Catalina Island Swim

“I still don’t know if I got really lucky with the conditions, or really unlucky with the conditions,” I’ve been saying about my recent attempt to swim around Catalina Island. Marathon swimmers generally prefer to swim on calm days, as wind makes everything much more difficult. But if that’s all we want, we could just stay in protected rowing bays, small lakes, or swimming pools. I’m not going to lie, a sneaky little part of me wanted some wind, some energy in the water, something wild and daunting. If you’re going to charter a boat and organize a crew of kayakers and on-board supporters, you might as well do something you could never, ever do safely on your own. So, when the forecast came out for my swim window, predicting four to five foot swell and twenty-five knot winds, I was terrified I wouldn’t be allowed to swim, but I knew if I were, it would be the adventure of a lifetime.

Night One

As I emerged from my cozy bunk aboard The Bottom Scratcher, Captain Kevin pulled me aside on the deck, the wind roaring in our ears as we stood there, looking out across the sea. “How does this look to you?” He asked, gesturing toward the swells and white caps barely visible in the moonless night. I shrugged, “I mean it’s windy?” I turned to look at him. “Wait, is everything ok? You look concerned, what’s wrong?”

“Oh no, nothings wrong, I just wanted to see if this is, like, normal for you?”

“Kevin.” I smiled at him. “I swim in a lake, nothing about the ocean is normal to me”.

He laughed and shook his head. “How do you go from a lake to this?”

We went inside and I reassured him I’d be fine. As long as he felt it was safe, I would be able to swim. I told him I trusted him, he could just end the swim if necessary. Kevin has the rare ability to make everyone around him feel comfortable and safe. He’s exactly who you want around you if you’re going to do something scary and uncomfortable, like swim 40+ miles in the windy ocean swell, during a lightning storm… with sharks.

Kevin gives his safety talk: bathroom #1 for “number one”, bathroom #2 for “number two”.
My crew, left to right: Linda Bamford, Barb Schumacher, David Sundius, Bob Needham, Captain Jerry, me, Elwood Harvey, Gillian Salton, Captain Kevin Bell, Scott Tapley, Michelle Marquez and Ryland Sutton behind the camera lens. Not pictured: Lauren and Helen.

Once I was in the water, I focused on getting as calm and comfortable as possible. There was so much more stimulation than usual. After exiting Doctor’s Cove and heading counterclockwise past Arrow Point, we were heading directly into the wind. The water slipped past my arms underneath me and the white caps tossed my body here and there. I watched Barb, next to me in the kayak, the wind shoving her backwards and every which way. She had it so much worse, perched on top of the giant kayak like a human sail. That looks really hard, I thought to myself, cringing. Barb is one of the most experienced and skillful Catalina kayakers. Conditions were indeed challenging if she was being thrown around like that.

Getting into the water via Bottom Scratcher’s swim ladder

Michelle was the next kayaker to face the whipping winds and rolling swell. She paddled in like a woman on a mission and I watched in awe as she took strong, rapid strokes to bring the kayak up alongside me. Wow, badass, I muttered to myself underwater. Over my shoulder on a breath, I noticed a light flashing across the sky. And then again, the same thing a few breaths later. That can’t be lightning, I thought, pausing to gaze at the sky during a feed break. I’m terrified of lightning in the water, so I had to come up with another explanation. I think that’s a lighthouse, I said to myself in a soothing tone. Yes, most likely a lighthouse. I somehow managed to ignore the fact that the lighthouse was in the clouds not on land, and never flashing in the same place. I swam on.

Starting the swim at Doctor’s Cover, the usual start of Catalina Channel crossings

There was no moon, and it was cloudy anyway, so the night was the darkest I’ve swam in. I’d taken a couple Benedryl to manage sea sickness before leaving the harbor, and then a couple more at 12:30, shortly after starting the swim. Still, somehow the world would start spinning around me anytime my body went vertical during feeds. I began keeping my eyes shut during this time, opening them just enough to locate the bottle Michelle was tossing to me in the water, and then slamming them shut again. I hoped dawn would come soon.

Barb and me, paddling and swimming in the windy night

The Happy Light of Day

At first light, I began to shiver. This surprised me, because I’d been looking forward to the dopamine boost that often comes at dawn. Instead, I was cold, teeth rattling in my skull as I stroked along. When Gillian got in for her kayak shift, I told her about it.

Magical dawn, backside of Catalina Island

“Morning is a low cortisol time, it should get better as you go,” she reassured me. Gillian thinks logically and rationally and has very good problem solving skills under pressure, most likely due to working for years as an emergency department doctor. On the boat, Ryland and Scott, quickly mixed new feeds for me to warm me up, and I noticed myself shivering less and less every thirty minute feed cycle, until finally the sun was out, the wind had settled, it was a beautiful day and the shivers had stopped completely. Then the dopamine hit in full force and I was the very happy swimmer I love to be. I made a game of calling out, “hi” to various people at various times while still swimming along. Kevin appeared outside the wheelhouse and waved at me. “Do the dance!” I begged. He smiled and did his goofy Kevin dance, and Gillian and I both chuckled with delight.

Gillian and I in the calmer, happy light of day

Soon, the wind picked up again, this time at our backs and whipping the water into larger and larger swells. I watched Gillian skillfully paddle around the waves as if she were paddling through whitewater rapids, which is something she’s highly experienced with. She said she almost flipped the kayak over a few times, but from my angle it looked as if she were born paddling that thing. It was impressive to watch and I mentally “sat back”, relaxed and allowed myself to be amazed.

In many ways, swimming with this much energy in the water (eventually 4-6 foot swell and 25 knot winds), is very challenging. On the other hand, if you aren’t pressuring yourself to go anywhere or do anything, it is FUN. Mentally, I was engaged the whole time, working on keeping my stroke balanced and rotating, while the wind chop hit me from one direction and swell from another. It was invigorating, exciting and made me feel the kind of aliveness I crave when I sign up for these adventures.

“This is the most interesting swim I’ve ever done,” I called out to Gillian. “I’m definitely not bored!”

China Point

Kevin was yelling something to her during a feed. “Kevin doesn’t want you to do backstroke until we get around this point,” she said. It dawned on me how challenging it must be to pilot a boat for a swimmer under these conditions. While I was swimming giddily along, the pilots (Kevin, Helen and Jerry) were tasked with navigating a straight line at 1.5-2 mph, while being pushed by current and swell, and trying to allow me to swim close to the boat, while also not letting me too close. These captains are some of the very few who have the skill and experience to do this safely. There is so much more involved than merely having a captain’s license. I mentally thanked them again for letting me swim despite conditions that would end most swims. I was having a blast!

Michelle and I riding the sweller-coaster

Video footage of the conditions

Eventually Michelle got in, and we made it around China Point and were now headed mostly east toward the southern most point of the island. I confirmed I was allowed some backstroke, which was a welcome relief to my left wrist, which had developed a peculiar ache. Michelle negotiated the swell skillfully, looking surprisingly content to ride the waves up and down.

Then it was Barb’s turn again, who I was happy to see in the light of day, then Gillian again. Time was moving by and the sun was moving across the sky. I could tell my mood was a little wonky and I was starting to think too much about time, so I decided to do something else for awhile. Not in the mood for haiku, I wrote a pretty inappropriate limerick, which I recited to Gillian while backstroking, blushing and choking on my own giggles. She was also amused and we had ourselves a good laugh.

More video footage. Waves were crashing over the sides of the Bottom Scratcher. You can hear the water being swept from the deck in the background.

The water temperature was at a low point at the southern end of the island. The wind and swell were at our backs, but a strong current was coming off the island, stirring in the colder waters from below and creating a “distressed sea”. I was starting to shiver again and reported this to Gillian, just as a swell hit me from the side, signaling we were starting to turn north onto the leeward side of the island.

Kevin’s map of Catalina

Night Two

Unfortunately, just as the conditions outside me began to improve, the conditions within me started to deteriorate rapidly. The first thing I can remember is shivering and arguing with Gillian about whether or not I’d finish the swim. She thought I would, whereas I wasn’t so sure and felt a sudden sense of pressure at the thought. Will everyone be upset with me if I can’t? I started to wonder. The water on the leeward side of the island was several degrees warmer, and the shivers subsided. I don’t care if it comes back and I have to shiver and shake all night, I told myself. I will finish this swim.

Scott, getting ready to mix my feeds

As the sun neared the horizon, the ache in my wrist was growing steadily worse, and I balled my hand into a fist, to keep the pressure off it and continued to limp along using mostly my right arm. The wrist had me worried and with the worry came a spiral of hopelessness, desperation and fear. Fear of disappointment, mostly other people’s disappointment. I’d already had the adventure of a lifetime, but was that how everyone who’d been working hard for me all day would see it?

Passing Avalon at sunset

Just swim, I said to myself, focusing once again on the swimming motions and the much kinder feel of the calmer water. Then there was some confusion about the glowsticks. The extra one for night two I’d pinned to my suit had long ago been swept away by the crazy conditions. I was trying to get more from the boat, and eventually Michelle just gave me some off her kayak, which I shoved down the front of my suit, hoping they would shine through the fabric well enough. I was down to just backstroke now, freestyle having become full of stabbing pains tearing through my wrist at every stroke, even with my left hand in a fist. I thought maybe I wouldn’t make it after all and then everyone would think I just wasted their time. They had all done their parts, I should be able to do mine.

Container ship we paused to let pass

Although my wrist was worrying me, I was even more concerned about my mind. I remember being emotionally disoriented and very scared “something would happen” and no one would notice. This was totally irrational, as there were at least half a dozen people on the boat looking at me at any given time. Staring up at the sky, I could see patterns swirling, creating fractals and textures in the darkness. I tried to blink them away, but couldn’t. What if I go crazy and damage my mind permanently, I found myself thinking. I looked up at Ryland sitting with his legs dangling over the edge of the boat, just keeping an eye on me. I wished he would just stay there all night.

Ryland’s self portrait

I griped, hollered for caffeine, and complained some, but mostly I swam on until I just couldn’t anymore. And then I had a full on meltdown. In the water. In front of a boatload of people. Sobbing, I attempted to negotiate: could I touch land somewhere and count at least some of the 40 miles I’d gone so far? “No, that would not be allowed,” Barb relayed to me after the CCSF observers deliberated. I sobbed some more and begged the crew to tell me they wouldn’t hate me/be disappointed/think I was pathetic if I stopped. No one on board wanted to influence my decision in any way, so they said nothing. I’d not slept in forty hours now and felt certain their silence meant they already thought I was weak, dramatic and a quitter. I felt so embarrassed and exposed; I might as well have been in a high school cafeteria in my underwear. Of course, now I know that’s not what they thought at all and it seems really silly that I thought that.

Thankfully, Barb, still in the kayak, told me she was already proud of me and that I should try to continue if I could, but no one would be disappointed or upset with me if I didn’t. But what did I want? she asked. This reassurance was what I needed to think clearly about what I really care about. I’d already had the experience I’d hoped for and had loved it nearly the entire time. I’d swum forty-ish miles in twenty-two and a half hours, my second longest swim by duration. I suddenly remembered that I always want to protect my body and my relationship with swimming before any other priority, including finishing what I set out to do.

Kevin’s screen shot of our route. 35 nautical miles = 40 statute miles. This is the gps tracker distance (not the shortest route distance).

Finally, I’m weirdly proud to say, I got out of the water. Now, ten days later with my wits about me, I wonder what I was even thinking, trying to find a way to continue. My wrist swelled and was purple for a few days. It’s recovering, but is still painful and I don’t know how long it will take to fully heal. It took a week before my mind got better and I was able to feel like myself again. As soon as I got on the boat, Gillian, Kevin, Michelle, Barb, Ryland, Scott and Linda all made it crystal clear how proud of me they were and how they weren’t even the faintest bit disappointed. While talking with them on the boat, I could see a dimly lit forest of pine trees growing out of the ocean between us and the island. I couldn’t blink it away, it was just there and a validating reminder that I was definitely sleep deprived.

Post Swim

I had the world’s very best support after the swim too. Kevin had us all spend the night on the boat in the harbor and Lauren cooked us an amazing breakfast on board the next morning. We debriefed the whole swim and Ryland told me he saw a shark on the starboard side of the boat while I was swimming. “It was only a baby one though,” he said, gesturing with his hands about a yard apart.

Gillian, Barb and I hung out over the next couple days, discussing all the different nuances of the swim while I iced my swollen, painful, discolored wrist. Scott sent me one of the nicest texts I’ve ever gotten about swimming and Kevin called to say again how proud he was and make sure I wasn’t beating myself up anymore.

People speculated the unusual wrist injury was due to the increased pressure on it from the heavy swell. I’ve never had anything like that before and my shoulders still felt one hundred percent fine. Without the weather, would I have made it further? Almost certainly. But if I could trade a finish in placid conditions for a non-finish in the conditions I got, I’m not even sure I would.

Santa Barbara Island to Mainland, California

I emerged from the ship’s cabin under a scattering of stars, the soft light of dawn glowing in the eastern sky and barely illuminating the island, just yards away. Aboard the Bottom Scratcher, Captains Kevin and Jerry had motored us forty miles from San Pedro harbor to the tiny and remote Santa Barbara Island overnight. Now here, anchored just offshore, the crew were emerging from their bunks and preparing for the challenge ahead. Dave and Karina would be observing and carefully documenting the entire swim for the Santa Barbara Channel Swimming Association. Gretchen and Scott would be on board the boat, preparing my sports drinks and other nutritional items, plus problem solving any unanticipated issues. Barb, Michelle and Dan S (not to be confused with my partner, Dan) would be trading off four hour shifts paddling next to me in their kayaks. Finally, Captain Kevin had brought his own crew, including Jerry, Helen and Drew to run the boat throughout the swim. We were all enjoying a relaxed, low key morning before starting the swim back to the mainland.

Barb, me and Michelle at first light

The sun greeted us warmly as I enjoyed a cup of coffee and bowl of oatmeal on deck. We were all in good spirits as we watched seals catch their breakfast, bobbing around near the sides of The Bottom Scratcher. It was the most relaxed I can remember ever feeling before an official swim. Gretchen helped me put on my desitin sunblock and also did a couple sets of “Anacapa Camo” stripes, a tradition started by Captain Dawn Brooks to help wildlife know you aren’t a seal and you just might be a banded sea snake, poisonous and not worth any predator’s trouble.

When it was time, I climbed carefully down the ship’s swim ladder and stroked to where Dan was waiting for me in the kayak next to the island’s cliff wall. To my right, there was a large cave, going all the way through the rock face, creating an arch, not unlike the one at Anacapa. I allowed the surge to give me a gentle, but firm push as it drove me into the cliff face. The sharp rock stung my fingertips as I clung to it, for just a second. I wanted to feel the island, before releasing it, turning, and setting out to sea. I switched to backstroke, admiring the island even as I pulled away from it, brown, tan and gold in the morning light.

Brief island-cliff touch start. Thank you to my crew for the great photos. They all got mixed together, so I wasn’t sure who took which photos!

Me swimming away from the island, cave in the background

Right away, I started noticing jellyfish floating around underneath me. They were mostly the common moon jellies, but I also saw a kind of jelly that was pink and caught the light in a way that made rainbow sparkles appear on it, like something you’d find on a child’s toy. I stared down at it with delight and wonder. There were also many salps, non-stinging jelly-like creatures, sometimes linked together in a chain, sometimes floating solo. Soon, I was getting zapped different places on my body. Sometimes just a light zap and other times they’d feel like someone was pinching me hard with their fingernails. None of the zings lasted longer than thirty to forty seconds and were somewhat amusing, in the way that kids find it amusing to poke, pinch and flick each other. Just for fun, I made a haiku about it:

Gentle swell, neap tide
Jellies float lazily by
Zap! Stung me again 

It was time to settle into the bliss— perfect conditions: water temp 70F, a gentle swell from behind, no wind to speak of, a highly capable boat captain I trust, and a fantastic crew who looked relaxed and happy on the boat’s deck. However, a couple hours in, the situation I had been worrying about most began to manifest. My left hip flexor, which had been bothering me since the beginning of taper (rest period before the swim) began occasionally cramping. This pain had been a mystery to me, but I had suspected it had something to do with having had to adapt to going back to the swimming pool (and flip turns) after swimming exclusively in open water since June. I had trained twenty to twenty-three hours (approximately forty to forty-five miles) per week for seven out of eight weeks in June and July, a short taper of twelve hours per week for the English Channel, then back up again before the final taper— and no hip problems until the end. Something I learned during the mental part of my training was to “swim the mile you’re on”, rather than stressing about how you’re going to feel miles and miles later. It means thinking, what can I do right now that will maximize the likelihood I’ll be able to continue later.

Swimming next to Dan in perfect conditions

I swam along, thinking about what I might do now, reasoning that maybe the hip pain was just part of my body’s response to taper and it would get better the more I swam. I decided to test this theory by trying to get just a little more tension in my core and hips. Light as a feather, stiff as a board, — I found myself chanting this children’s ghost story rhyme, as I imagined the tendons in my hips stiffening up to become more stable. Kind of random, but you know what— it was spooky setting off on a big swim, staring down those forty miles ahead and already having a problem within the first few miles. Amazingly, getting some stiffness and stability back into my core worked! I’d solved my first problem of the swim and felt really proud. By the time Dan’s kayak shift was over, the pain had completely vanished and did not return the entire swim.

Dan and Michelle during the kayak changeover

When Michelle got in for her kayak shift, I was a very happy swimmer. My body was feeling great, I was happy to be there and I knew it would be my day to celebrate the hard work I’d put in and enjoy this incredibly unique opportunity to spend a day and night at sea. “I wrote a haiku, you wanna hear it?” I asked, while doing backstroke. She nodded. I recited the jellyfish haiku and she indulged me with an appreciative chuckle.

Me with Michelle

We stopped for a feed, Michelle tossing me the bottle. I lifted it toward my mouth, trying to locate the sport top to start drinking. I suddenly realized there was no sport top, it was one of my screw top lids. I have a hard time drinking out of open lid containers during swims. I drink a lot— like ten ounces per feed, so I don’t have time to carefully sip it. I either choke as the liquid goes down the wrong pipe, or I spill most of it into the ocean.

I handed it back saying something like, “I don’t know why that lid’s on there or where it came from.”

“Oh no! I’m sorry! I’ll switch it out,” she exclaimed.

“It’s not your fault,” I reassured her.

I must’ve packed the wrong lid on that bottle, I thought as I swam away, following the boat as Michelle efficiently worked to trade caps. I did backstroke and told whoever was on the boat deck to make sure they were using sport caps, although I’m not sure they heard me. When she caught up and handed me the new bottle, I felt really thankful. “That was really fast,” I told her. We had solved another problem! Go us!

I was still in an amazing mood and I had taken my first dose of ibuprofen, so I was now feeling as good as new in terms of muscle strength. In fact, by the time Barb got in for her shift, all of the other weird taper feelings had worn off and my body felt familiar again and even better than when I started. “I’m still feeling pretty fresh,” I told her. “Just trying to keep it that way as long as possible.” She smiled as I swam on.

Me and Barb

I finished a feed and started up again backstroke only to notice Kevin waving at me from the deck outside the wheelhouse. “Hi Kevin!” I sang out happily. He did a goofy little dance, grinning from ear to ear. Everyone was having a great time, including myself. The crew cheered each time I stopped to guzzle infinit sports drink and I made a variety of remarks about the lovely conditions, the beautiful water and saying thank you for the cheers and drink.

Captain Kevin in the wheelhouse

Instead of wondering how I was going to swim all forty miles to Palos Verdes, I found myself looking, really looking at everything around me as if I were seeing it for the first time— Barb in her red kayak, and the Bottom Scratcher sitting proudly atop the blue ocean, carrying all of the people watching over me, each holding together an important thread of this experience. I found this act of simply focusing on looking to be incredibly soothing. Then I switched to sound for awhile, the swish of the water with each turn of my head, the sound of my own breath, bubbling out under water. Finally, my sense of touch revealed my entire body, making the familiar swimming movements I practice every day, my hands pressing against the water, which would feel solid for just that short moment at the beginning of each stroke. The different parts of my body were talking to me in their own secret language of sensations, telling me what they wanted, or needed: stretch this way, pull that way, less pressure please. Now everything had changed. Time, success, failure, these concepts started melting away, and for awhile I was just there.

The Bottom Scratcher, with crew on board

I can’t remember if I saw the dolphins swim under me first, or if Barb told me they were there. I believe I was swimming and Barb was pointing. I stopped and she said there were dolphins ahead, and a “bait ball”. I looked and indeed, many birds had gathered on the water, no doubt fishing for dinner along with the dolphins. Just then, two dolphins headed straight for us and dove directly under the kayak and right past me. Plunging my head underwater, I watched them coast by, just in front of me. I started swimming again, only to have them make another pass, this time so close I had to retract my arms to avoid touching them. Their bodies were beautiful, gray on top and bright white on the bottom and sides. I remember looking directly into the eye of one as he passed by, staring directly back at me. Barb and I marveled at them, how special this was. And they came back again, this time just inches from me. For a second I wondered if maybe they actually didn’t like me being there and said so to Barb. “They won’t hurt you,” she said, her calm confidence reassuring me it was ok to just enjoy the experience.

Video footage of dolphins jumping

They continued to pass by over and over in the fading light of the day. Sometimes it was just the pair, but other times more members of the pod would join in, clicking to one another as they swam underneath me. I thought maybe I should try to join the conversation, but realized that could go terribly wrong. What if I accidentally insulted one’s mother? Then I wondered if dolphins might actually be telepathic, like some people think. So I tried saying hello to them in my mind. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello, dolphin

Dolphin: What are you doing here?

Me: I’m swimming to the land that is way over that way. It is a great challenge for my kind.

Dolphin: Why are you doing that, is there good food over there?

Me: No, it is just for fun.

Dolphin: Well, are you having fun?

Me: Well, kind of yeah, I’m talking with you, aren’t I?

Single frame from a video of the dolphins jumping

The sun had arced its way across the sky over the course of the swim. Our journeys were taking us opposite directions— east to west for the sun, west to east for me. “Let me know when the sun is going down,” I said to Barb. “I want to watch it doing backstroke”. Swimming freestyle, I could see the Bottom Scratcher to my left, and just behind her, the sunset beginning to cast a colored glow across the horizon. I watched with interest as the colors changed, a slowly mixing painter’s palette of pink, orange, and yellow next to the fading blue of the daytime sky. An occasional flip onto my back allowed me to observe the progress of the sun, which first dipped into a cloud hovering above the horizon and then finally plunged into the ocean.

Watching the sunset in the middle of the ocean. “This is why we do this,” I told Barb

I switched to my night goggles, but immediately I knew they were going to be a problem. They fogged up so badly, I could hardly make out the kayak beyond the vague blur of glow sticks. Plus, the nose piece was pressing painfully on the bridge of my nose. I stopped a few times to adjust them before giving up and asking Barb to see if Gretchen and Scott could get the spare pair ready. From my perspective, this was done flawlessly: Barb paddled to the boat, while I trailed behind, nervous to be alone, so far from the boat in the blackness. They handed the new pair to her and she handed them to me. Although still foggy, this pair fit much better and I was very happy with the switch. Another problem solved!

I swam on, the last light of day fading rapidly, giving way to new wonders, like the cascades of bioluminescent lights flying off my hands with every stroke. Looking down at them against the darkness below me, it looked like galaxies of stars against the night sky in the desert.

With the steady, repetitive rhythm of a marathon swim, change can be hard. The goggle debacle had taken its toll on my mental reserves and the brightness of my mood had faded with the light. I wasn’t wrong to anticipate the transition to night would be challenging. I groped around in my mind, fumbling for something that might soothe me and made another haiku:

Nightfall comes early
Tiny stars fly from my hands 
Swim… over too soon 

I smiled when I thought of the last line. I knew I’d feel just like I always feel when I get on the plane to go home after one of these adventures: satisfied and happy, but also nostalgic, like ok but is it really all over?

I switched my moto from “swim the mile you’re on” to “appreciate the mile you’re on”. You can’t get this time back, ever! I reminded myself. I looked over at the boat, where the crew was congregating on deck, looking relaxed and supportive. It was a cozy feeling having all of us together out there, in the middle of the ocean, with the warm glow of the lighting on the boat like a campfire in the wilderness. I imagined us all sitting around after dinner, roasting s’mores over crackling flames and sharing stories of outdoor adventures.

The moon shining on me and Barb, just after sunset

Dan got in the kayak next for the eight pm to midnight shift. He brought with him a thermos of Mountain House beef stew that I ordinarily enjoy backpacking. It was one of the tastiest things I’ve eaten in my entire life. I treaded water while consuming the stew as fast as I could. Luckily, the water was dead calm, making this activity easy.

The stew break was probably the slowest feed I’ve ever had, but I was back to swimming before long at all. The next few hours are a bit of a blur and I remember trying to keep feeds quick so I could stay in the timeless flow. However, a bit before midnight, when I had been staring down into the black depths, I was startled to see a slightly lighter patch of water move suddenly below me. I skipped a breath, my eyes glued to the spot I’d seen move. And there it was again, I hadn’t imagined it. My stomach dropped and I was suddenly swimming as close to the kayak (and shark shield) as I possibly could get. Picking my head up, I exclaimed, “there’s something down there, like for real!”

“Yes, the dolphins are back,” Dan said with an easy chuckle contrasting against my terror. “They’ve been jumping around here for a bit”. We both laughed a little and I took a few seconds to calm my breathing down before continuing again. By now, even though I figured my family (mostly on eastern time) and my west coast friends had gone to bed, I knew my Kiwi and British friends were awake, tracking my progress and sending encouraging thoughts. It helped to remember that the sun had only taken a break from America to go shine on them for awhile and would be back around in just a bit.

Finally, it was time for Dan and Michelle to switch out. For someone taking the midnight to four am kayak shift, Michelle was helpfully cheerful.

“Thanks,” I said when she got my mouth-soothing coconut oil out for me “You rock!”

“No, you rock!” She replied.

Me and Michelle, from the crew perspective

We admired the lights of Los Angeles together. I said they seemed a long way off and she pointed out they were getting closer all the time. Taking my goggles off, I could see she was right: I could make out the skyscrapers among the general lights of the city. Maybe I was swimming faster than I thought. But I also knew I needed to carefully avoid too many thoughts about time. I had resolved not to ask the crew how far we had until after sunup, not wanting to cope with potentially disappointing news in the middle of the night. I rolled over on my back and swam along while quietly (and poorly) singing the lyrics to “LA County,” by Lyle Lovett.

“Well the lights of LA county look like diamonds in the sky. When you’re driving through the hours, with an old friend at your side”.

I couldn’t see her face in the darkness, but I found out later Michelle found this rather amusing. I did too. I always sing underwater while swimming, but this was the debut of swim-singing above the surface and it was fun.

The lights of LA, as seen from the captain’s perspective

Me and Michelle from the wheelhouse window. Red lights to protect night vision

I had been swimming along, mind wandering to far off places, when a high pitched whistle brought me back to the ocean. It sounded again, close by, underwater. I picked my head up and told Michelle I was hearing the dolphins again. She said she had also seen a sea lion. I put my head back down to swim, contemplating this, wondering if the same dolphins had been visiting us all night and what that could mean. Maybe they were just roaming around, looking for food, but I wanted to believe they knew I didn’t belong there and wanted to make sure I got safely back to where I did.

I felt the ongoing dolphin escort was very special, but as the night wore on, I began to battle some serious irritability issues. Although my body still felt strong, my stroke comfortable and my mind clear and alert, my mood seemed unusually vulnerable and affected by anything that happened. I’d been somewhat prepared for this— had recently heard a podcast where Sarah Thomas said it doesn’t matter who you are, the hours between 3:00 and 5:00 am always suck. Even so, the irritability was building and seemed to attach itself to whatever, random hiccup had most recently happened. The tea was too hot (although skillfully fixed by Michelle in the kayak!), I kept ending up with open mouth instead of sport top bottles, I couldn’t see well enough out of my foggy goggles to stay the right distance from the kayaks, etc etc. Maybe it was fear manifesting as fight instead of flight, maybe it was circadian rhythms begging me to sleep or maybe it was just getting hangry from burning too many calories. Either way, as I reached twenty hours of swimming and Barb got in for her shift, I was undeniably cranky. Barb is someone I completely trust and admire for her level headedness. I wish I could’ve better expressed my gratitude at her being there. Instead, the crankiness stood like a wall between me and my happiness about how great a crew I had and how well the swim was actually going.

“I can’t do this!” I shouted into the night, Barb paddling next to me. “Yes, you can, Jessica,” she said firmly and confidently. I thought about that as much as I could the next thirty minutes. It occurred to me that she probably thought I meant the swim, whereas I surprisingly hadn’t considered not being able to swim. No, I was talking about coping with the hassle of the open mouth bottle and tolerating these intense and uncomfortable emotions. I hate being irritable, especially when it affects other people, and usually can settle myself down.

I told myself to slow down my breathing and relax my muscles. Slowly, my head seemed to piece itself back together. I talked it out with Barb as I swam along on my back, apologizing and telling her I was frustrated that I couldn’t seem to control my frustration. It felt helpful to explain it from my adult brain instead of freaking out like a toddler. I didn’t look at the lights anymore, didn’t think about time, didn’t allow myself to wonder when the sun would rise. I just took my feeds as fast as I could, tried not to crowd the kayak and kept swimming. And then, the night sky lightened. I had made it to dawn.

Barb’s view of me swimming into first light

I knew it was time to talk with Barb and face what we were dealing with in terms of time left of the swim. I could see we were already passing land on the port side of the boat and knew we must be getting close to the landing spot. Realizing we’d been going for over twenty-three hours, I thought it might be really great if I could swim to the twenty-four hour mark. There’s a special list of swimmers in the long swims database who have completed swims lasting at least twenty-four hours and I thought it would be amazing to make that list. At the 7:00 am feed, I explained to Barb what I was thinking. Having a new goal was cheering me up. She said she would relay the new goal to everyone on the boat and tell me more at the next feed. I swam really slowly for the next thirty minutes, doing double arm backstroke while my teeth rattled with shivers from exerting too little effort. I remember telling Barb how strange it was that my body felt pretty much the same as it did at hour seven, my mood was the only thing that seemed to have changed.

Approaching Palos Verdes with Barb

At 7:30, I found out we had just thirteen minutes left to kill and I was going to make it. “You don’t have to dilly dally,” Barb reassured me. “You can just swim straight in and you will make it past twenty-four hours!” I was so excited about this, I started counting stroke cycles to measure time and when I got to three hundred and ninety, I called up to Karina on the boat, who confirmed— yes, twenty-four hours had passed since the beginning of the swim!

Me and Barb, approaching the beach at Terranea Resort

Just as we were nearly on the rocky shore at the Terranea resort on Palos Verdes, Barb stopped me to give some instructions on how to land. “There’s no surf, but there is a surge,” she explained. “Let the surge take you in, onto the rocks and grab onto something as hard as you can. The surge will go out again and when it comes back, let it take you in over the rocks.” Sounds simple enough, I thought, surveying the large rocks in front of me. When she said to go, I swam in and the surge pushed me firmly onto the first part of the rock field. I wrapped my arms around one of the larger rocks and successfully resisted the tugging of the outgoing water. Then, a larger surge hit me with force, dragging me over the next set of rocks, my legs scraping and banging against them. I stood up onto the wet rocks, a wave of dizziness threatening to knock me off my feet as my blood pressure tried to adjust to the sudden change. I squatted down, not wanting to fall, get rescued and ruin the entire crossing, which is not complete until you’ve reach dry land. I heard Kevin’s voice say, “Keep going, just a little bit higher,” over the boat’s loud speaker. So I crawled up further to where the rocks were all dry, while Kevin announced I had just swum the forty miles from Santa Barbara Island to two Terranea resort-goers who cheered from their beach chairs.

Video of the swim finish at Terranea

The emotional finish

I buried my face in my hands and started sobbing, overwhelmed with emotions: happiness I had done it, frustration with my graceless landing, inexplicable terror about how dizzy I was and how vulnerable I felt about navigating the surge between me and the safety of the boat. Finally, after no shortage of whining and moaning in the direction of the boat, I eased my way back into the water, my heart pounding with irrational fear, coaxed by my logical brain telling me that I was much safer getting back to the boat than standing on the beach light headed and shivering. Finally, I climbed into the water with the outgoing surge and stroked as quickly as I could, following the current out. And that was it— so much easier than on the way in. I made it back to Barb’s kayak, where we made our way together back to the boat.

Me and Scott, safe and happy back on the boat

From then on, the ending was the same as any swim— quickly getting out of my wet suit, and getting dry with my dedicated desitin towel and clothes. I sat down in the boat’s main cabin and chatted with everyone, while happily eating yogurt and Barb’s homemade granola. It had been a joyous swim for twenty-one out of twenty-four hours (and seven minutes). A goal of mine on big swims is to swim with joy for seventy to eighty percent of a swim. I had nailed it at eighty-seven percent! Plus, I’d completed the swim and joined the list of people completing twenty-four hour swim routes. I felt that my crew had done an absolutely fantastic job with each of their roles and supported me through the challenging times along with the fun times. I also felt like I learned a ton about how my mind works, what I can do to prepare even more effectively next time and most importantly that I truly enjoy this longer length of swim!

The crew: back row left to right: Scott, Dan, Barb, Karina, Dave. Front row: Gretchen, Me, Michelle, Kevin, Helen and Jerry. Drew must’ve taken the photo since he’s not in it!

Swimming the English Channel

My hands shook as I rubbed Desitin on my legs, waves of energy threatening to wash away all logical thought.

“All right, swim to the beach now,” Captain Stuart said.

“Can I get in?”

“Yes, get in”

I climbed awkwardly over the gunnel and jumped into the water, holding my breath as the English Channel enveloped me in a welcoming embrace. I’m finally here, I did it. I made it, I thought. Scenes of plane rides, train rides, phone calls, and compulsive weather checking flashed through my mind. Now, is the celebration of all the work, now I just get to swim.

I made my way slowly to Shakespeare’s Beach and climbed out of the water. I put both arms up, and the sound of the Sea Leopard’s horn called out into the gray dawn, announcing our adventure’s begin. I took in the moment, while carefully avoiding thoughts that could cause complete overwhelm.

Into the water I went, siting ahead to the boat, the soft orange glow of sunrise creeping into the eastern sky. A gust of diesel greeted me upon arrival, as the Sea Leopard took up pace beside me. Looking over onto the deck of the boat, I could make out the crew, settling in for the trip. Luke leaned on the railing, watching over me, while Suzanne videoed from her phone. Deborah observed from the stern, no doubt noting the details of the start.

Luke, Suzanne and I on the way to the start

I’d met them all within the past week, but it seemed so much longer. Suzanne had been diligently texting me all summer, checking in and asking if I needed anything locally. When I’d arrived in town, sick from jet lag and motion sickness, she’d ordered groceries delivered to my air bnb. Luke and I met over video conference and it was clear he had loads of experience with the channel. I met Deborah just before the swim, but she’d crewed with a friend of mine for another swimmer, so I knew I could count on her as well. By the time the swim had begun, I’d long since given up the idea that I was somehow alone in England. Here was a team of people, working flawlessly together. It was time to relinquish control, to hand over the wheel, and just swim.

Deb takes a selfie, with Luke in the background

I spent the first hour narrowing my focus to the movement of swimming itself, arm over arm, the gentle rhythm of my kick, each breath more steady and calm than the last. I’d practiced this meditative hour each day all summer, sometimes many hours in a row, the mental practice as important as the physical. The movement of swimming has been with me nearly my entire life. It was my first love as a child and a steady partner through this past year’s grief and heartache. Now, the familiar movements once again soothed me as I began my journey from one foreign land to another, just a speck in the vast ocean. I focused on the swimming itself, letting thoughts of success or failure sail into my mind and out again.

Stuart and Sean were keeping an eye on me from the cabin, foregoing autopilot navigation in favor of traditional steering with the wheel and compass. In the car on the way to the swim, Stuart told me his grandfather had piloted his family’s first channel swim in 1926, while Stuart had crewed his first at age six, accompanying his uncle who was piloting.

“I was a little cabin boy. I just wanted to be down here all the time,” he said as we pulled into the marina. His passion for the sport and care for the swimmers who do it was clear to me from our first meeting. Everything about him was reassuring. “You’ll swim better if you’re relaxed,” he told me over coffee. “Let me worry about the weather and have it turn my hair gray”. I had decided at that moment to just take his advice. “I’ll just do whatever you tell me to,” I said. “Whenever you say it’s time to swim, then I’ll swim.”

Stuart Gleeson and Sean Marsh

I’d told him my story too, about how I’d been a competitive swimmer as a kid. I wasn’t good at first, but I worked hard and got better. For some reason, I even told him about my broken dream to make a US National Team. “You have to be first or second at senior nationals,” I said. “But I was sixth or seventh.” Worse still, my love for the sport had been drowned in worry about outcomes. I went on to point out the contrast in channel swimming, where the time the swim takes is so influenced by conditions that it makes comparisons more or less pointless. “I love it because you don’t have to think about any of that, you can just go and swim for the joy of it. I hope you’ll get to see what I mean today,” I told him. Indeed, I’d set two goals for the swim:

1) Swim to France.

2) Swim with love, joy and appreciation.

It was important to me to approach the swim from this mindset, because I had failed both types of goals as a teen and young woman, when I’d put my desire to achieve an outcome over my love of the activity itself. I wouldn’t make the same mistake today.

The signal for the first feed interrupted my reverie. Luke was holding my hydroflask in the air. I swam to the boat, and snatched the bottle just after it hit the water. I had only a few sips, before I’d drifted too far and the feed line ran out. Dropping the bottle, I knew Suzanne and Luke would adjust and we’d try again, so I swam on. Sure enough, there was the signal again and this time, the line was much longer. I took a thorough drink, told them, “great job” and kept swimming. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten to pee when I was on the feed and wanted to get into the habit of going each feed. I wanted to make this quick, because the currents in the channel are strong and every minute you spend peeing or feeding is multiplied due to the current pulling you off course. After about fifteen minutes, I finally decided to just go. Switching to double arm back and letting my legs go slack, I got a pee started and announced to the crew, “peeing!”. They all found this too hilarious to scold me for stopping and continued to chuckle when I did the same at each feed for the rest of the swim. In all seriousness, peeing is an important part of marathon swimming. Your crew wants to keep track of it since not peeing can be a sign of pretty major medical issues.

Peeing!

A few feeds in and I had completely relaxed into my bliss. The water was a silk sheet of blue, billowing gently in the slightest breeze, cradling me with salty buoyancy. Breathing to my right, I watched the Sea Leopard next to me, her bright white hull a striking contrast with the blue of the water. Breathing to my left, I could see the expanse of the ocean, mesmerizing me and drawing me toward it, away from the safety of the Sea Leopard and her crew. I’d then course correct while breathing to my right again. Occasionally, the Sea Leopard would pull in front of me, her stern slipping from my limited field of vision as I breathed. Cricking my neck slightly forward, I could just glimpse her from the corner of my eye and work to catch up again.

Flipping over onto my back and continuing to swim, I called out to Suzanne and Luke, “Is there any way I can swim further up toward the bow?” The sentence had no sooner left my mouth than it was carried into the cabin. The next thing I knew, I was swimming alongside the Sea Leopard’s bow, the beautiful curve of the bottom bobbing gently up and down as she cut through the water, leading the way to France.

I flipped over onto backstroke to call out a thank you to Stuart and Sean. “You guys are awesome!” A thumb pointing up emerged from the cabin window in reply, causing me to grin as I resumed free-styling, my face back in the water. And then it was hours of unbridled delight. I swam next to the Sea Leopard, who towered over me like a whale. She seemed somehow maternal, keeping my small body tucked close by her side, protecting me from the ocean’s vast uncertainty. The water was so uncharacteristically calm, I glided over it with ease. Another feed came and had me blurting out, “I LOVE this,” before dropping the bottle and swimming on.

I quickly lost track of time and what feed we were on. Sometimes, my mind would try to figure it out and I would shove those thoughts aside. Let time do time, I’d say to myself. I kept my mind still, even as my arms rotated around, Suzanne and Luke made drinks to throw to me, Deborah noted our progress and Stuart and Sean navigated our course. The earth rotated with all of us floating on the surface of one of her seas and the sun changed position in the sky.

Rare, glassy conditions

I didn’t see the first jellyfish, but felt it slide past my shoulder, its body smooth and slippery like a giant, peeled grape. Looking down there were more, Moon jellies, identifiable by their white-translucent bodies, floating alien-like beneath me as I swam by. One of the brown-striped Compass jellyfish hit my arm just before a feed. It burned like hot wax spreading over my bicep. I waited with curiosity to see how long it would last and it was over just in time for me to exclaim to the crew, “I just got stung by a jellyfish! But it didn’t hurt!”

Eventually, there were more jellyfish and my squirrelly mind wondered if maybe we could already be in the separation zone between the westbound and eastbound shipping lanes. More feeds passed and I swam backstroke for a few minutes after each one, plus another backstroke session mid-feed cycle. My shoulders thanked me and it gave me a chance to connect with my crew. “Hi Stuart,” I sang out toward the cabin window. Another thumbs up led to more smiling from me. As I watched the crew watching me, everyone was suddenly looking the opposite direction, off the starboard side of the boat. I later learned an unusually large pod of dolphins had appeared, playing nearby and jumping into the air. I wasn’t the only one reveling in the delights of the ocean that day.

More backstroke, and I was chuckling about something to myself when I caught Luke chuckling back. I laughed harder at him laughing at me laughing. “This is just too awesome,” I said and went back to freestyle.

Somewhere in there, I requested the ibuprofen, thinking it’d probably been long enough. Even now, the order of events has been hopelessly jumbled. The mechanism of a wristwatch had been replaced by the position of the sun in the sky, the building soreness in my tendons and now the change in direction of the passing ships. Can they really be going eastbound? I asked myself with confusion. But we’ve only just begun. At first, the ships had been traveling westbound, as we crossed the first shipping lane, then no ships in the separation zone, and now a large container ship was crossing in front of us heading east. The crew was using hand gestures to beckon me closer, as I had wandered a bit away from the boat again. I snuggled up to the Sea Leopard, reminding myself that Stuart knows exactly what he’s doing and that I was truly very safe. Still, the issue of where we were started to gnaw on me a little. How much time has passed, really? On one hand, I just wanted to pretend we were still on hour four, on the other hand, it was getting increasingly harder to ignore the sun, which had passed the top of the sky and begun to make it’s way westward.

Deb identified the ship above and took this screen shot of its information

I’d need to know eventually, because I’d need to know when I could stop holding back “the juice” I was saving for the sometimes gnarly currents off Cap Gris Nez. I backstroked and asked how many hours we’d been going. Suzanne held up eight fingers. Eight. It seemed impossible and startling. But it fit with the sun and the direction of the ships. At the next feed, I said to let me know when we had one to two hours left so I could pick up the pace. Stuart had come out of the cabin to cheer me on. “Good job, Jess,” he called out to me. “Really good job!”.

“You have one to two hours left,” they reported, on the very next feed. I was absorbed in mixed feelings. This meant I was having a pretty quick swim and the chance of success was growing larger. But also, it was almost over, this feeling of delight and celebration. I detected a trace of the future feeling of loss that I now have in abundance, as I sit here at London Heathrow, outside the glass walls of my departure gate, listening to the steady whir of the moving walkway.

I breathed in the direction of the crew, then back toward the ocean beyond. I picked my head up to glimpse France in the distance. I considered slowing down to draw it out longer, but I knew I needed to let go of this attempt at control as well. Putting my head down, I started to swim faster.

The wind picked up right around the same time, and I can remember focusing on vaulting over my hands as they sought to anchor themselves on the moving water. I snuggled closer to the Sea Leopard again, while she blocked most of the oncoming white caps from flying into my face when I’d turn my head to breath. I had asked to switch to my caffeinated feed drink, raspberry carborocket, and it was kicking in. I had come out of my cocoon of peace and was now worried I might need to go even faster. I heard Luke say something about currents when I stopped for a feed, and Stuart said something else I couldn’t hear, but assumed was important. I asked them to write things on the dry erase board and was relieved when I saw Suzanne start to write. She drew an arrow on the board, pointing toward France, and then later, two arrows, indicating it was time to pick it up. So onward I went, focusing on increasing my tempo and leaving behind the sense of comfort and relaxation I’d be cultivating all day.

I began to think of myself as an arrow, being fired over to France. My consistency and persistence in training were the arms of the bow and my longing for a successful crossing was the bowstring. I let go of myself and everything I was holding back as Stuart aimed us toward Cap Gris Nez, and we flew in slow motion toward our mark.

Suzanne was writing on the board again. “1 mile left, 1500 meters, Sprint,” it said. It was sooner than I’d expected and I wondered if we were going slower than two miles per hour. “How many minutes,” I asked, backstroking. “20 minutes,” she wrote on the board. Surprised, I focused on keeping my stroke rate up and tried not to think about it too much.

In a few more minutes, Sean came out on deck and pulled in the rigid inflatable boat (RIB) the Sea Leopard had been towing behind her. I watched him get in the rib and saw everyone pointing to him, telling me to follow him in to shore. I couldn’t believe it. This is really actually happening, I thought. I’m almost to France! Off I went with Sean, while the Sea Leopard stayed back in deeper water. I swam for awhile and snuck a peak up at the beach. It was sandy and I could make out people. Not far now, I told myself. I swam some more, trying not to get too excited too soon. I couldn’t believe I was really almost there. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about it during the crossing.

The splash is me, swimming next to Sean in the RIB.

After awhile, I snuck another peak, but to my frustration it seemed we weren’t any closer. In a quick exchange with Sean, we adjusted so I was swimming next to him rather than behind him and I settled back in, deciding I’d count three hundred stroke cycles, or ten minutes before looking up again. I knew I was getting closer when I swam past a series of wooden sticks poking out of the water. I later learned these were called, “The Mussel Stakes” and they are there so local people can forage for mussels during low tide.

Mussel Stakes

I kept counting strokes and when I’d finally reached three hundred, I looked up. Now we were really close and I could make out the bottom underneath me. Suddenly, Sean stopped and waved me on. The water was now too shallow for even the rib to continue, but yet there was a ways to go. My hands hit the sandy bottom, so I switched to backstroke, which is better for shallow water and continued until I was lying on my back in the sand in a few inches of water.

Turning around, I got up slowly and took my first steps onto French soil. The beach was deserted, except for a woman and her young daughter. The mother, glancing out at the Sea Leopard and England beyond, gave me a knowing look. The little girl gazed up at me wide eyed, as I hauled my Desitin covered body out of the sea. Looking down at her, I saw a piece of myself, the little girl with big dreams, who also just wanted to play in the sea. I allowed a wave of emotion to wash over me as I continued walking.

I was now on wet sand, but could see there was a large, tidal pool beyond me and I knew I’d have to cross it to honor the rule of continuing until “there is no sea water beyond”. I splashed through the pool and looked back at Sean, but there was still a tidal stream running into the ocean beyond me. So I walked forward some more, beginning to feel I was on a hike rather than a swim. Finally, crossing the stream, with no more sea water left beyond me, I raised my arms in victory. The swim was complete.

Arrived in France

Sean drove me back to the Sea Leopard in the rib. I thanked him and he congratulated me, but I appreciated that we were mostly quiet, letting the moment sink in with reverence.

I asked permission to come aboard. “Yes, you’ve done your job for the day,” Stuart replied.

Back on board the Sea Leopard, I was too warm to need the blanket Suzanne had brought me, but it helped to sit on it and avoid ruining Stuart’s boat. I changed into my post swim clothes, a set dedicated to getting smeared with Desitin. Stuart came out of the cabin, asking, “Do you want to know the time?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Ten hours, twenty-one minutes,” he said, a huge grin spreading across his face.

Top notch piloting 🙂

And then everyone marveled at how happy I had seemed throughout the crossing. I wasn’t sure what I was more proud of: the finish, the time or the number of smiles I’d displayed. Sean and Stuart asked what I would do with my time now that the swim was complete and I still had another ten days or so. “Well, do you know of anyone who needs someone to crew for their swim?” I asked.

“Deborah is the only crew for Paul Feltoe, who is coming in next from New Zealand, maybe you could crew for him,” Stuart said. And that is how I became lucky enough to go out on the Sea Leopard again a few nights later. More on that in the next post.