This journey started some
time ago with training and planning. Miles of swimming in the pool and open
water prepared me for this day. Training with nutrition to know when, how much,
and figure out getting nutrition while treading water. Nights of looking at
data and working on form to ensure everything was on track. All this led up to
this day. I was ready.
 |
| Arrow points to Alligator Lighthouse |
We arrived at Islamorada on
Thursday, in time for a little swim. The
waters were shallow for a long ways out. This was the first time of realizing
just how much more salty the water was in this part of the Atlantic.
Immediately upon putting my face in the water my lips became pruny due to the
salt. To add to this was the heat, not the heat on land, it was the heat of the
water. Each step made it clear any cooling reprieve was actually from the air
not the water.
Friday was filled with
island adventures, traveling this way and that way until we had found all the
local dives, shops, and environmental “cool places.” Then it was swim check-in and one last
swim. The course was now marked and one
could see the buoys all the way to the lighthouse, counting all 16. I swam out
to the first buoy. I felt good, my shoulder let loose and I had power when I
needed it. The water was still shallow but my short stroke was working well in
this shallow space. The only thing I
noticed was that out past the yellow buoys the waves were a little higher. I
could see the ripple and the sun dancing on the top of each choppy movement of
the water.
On Saturday, we were up
before the sun, packed and ready to go. The feelings of race morning were all
there- little jitters and excitement. I felt good. I was ready. We hauled gear
down to the water front and got final directions on the start and race course.
It would be a mass start and the start time for the solo swimmers would be with
the two-man teams at 0815. This change was discussed at the safety meeting the
night before and was noted to be due to the low tide. Tide would be shifting
and we would fight it a little going out as it completed its cycle coming in-
what I didn’t know at the time was that I would be fighting it again on the
return as it would then shift to an outgoing tide made stronger by the full
moon state of things. We were prepared for this change and knew it also meant
Patrick being in more of the heat of the day; we packed more water and food to
compensate.
There we were race morning
with food packed, fluids packed, gear ready, sunscreen put on twice. As the
time got close things started to change for me a little, my stomach got upset;
here I was ten minutes to race start and I was running to the bushes to throw
up. I could not throw up and figured it was just nerves, this had happened
before. I went back to the water, was calf deep and again the feeling came over
me, and again I ran to the bushes, nothing happened. With the clock closing
down to the start time, I went back to the water, found Patrick, told him I was
good, and got into position in front of him. The helicopter flew overhead and
the siren sounded. We were off. Once the start went so did we; kayaks and swimmers
causing great chaos, losing each other and finding each other once again,
mixing into each other as we headed out to the lighthouse.
 |
| It is a big ocean. |
I followed my plan push the
first 15 minutes. As others took off and some fell back I pushed, my push. The
15 minutes passed; we were past the first yellow buoy, the lighthouse lay
ahead. There is a quote from the movie Peter Pan, “Second star on the right and
straight on til’ morning.” Alligator Lighthouse was my Netherland in that
moment—sixteen buoys and straight on til’ morning.
I hit my first mile, sub 30
minutes, which given the shallows and currents I felt this put me right where I
wanted to be. The incoming tide was starting to slack some. The water was still
shallow, I could have stood up. The bottom was grassy and covered in a white
silt of crushed coral. The lighthouse was in clear view, even from the water
level. I took in fluids again and pushed forward, amazed at how fast the other swimmers
were as they jetted out in that first mile.
I was happy in my pace and felt strong.
This strong feeling would
unfortunately pass far too soon. At mile 2.3 the race changed for me. I began
throwing up, my whole body was convulsing as I got sick. As strange as it
sounds this all occurred while I was still swimming, throwing up then breathing,
trying to continue on the path. I looked at my watch to see where I was in the
grand scheme of things. When I saw the 2.3 I figured that technically I was
closer to the lighthouse than to shore there was no option but to keep going.
Yep, that made sense. Plus, I am not good at quitting and I had gotten sick in
the water before because of swallowing in saltwater, I figured again this was
no different. I was still at a good even pace right near 30 minutes. For the
net mile the water would get deeper, still nothing much to see. The moon jellies
started to make themselves known. The good thing about moon jellies is you can
mostly swim around them with little effort and if you need to “move” them you
just push them from the top. Granted I still got hit, a lot. This is one of
those moments when I was glad to have a race last year which made the attack of
these jellyfish much more tolerable—one of those “at least it wasn’t that bad
moments.” Third mile brought 30 foot
water and a slight cooling, it also brought some winds. It was still a light
wind causing little chop. My speed was still decreasing but I was at a 33
minute mile which was manageable. My body continued to reject nutrition
including water which came back up within about 10 minutes. The good news at
mile three is there is a HUGE lighthouse that looks to be within reach. The
water was crystal clear reflecting the sun back up on to the beams of the
lighthouse.
Mile four would bring me
great relief. It was in this mile that I would make the loop around the
lighthouse and look back to the shore. I was feeling as good as I could be in
that moment but also very defeated. The water was washing me back and forth at
the turn and I could see the fan coral waving as if to cool the ocean on this
hot day. The fish hide in the fans shaded by the sun, catching only single rays
as the fans danced. Patrick yelled to me, “Take a minute.” There 4.5 miles out
into the Atlantic I looked up at a lighthouse which had guided so many home to
safety, a lighthouse which was a beacon of adventure, a lighthouse which was
now a marker of time gone by. It was strong yet weak, bright yet dull, but
mostly in that moment it was mine standing there for me.
Now with a deep breath
there was one thing left to do, “go home.” This idea of “going home” has gotten
me to many finish lines and back from many runs, bike rides, and swims. There
really is only one option- go home, the best you can.
Once I was around the
lighthouse, which I nearly went around a second time before Patrick yelled for
me to turn back right, the reality of going home hit home. The tides were
shifting (and full moon tides shift hard), no longer was it slack out there,
instead the tide pulled me out back toward the lighthouse. Adding to it the
winds picked up and were pushing us across the water in to the line of buoys
and swimmers still coming out.
Mile five passed slowly and
with my body feeling more tired. The tidal pull got stronger and was quickly
becoming stronger than me. As we got out into the deeper water again the tide
and the winds were against us. Patrick worked hard to stay out on my right side
but after me hitting him a few times, or him hitting me (pick your side of the
argument) he moved to my left. He would paddle ahead to line me up and then
drift over and back with the water’s motion.
My watch buzzed marking
another mile, mile six, 53 minutes popped up on the screen and my heart sank. Tears
welled up in my eyes. Part of me was disappointed, this was the slowest mile I
can ever remember swimming. Part of me was frustrated, I was trying to push and
this was the best I could do. Part of me was sad, unsure if I would make it the
remaining four miles. As a nutrition break came up, Patrick came close handing
me two blocks to eat. I told him it wasn’t possible and he yelled, “take them.”
As I did he told me to chew fast and swim. I told him my mile time and he
yelled, “swim!” I tried to tell him about the current and he yelled “swim!” I
released my hand from the kayak and I swam in that moment. It was all I could do.
Halfway into mile six and
after I had started to swim again post water break, I stopped in the water
waving Patrick to come close. Again I got sick. This time was different
thought, this time I had to hold on to the kayak for fear I would sink to the ocean
floor as my body tensed. Patrick looked at me and he didn’t ask if I was okay,
he told me I was. He took a pause then told me to swim. You might be reading
this and thinking, “oh my goodness why did he make her swim?” The answer is
because he knew I needed to swim. He knew the best place for me was on land and
that getting there by boat and calling the race at this point was not an
option. He was right.
As I was in the tides being
pushed off course by the winds, my mind started to wander. Turns out it is true
that not all who wander are lost. I started playing movie lines in my head. My
favorite at this point was the line of Jeff Goldblum’s in Jurassic Park 2, “Oh
yeah. Oooh, aahhh, that’s how it always starts. Then later there’s running and,
um, screaming.” That summed up my journey thus far—ooohs and ahhhh and now
screaming.
On the way back it was
slow, miles six, seven, and eight, all in the 53 minute mark. I could not will
my body to go faster or push harder, but I was pushing I knew that. I remember
what my coach had said, “You know your body, work the plan knowing your body.
The conditions will be what they will be.” I could not control the current or
the winds, I could not make the water cooler, I could not make the sun less
bright, but I could tell my body to keep working. As I pushed along through
these miles, my body grew weaker and my mind tired. But in those moments when
my mind went elsewhere, my body took over creating a new plan for forward
motion. I began to kick hard with light strokes for a 20 count then pull hard
with light kicks for a twenty count. I started to pass the buoys I had been
staring at for literally hours now. I was getting up and out of the strong
currents as I was reaching shallower waters.
The buoys turned from orange to yellow, this was a victory. I was close,
less than two miles away.
Throughout these past few
miles Patrick continued to give me blocks, which I could only take half of at
any given time. In these miles I was able to make it a few stops without throwing
up, but then my body would convulse again. At mile nine I was ready for one
thing, to be done. I knew at this point I didn’t need anything left in reserve
to get back. I picked up the pace and finished mile nine at 41 minutes, still a
long mile. As the nine mile swim drew on to nine and half, I heard Patrick
above me pointing out the last turn, a path to the finish line. Stroke after
stroke my mind began to tell my body it felt better, stronger. As I pushed in
to the shallows, the finish line clear ahead, the grasses brushed my arms and
stomach I swam until the water was mid-calf, I then pushed my body up, standing
on my feet for the first time in over six hours. Patrick quickly moved to the
finish line, with tears in my eyes I was handed a water and a medal.
I would have thought that I
would have now felt better but I quickly found a trash can to lean over.
Patrick was there with me quickly finding cold fresh water somewhere and
pouring it over my head and neck. As I stood up he held me and there I finally
found relief, in his arms. Patrick just smiled, “You did it.” I moved over to
sit on the grass, with pats on the back from other swimmer, kayakers, and
supports. I just sat there, still, breathing in and out as I watched other
cross from the water to land. All the while the lighthouse stands in the
background, towering over the waters and reef below as it had towered over me.
As we carried the kayak up the
shore and emptied our things, there was relief that it was over, but also a
cloak of disappointment over the event. It was not the swim I had trained to
have, it was not the swim I am capable of having, and it was not how I wanted
to feel. For everything that it wasn’t it was so much more. It was a test of my
will, it was challenge at my core, it was a testament to love. It is this
example of love which stands strongly with me. I know Patrick grew tired on
this day; I know he knew what I knew in this was not the plan; I know he stayed
with me and never once asked me to quit, never once, told me I had to give up,
never once remarked that I could not do it. Instead of any of these words,
which could have fit in several moments of the swim, Patrick was a constant
support, telling me to swim, to move, to continue on.
In the end the swim got
done, 9.5 miles out to Alligator Lighthouse; new friends got made; and my cup
runneth over with love.
**Patrick says I should list
some more of what I saw in the waters during the swim and our practice times in
the water:
Lobsters
Sea Urchins
Moon Jellyfish
Baracuda
Fan Coral
Snappers
Yellowtail Snapper
Sting Ray (acting like a vacuum)
Bonefish
Bright variety of reef fish
Sea grass
Oh and… A Lighthouse!!
Donation Site for Tampa Bay Frogman 2017 
