’s a lot of drainage. As the moon rotates around the Earth, the bulging tides follow it to either side of the planet, producing two lows and two highs every 24 hours. The fuller the moon, the higher and lower the tides. Today, according to Walt, the tide would not pose any issues for me and I believed the old salt.

Just then, one of the other four swimmers boarded our boat. I was eager to meet her. She was a tiny woman, with the build of a marathon runner: no body fat and legs like sticks. She held in her arms a full wet suit.

With Sound temperatures fluctuating somewhere between 65 and 70, I had been feeling anxious all week. I’d never been in water this temperature for three hours before. I had brought my sleeveless “shorty” wetsuit with me just in case. Earlier that morning on the dock I had met a triathlete from San Diego. I noticed he was wearing an Ironman Arizona baseball cap, so I struck up a conversation. I wanted his advice. I told him of my dilemma: to wear a wet suit or not to wear a wet suit. In more than 40 open water swims, including several in the chilly San Francisco Bay, I had never worn one.

“I’d wear it,” said the triathlete.

“Yes, but you’re used to wearing them. You’re a triathlete,” I said.

“Yeah, but I was a swimmer before I became a triathlete. It’s not a race, remember. It’s just a fun swim. Believe me, you’re going to want the wetsuit.”

My decision was made. Wetsuit it is. Now, the skinny swimmer in my boat was strenuously pulling on hers. It was thick and shiny, like seal skin.

“Have you done this swim before?” I asked.

“This will be my third time,” she said. “I’m really slow. It takes me so long. I can run 200 miles no problem, but this is the one event where I feel like I could truly drown,” she said. “The only reason I do it is for a friend,” she added.

“I’m doing it for a friend, too,” I said, pointing to Paul’s photo which I’d had enlarged on fabric and pinned to my tee-shirt. Paul had lost his battle with cancer two months earlier. When Paul got sick, I felt so helpless. When he passed away, I wanted to pay tribute to him in some meaningful way. It seemed fitting that I was swimming today in his memory, raising money doing something I love for someone who loved swimming as much as I do.

“I did the four-mile distance here two years ago, but this will be my first time doing six,” I offered.

“Well, the four is more like three and the six is more like eight,” said the marathoner flatly.

My heart sank. Eight miles? Was this woman kidding or just trying to psych me out?

“Last year, the GPS had me going 7.2 miles and it took me more than four hours,” she said.

With currents, a person could easily swim an extra mile or more. But that was not likely today. Either way, I was here to embrace the challenge, whatever it held. There was no room for negativity in my head. Just then, as if by divine providence, a large blue boat pulled up to our dock.

“Why don’t you take Jillian over with you so she can get started,” Walt yelled to the blue boat’s captain. He nodded. And with that, the marathon runner hopped out with her wetsuit half on and boarded the other boat.

They pulled away, carrying the last of the kayaks and paddlers that would accompany the six-mile swimmers.

Walt said, “She does this swim every year, but she is really slow. Best she get a head start.” That sounded like a great idea to me.

Meanwhile, we waited. And waited. I was enjoying the tranquil view from the boat. (That's Long Island in the distance). Walt was getting more and more impatient. He alternated dialing his cell phone, swearing under his breath, and shouting into his walkie talkie. “Where are those other swimmers?” he kept saying.

Long minutes passed. How could anyone be this late? I was getting antsy myself. I’d gotten up at 4 so I could be here at 5. Now it was already 6:15 and we hadn’t even left the dock.

Finally, after lighting his fifth cigarette, Walt got a hold of someone on his radio. Turned out the swimmers we’d been waiting for were already across the Sound, waiting for us. “Yup, they’re ready to start,” came the voice on the other end. “Where are you?”

“We’ll be right over,” Walt said, meaning we’d be there in 15 minutes. “I don’t know how they snuck by us,” he muttered. He fired up the motor, untied the lines and carved a slow swath out of the harbor.

When we got past the no-wake zone, he opened it up for a smooth ride across the Sound. It was about 70 degrees and hazy, with visibility of about four miles or so. I made note of landmarks along the way. Behind us loomed the latest Trump Tower, one of many high rises to which The Donald has sold his name. It was the tallest building visible on the Westchester shoreline and would be the landmark I would site on my return swim.

The water remained flat as we maneuvered through several thick lines of debris. Debris tends to accumulate in lines where currents or tides converge. Mostly, it looked like seaweed to me. No shoes or tires or anything. Even though something like 54 Long Island Sound beaches were reportedly closed three days earlier after heavy rains produced unhealthy storm drain runoff, the Sound indeed looked clean to me. Still, I intended to swim with my head up through those slicks.

In mid channel, a sturdy tugboat pushed a massive barge southward toward New York City, which lay somewhere through the haze off to our right. We passed about a ¼ mile behind the barge and could still see and feel the churning of the tugboat’s propeller wash. Ahead, the Long Island shoreline was coming into view. First, Sands Point with its large estates came up to my right, then into Glen Cove we went. It is a deep, wide cove that continues to narrow for more than two miles into Hempstead Harbor, with shore points marked by green trees as far as you can see on both sides.

About a thousand yards from our landing beach to the left (Morgan Memorial State Park?) we finally saw the kayaks and other boats. The three other swimmers were already in the water, making their way towards us. They had started without me. I was disappointed but I didn’t blame them. We slowed to neutral and my kayaker, whose name I never even caught, paddled up to us.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Captain Walt.

His comment caught me off guard. I was still in my clothes. As I scrambled to disrobe and put on my wetsuit, I asked the kayaker, “Where did they start from?”

“They started back there,” he pointed to a deserted beach. “You can start here, and swim with them, or you can start back there from the shore, it’s up to you.”

That was a silly question. “I’d like to start from the beach if that’s okay.” I hadn’t come all this way to cut it short.

Walt put it back in gear and motored me in as far as he could at low tide. “That’s as far as I can bring you,” he said.

“Do you have anything you want me to carry for you?” said the kayaker.

I’d nearly forgotten. I dug into my bag and passed him an orange Gatorade and a few packets of “Gu” I’d picked up at the bike store in Tucson.

Tucking my hair into my cap and affixing my goggles, I asked Walt “is it in neutral?”

“Yup,” he said.

And with that, I jumped feet first off the gunwale. Water filled my wetsuit. It didn’t feel as cold as it had the week before, when I’d arrived from Tucson and did my first practice swim. At that time, it had taken me 10 minutes just to get in, and another two minutes to regulate my breathing. After that, it felt great. My brother’s boat registered the temperature that day at 66 degrees. Today, I figured it must be warmer, even with last night’s rain and the early morning hour. Still, it was borderline wetsuit weather to me and I was glad I’d put mine on. At least that worry was behind me. I’d never swum 6 miles anywhere except in an 80 degree pool, and only a few times at that. This was new territory.

I stroked about 100 yards into shore. I used it as a warm up, swimming until I could clearly see the bottom. Visibility is never great in the Sound, but it was better than my swim here two years before when warmer water brought with it blooms of algae giving the water a hideous yellowish-brown tint. This year, it looked closer to a sea foam green to me. Visibility was three to four feet.

When I was in close enough to firmly stand, I put my feet down on muddy silt and turned to face my kayaker.

“So which way do you want to go?” he said. Very funny.

“How about I just follow you,” I said.

“Good, I’ll stay on your left, and I’ll be here whenever you need anything,” he assured me. “Whenever you’re ready.”

I liked my kayaker already. His presence was indeed reassuring, considering I’d be swimming the whole way alone. My only goal, besides finishing, was to pass the marathon runner in the full wetsuit. I could see her splashing off ahead in the distance. I figured she had about 500 yards on me. I checked my watch. It was 6:35. “Okay,” I said, “here I go.”

And just like that, on my own command, I was propelling myself across the Sound.

I felt good from the start. Never cold and never hot. The wet suit was not too cumbersome. It was very lightweight. And thankfully, I felt no sign of the injuries that had been plaguing me the past several weeks: the pulled latissimus dorsi/rib strain; the sprained toe; the hematoma on my shin; the shin splints; or the bruised hand. Some were the result of overtraining. Most were from sheer clutziness. Ice and Advil were my best new friends, along with Gary, my chiropractor, Nadine, my massage therapist, and Stan, my acupuncturist. In company like this, I felt a bit like Dara Torres minus the talent, not to mention the 12-pack abs.

Training for this particular swim, I learned many good lessons. When your muscles get fatigued, treat them kindly with plenty of rest and massage. The harder you work, the more recovery you need—not less. Start your taper before you pull a muscle doing a simple sprint. Don’t walk too closely or too fast behind your dog, lest she stick a leg in front of your toe on your way down the hallway to watch Wimbledon finals on t.v. Don’t go for long walks in borrowed tennis shoes, no matter how pretty the scenery. And definitely don’t wear stupid heels into Manhattan; you might do a swan dive down the stairs trying to catch the train.

A superstitious person might have construed such incidents as one big reason to call it quits. But a half hour into this swim, I knew I was right where I belonged. The yellow kayak was to my left, and Walt was hovering somewhere downwind. I couldn’t smell his fuel fumes or his cigarettes.

But sliding between my fingers I could certainly feel a million jelly lumps. Leidy’s comb jellies, or sea walnuts, are harmless, clear gelatinous jellyfish that are abundant in Long Island Sound. They feed on plankton. If I focused my eyes close enough, I could see their multitudes through my goggles. Big ones. Little ones. And lots of ‘em. It was as though I was swimming in jellyfish soup. I wondered what would happen if I swallowed one.

Within the first hour, I passed the marathon runner and her escorts. She wasn’t as slow as she and Walt let on. But I never saw her again after that, nor the other swimmers, wherever they were. The shoreline finally fell away first to my right and then to my left, and I knew I was finally parallel to Sands Point. I still hadn’t left Long Island. I had also come up on the first slick of debris. I lifted my head and said “Eww.”

“It’s a lot of yuk,” said my kayaker. “Keep your mouth closed.”

I did. Head up, I stroked through the slimy brown seaweed and foam. I glanced at my watch. I’d been swimming for an hour and ten minutes. More than one-third of the way there.

"Do you want something to drink?” said my kayaker. It was so nice to have company.

“Sure, I’ll take a sip.” I floated on my back and raised my goggles. He handed me the orange Gatorade and I took a few swigs. It tasted sweet. I’d never had the luxury of hydrating during a swim. Or stopping. Or conversing for that matter. “Where are we?” I asked.

“About two miles out. There are the four-mile swimmers ready to start.” He pointed to the left where I could see many boats bobbing off Sands Point in the distance.

“There are so many jelly fish in here,” I told him.

“Really, did you get stung?”

“No, they’re just the clear ones,” I said.

“Last year, my swimmer got stung twice in the face by red jellyfish, he said. “It was really bad. But it was much warmer last year,” he added.

I’d seen those nasty red jellyfish in these waters. But not today. I handed him back the Gatorade. Replaced my goggles, and said, “Thanks, okay, let’s go.”

I did about ten strokes of backstroke then flipped over and continued stroking. The wet suit was beginning to irritate my skin around the arm holes, particularly on the front side of my right shoulder. I had meant to borrow some Vaseline or Glide from one of the other swimmers but never got the chance. The tingling was very minor. I put it out of my mind.

A little while later, a spied a new boat coasting just off my right side. I breathed right a few more times and saw three men waving. I recognized the man holding a green bottle. Yes. It was my husband, Bill. I popped my head up and lifted my goggles.

“Hey, you made it!” I said, genuinely surprised. He’d been dead asleep when I left the house at 4:30. I checked my watch again. It was 8:30. I’d been swimming for nearly two hours.

“These are my friends, Todd and George, and this is my husband, Bill,” I explained to the kayaker who waved hello. I felt like I was at a cocktail party in the middle of the Sound.

“How are you feeling?” Bill asked.

“Chafed,” I said. The irritation had grown from mild to bothersome. “You?” He smiled and raised his beer. Hair of the dog. We’d been out at a friend’s 50th birthday party the night before. I’d been the first to leave at 11:30 and drove a half hour home in a downpour. He got a ride home and stumbled in after 2.

“Where are we now?” I asked my trusty kayaker.

“About half way.”

Only half way? It couldn’t be. I must be closer. I could clearly see the Trump Tower now. I didn’t want to look back, afraid that Long Island would appear closer. After breaststroking through some more “yuk” I put my head down and swam. I focused on long, accelerated pulls. My friends stayed with me for a time, then sped off. I told them it would be boring. Later I learned they’d given their last beer to the blue boat’s captain and needed to replenish their cooler.

As I continued to swim, I could sense the change in the tide. I felt like the current was with me now. After a while, my kayaker signaled me left. I followed. Three more times, he signaled me left again. He was good. We were a team. Either I was swimming crooked, or the tide was pushing me north.

After about a half hour of this, I felt unmistakable turbulence beneath my body, like I’d swum over a scuba diver. I looked down but could see nothing but darkness. I lifted my head and saw nothing on the surface. But I had my suspicions. “Am I in a school of fish?” I asked. I’d seen boils of baitfish all week out on the Sound.

“I don’t see anything,” the kayaker calmly said.

“Well, I feel them. Not their bodies, just their current.” It was eery. But before I had time to worry about being caught up in a Bluefish feeding frenzy, the mysterious current and whatever was causing it disappeared. Darn. I was hoping it might be porpoises. They’ve been spotted in the Sound, apparently. Something new since I lived there, like coyotes and Lyme disease.

By now I could clearly see the red roof shingles of the Larchmont Yacht Club, an imposing structure that looked really close, about 15 minutes away, I figured. I was relieved because my shoulders were really aching now, my arms had gotten very heavy, my stroke rate had slowed and I was getting hungry. Plus, the chafe had now spread to my left armpit, the back of my neck and my lats. And to add insult to injury, something venomous had gotten inside my suit.

15 minutes of purposeful swimming and the building looked no closer than before. But that’s impossible. Could I really be swimming that slow? Every stroke was a chore. And then suddenly I saw the bottom up close. Rocks covered with starfish. Lots of them. I popped my head up. “Hey, I can see the bottom here.” But I was a long ways from the beach.

“That’s not good. We must be on a shoal. We better veer left and get you around it safely. Be careful!”

We took a sharp left, away from my intended target. I was swimming very slowly and with care, examining every rock and starfish below. It was no more than 3 feet deep. I could have stood up. Finally, the bottom fell away again and my kayaker led me back around to the landing beach. There were other swimmers now. I could see their caps. I could see people on the beach. Another kayaker joined me to my right. “You’re almost there,” he smiled.

But I was not almost there. It was yet another 15 minutes of painful swimming until I finally reached shore. And no sandy beach was this. The bottom was covered with large, slimy rocks. Very difficult to stand. Impossible to walk on. I tried. I fell backwards, nearly taking someone out. “Sorry,” I said, and I sat there, trying to figure out how I was ever going to stand much less walk over these round slimy rocks without breaking my tailbone. I sculled forward until it became too shallow. Then I crawled on my hands and feet like a crab. A hand reached out. I grabbed it. I was up. I had finished. I limped off the rocks.

The time on my watch was 9:50. I’d crossed the Sound in three hours and 15 minutes. I could barely lift my arms when someone offered me a towel. I wondered how anyone crosses the English Channel at race speed for nine hours, then fights through those wicked currents to reach the rocky coast of France. It was unfathomable to me. This was a leisure swim by comparison. I trudged up the beach to check in. Oops. Then I remembered that I’d left my kayaker somewhere back in the shallows without so much as a goodbye. I didn’t have a chance to thank him. I don’t even know his name.

I hope he knows how much I appreciated his calm demeanor and able assistance during my swim. Hundreds of volunteers like him made this event possible. This year’s Long Island Sound Swim raised $850,000. One small step in the fight against cancer; one giant leap for me. Thank you for taking the journey with me. Stay well.

Other Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank a number of other people who supported me on this swim, including Susan Scheerer, for allowing me the honor of swimming in memory of Paul; all of you who wished me well and made donations to Swim Across America for my 2009 Swim for a Cure (together, we have raised $7,395, with more pledged and always welcome at www.swimacrossamerica.org/swimforacure); Mary Bellin, for making the beautiful commemorative quilt; Andrew Clark of Performance Fitness, for making me strong; Coach Jordan Stoughton, for helping me swim better, longer; my husband Bill, for all his patience, help with fundraising and getting me ice; my brother Peter and family for hosting us all week back east; Janel Jorgenson, for running such a great organization; and all of my swim mates at Skyline Masters Swim Club, for sharing their love of swimming with me.

And to everyone out there who is battling cancer: Hang in there. Fight the good fight. Until there's a cure, we'll keep making waves. (Click here to see a map of the Long Island Sound.) To learn more or join my swim for a cure, click here. Ever dollar counts!