Journey to the Lighthouse

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!!

Moments that Remind Us, We Are In This Together!

In the sport of triathlon I have had moments of weakness and moments of greatness; however, this weekend was comprised of moments which reminded me that we, as athletes, are in this together.
It started early on Saturday as we prepared for the Firecracker 5K.  Before the race even started there were several friendly faces, all with open arms (it seems we know a lot of huggers).  During the race words of encouragements were shared- "Push on", "Getting close", "It could be hotter", "Sprinklers ahead".  And at the finish line those same friendly faces, with high fives and sweaty hugs.  It was hot and humid and miserable but there we were together.  In that heat it didn't matter if you were fast or slow, it mattered that you were there, you did it.
Later on Saturday I had a pool swim, which thankfully Patrick went with me to complete. I wasn't feeling like swimming and I had a "not so great" swim earlier in the week.  Patrick wasn't swimming my workout but just him being there and supporting me through this training has made a world of difference.  It reminds me that on the day when I hit the water for what will be a very long day, he will be there supporting me, encouraging me, and pushing me. Patrick is sort of a built in support system, but one I am ever thankful for.
Sunday would bring new moments of togetherness out there.  For me it started in the water that day.  There was an athlete who the week earlier was struggling with memories of the past which limited him from making it out more than a few yards in the open water.  When this weekend I saw him in the water making it again only a few yards I went in the water to help.  Together we made it to the first buoy, then after a little water treading we made it to a kayak, then the next, then to shallow ground and around the second buoy.  After that and a few deep breaths it was a turn to the last buoy.  Now the only way out of the water was back across the deeper portion.  You would have though we finished a 100 mile swim, both cheering and excited.  I was elated for this athlete.  He had overcome a challenge that was until this moment unpassable. As I looked back out at the water I saw smiles from the kayakers and safety persons in the water- they did this too!  While only this athlete who pulled his body through the water and his mind through the darkness imprinted deep inside, there was a team there to encourage, support, and cheer.  This athlete then did something that was unexpected, he agreed to go back into the water and go around one more time.  The team came together again, the kayakers moved close, the swim support team moved in to coach and comfort. Around buoy1, then 2, then 3, then back to land. It was an amazing thing to see this full team rally.
On this day too our group would have a few biking accidents to manage as well.  Athletes stopped to help each other, stopping their workouts to make sure their fellow athletes had care.  This support went on through the morning and afternoon, as messages to check on members went on for hours until there was satisfaction all were as safe as could be that day.  Our tri club lifted each other up through out the day and it was amazing to see.
As the holiday weekend drew to a close a few of us got up early to gather for a bike a swim.  I wasn't planning on needing emotional support on this day, but at mile two my legs were not loosening up, they refused to turn the crank; I felt myself build with frustration and my legs feeling like they were on fire.  I continued on but quickly dropped off the group.  The group waited for me a little ways up, then again a few more miles up.  These fast, powerful athletes who could have been out and back much faster stayed there with me.  One athlete dropped back to help pull me back up to the group since the head wind was not helping matters.  At mile seven I was starting to feel a little better, as we took off from this stop the group slowed their pace, and paced out with me.  No one complained, they all smiled, and asked if I needed food or how I was feeling.  Besides embarrassed, I was feeling my cup runneth over.  Without them there my ride would have been a frustrating mess, ending with cursing and tears; instead it ended with "good job' and laughter as we headed into the water.
Sometimes in training or a race you can feel alone, worried, scared, frustrated--- but remember we are in this together.  Just take a moment to listen to the cheers from the other athletes, take in the high fives and "that a boy" messages shared out there, because in those moments you find the support to push on through the rough moments and hold on to the great moments we share.  

Baking Cookies

Apple Bread

Praline Cheesecake

You may have thought I was all about health and fitness--- well, you need to read a little closer my friend.  :)

I am all about life's balance (or at least trying to balance life)!!!

I like cookies and cake and pie--- actually I like baking cookies, and cakes, and pie. Baking is a joy in my life, not really because I want to sit on the couch and eat a dozen fresh baked cookies, although I have had my days.  No, I bake because nurturing our bodies with happiness is a sign of love.  Baking is a part of my love language, it communicates to others that I care when words can't say it.  Baking a batch of cookies brings smiles to faces- that homemade cookie on a busy work day, or long meeting, or after a brutal workout, can make someone stop and feel sunshine inside.
For me baking is easy, combining ingredients and making goodness with my own hands, sets my mind at ease and lets me have creativity in the safety of my kitchen.   It allows me time to process information from outside of my kitchen- thoughts about my workday or upcoming races flood my mind.  At times these thoughts turn to be overwhelming but I break them down to a cup of flour and 2/3 cup of brown sugar.  These overbearing thoughts are measured and contained, mixed with cinnamon and chocolate chips, and blended together.  Soon the thoughts turn from stress to a gooey mix, yielding an end result of cookies!!  

Apple Pie

Who can be mad when cookies are set in front of you? 
Who can be mad when you smell of vanilla and sugar at the end of the day? 
Who can be mad when those around you smile and thank you? 
NO ONE, that's who. 
Cookies unite us in happiness. 

Today, I baked. 

Because I needed to control something- ingredients, time, heat, motion, happiness!  

All in one act!

 

Sink or Soar- A Soul in Motion

I have recently been asking my work staff for their life goals for a meeting, it got me to thinking about my own life goals, which turned to thinking about life's moments.  When I thought about what my life goals are I realized some have been achieved and some still remain.  I have completed an Ironman and learned to scuba dive; yet, I still have dreams of standing in the shadow of Mount Everest, watching the prayer flags speak to the universe, and I still wish to run a marathon in Antarctica.  
These goals got me asking the question: WHY?  Why do I want to do these things?  What was there in achieving these feats?   
I realized my life goals were not in the actual event but in how the event would make my soul fly, if even for a mere moment. 

In life it is easy to focus on those moments in which our heart sinks and our soul hides in the darkness.  I remember many of these moments-- phone calls about friends or family members passing, watching my mother cry after the death of my grandmother, holding a friends as they cope with a divorce, grasping the hand of a child as they walk in to the unknown, or the loss of a dear pet.  Lists of these moment pile up in my mind, too many to list, but images buzz through my visions, like a flip book.  Just thinking about these moments I can feel my heart grow heavy.  I feel my chest tighten.  I feel my soul keening.

It is easy to get trapped in these moments. But when we think about it these are not the moments we think of when at the mention of "life goals".  We don't one day hope to feel loss or pain.  

We instead look to life goals to give us moments of our souls soaring.  These soaring moments, are captured in moments we may not even realize are life goals.  I never thought holding my nephews for the first time or hearing them say "I love you" would ever be a life goal, but here I am my souls souring ever higher thinking about that moment and the moments yet to come watching them grow. There are goals which I look back on fondly; like buying our first home, catching a fish with my dad (watching Patrick catch a fish with my dad was even more fulfilling), or stepping across a finish line. 

Now my life goal is to live in these moments where my soul can sore with no bounds.  Does it mean I wish to forget or ignore the moments which have left scars; absolutely not, it means those scars will be mended by these souring moments.  When life appears difficult I will not fall into the sadness of those heart sinking moments; I will instead allow those moments to pass over me but focus my energies on the moments which energize me.  

Today my life goal it to be happy- grated I want to feel happiness and souring in the shadow of Everest and in the ice of Antarctica, too!!!

Unexpected Adventure- Tampa Bay Frogman

I have raced many races which were emotionally and physically taxing, but I can honestly say this event was an amazingly different type of emotional and physical challenge.  
As the race neared the weather was already showing signs that it was not cooperate on race day- predictions for high winds was going to make the race call a "day of" type call.  The Saturday before the race was beautiful, however.  Patrick and I along with about 20 other swimmers took to the water for practice swims.  Many of the swimmers had stood on this shore in previous years, always working to return here for this cause and adventure.  The water was warm, too warm for the long sleeve wetsuit I was wearing.  Patrick swam with no wetsuit, the only person out there.  What can I say we are North Florida people warm is different for us.  We got a mile in, nice and easy.  the chop was not bad but we did take a few hits from waves after passing he radio towers.  The water was clearish and the skies were bright blue- this weather would not stay.  After the mile swim and a few conversations with other swimmers, we headed out for food and rest.  
Through out the evening I was glued to my weather app, I knew it was only a matter of time before we would get that call.  But in true supportive fashion Patrick and my dad loaded up the kayak.  We all prepared our gear, double checking our lists.  Then the first notice came- the kayak rental called to let us know the kayak support had been canceled, then emails, and Facebook messages popped up.  I felt deflated, but there was nothing I could do, the water was not going to be safe.

Through out the night I awoke to the sounds of the wind and rain, then to the sounds of tornado warnings on my phone (and phones throughout the house).  There were tornadoes hitting ground approximately 20 miles away.  The winds were vicious, even knocking down one of the palm trees out front of the house- just missing the SUV with the kayak on top.  
After cutting up a palm tree it was time to pack up and head out to the party event for the Frogman Swim.  We could not go over the Skyway bridge due to strong winds (over 60 mph), so we took the long way around.  My dad drove us to the race start.  There were I had swam just the day before were four foot swells, white caps, lots of chop, and winds... lots of winds.  My ego wanted to still jump in and fight, but my mind (and the race director) was keeping it in check.  The water wasn't safe for our safety team and personal kayakers, it certainly would have been extremely rough for any swimmer.   

The "party" gathering was an amazing experience.  Not only were all of the people delightful to be around but their stories kept the attention of everyone.  Some people had been doing the swim for years, talking of conditions and method of crossing.  They also talked about the dedication to the cause.  Many of the swimmers had military history via their own service or the service of family members.  As I listened the the event planners talk about this events journey I am moved by those around me.  In and among the many I got to met the mother of Danny Dietz, the solider whose name I, along with two other swimmers, was to honor in my swim.  This woman, mother, was inspirational.  You could tell by the way she looked at the photo of her son that not a single day goes by that she doesn't  miss him and his light.  But it wasn't loss that shined in her eyes, instead it was pride.  She was proud of her son's honor and courage and sacrifice.  I had two different opportunities to speak with her and during those times she handed to me two items- one was a coin representative of the mission her son was killed during, the second was a coin in memory of her son.  As we spoke I told her that I intended on completing the 3 miles upon returning home and that I hoped to return next year to the Frogman event.  She asked me if I would carry her son, her angle, with me, as she handed me the coin in his memory.  I told her that I would be honored.  we hugged and she held my hand one last time. My heart just held on to that moment and this woman's bravery to face a world where her son sacrificed with his life so that we may stand there. 

Upon returning home I made up my mind to swim the following weekend.  The weather turned much colder than I had expected but I had swam in cold waters previously so I figured I would still give it a shot.  The air temperature was 48 and the water temperature was 52.  I had taken Danny's coin with me, taping it above my heart as I suited up.  I headed into the water, thankful to have Patrick by my side.  I had thought of inviting others out for the swim, but this was my challenge to overcome.  The water level was extremely low, but the water was crystal clear, as was the air.  Every detail of the sand and sea grass was clear.  I started out on my normal loop course for Mommy Beach, but quickly had to start heading out further out.  I was cold and shivering slightly, but felt I could press on. When I hit the turn around mark, I let Patrick know that I was feeling colder and I could feel my muscles tighten.  Patrick gave me a sighting point on the far side of the beach.  Upon turning around this took me further out in to deeper water.  The water was still clear- it was just the bottom was much further away.  The sunlight danced below the surface and sparkled in the droplets coming off my raised arms.  I tried to focus on the sunlight, tried to imagine it warming me. 

There was no break from the cold, as my hands left the cold water they were met with the cold air and then the water again, neither was warmer.  I had a good pace going but at about 1.4 miles I stopped in the deep and told Patrick that was it, I could not stand the cold any longer.  As I rested my hand on the kayak to steady myself for a moment I realized I could no longer extend my fingers.  It wasn't my hands hurting though that was making me decide to call the swim, it was that my hips were in pain.  In time I figured this was because I was cold and my muscles were beginning to tense to keep my core warm.  I swam back to shore, making my open water distance 1.7 miles.  I was disappointed, frustrated, saddened, and cold.  My body temp had dropped considerably and I was on the cusp (or slightly over) of hypothermia.  
Patrick wrapped me in towels and blankets to start warming me up.  My task was not done and while it would not be in the open water as I had wanted it would be completed.  We headed to the University pool for me to finis the last 1.5 miles.  I was feeling much warmer after some soup and heat.   
As I dipped my feet in the pool water it felt warm, it was certainly warmer than anything I had been immersed in that day.  However, once my full body was in the water it was as if the cold came flooding back.  This 1.5 miles was a slow go, back and forth, back and forth, with only a black line to stare at. 
Upon finishing the distance I was cold and stiff.  My body felt good for having swam, but it also felt like rebelling from being so cold.  I battled with this being a completion of my Frogman goal- it wasn't all open water, part was completing in the safety of the pool; it wasn't the Tampa bay crossing i had originally hoped for.  Nothing was how I had pictured the event; however, through this journey I carried the memories of those who gave their lives and the pride of the cause I was swimming for.  It was in thinking about this journey that I realized I had completed what I set out to do-- spread a message about the Navy seal Foundation.  
This event may not have started out or ended the way I wanted it to but it did teach me about perseverance, pride, courage, and giving.  Thank you to everyone who supported me through donations, swim company, swim planning, company, laughter, and few drinks!  Thank you for believing in something greater than all of us, for believing in the men and women who sacrifice their lives for us each day.