LawyerBeats Time and Tide----at 49, He Masters the Channel

John Hill greets his crew with a smile of nervous anticipation and the barest hint of fright in his clear blue eyes.

At 49, the alcoholic-turned-athlete had trained a year and a half for his attempt to become the oldest person to swim 22 miles from Catalina to the mainland.

Hill had turned his admittedly compulsive nature to athletics in 1973 when he quit drinking. He ran in more than 70 marathons, but by 1980 he was seeking a new challenge. He learned to swim. Eventually the idea of swimming the Catalina Channel began to fascinate him, and last March he asked Penny Dean and John York, who have swum the channel several times, to train him.

Taking the past two months off from his Los Angeles law practice, Hill swam up to 10 hours a day, 50 miles a week, enduring workouts so rigorous that “there were days when I was too sore to turn the knob on the car radio.”

Now, Sunday night, aboard the escort boat that will accompany him on the estimated 16-hour journey, Hill scans the rapidly darkening sky, the sea as placid as a lake, the lights of the mainland glittering in the distance.

“I’m scared,” he says to coach Dean.

“Anxious, John, not scared,” Dean says, reassuringly.

“Right, anxious,” he says, sounding unconvinced.

A look of determination settles over his deeply lined face. Donning a fluorescent orange swim cap and scarlet nylon trunks, he turns to Dean.

“Let’s do it.”

Snapping on surgical-style gloves, Dean slathers Hill’s body with lanolin, thick yellowy glop that clings like a barnacle to the swimmer’s body, keeping heat in and cutting resistance to water.

Strapping waterproof flashlights to surfboards, the pair paddle in darkness from the escort boat Golden Greek to Paradise Cove, where Hill will start.

A high-pitched whistle at 8:34 signals the six-person crew that Hill has started the swim. Two paddlers accompany him on surfboards. They will rotate with other crew members in two-hour shifts, helping feed him and keep him on course.

But the ordeal is not Hill’s alone. Trailing at an agonizingly slow 1-mile-per-hour pace, the Golden Greek quickly is engulfed in a noxious cloud of diesel fumes. Combined with the boat’s nonstop pitching and rolling, it leaves most of the crew--including the captain--gasping with seasickness.

The crew members are nearly all veteran swimmers, and several have made the Catalina crossing themselves. The one exception is Hill’s 17-year-old son, Andy, who volunteered as a paddler to accompany his father on the swim.

“It’s not easy,” said paddler Andrea Carr, 25, shivering as she emerged from her first two-hour shift, sometime after midnight. “These crossings can really be rough on everybody. But you do it. We all help each other out.”

Jelly Sandwiches, Coffee

Throughout the night crew members feed Hill a steady diet of jelly sandwiches, black coffee and warm “erg”--electrolyte replacement with glucose--a raspberry-colored mixture that tastes even worse than it sounds.

Hill swims at a steady 60 strokes a minute throughout the night, while crew members tell jokes, reminisce about other crossings and keep a watchful eye for sharks. But the only sharks spotted are below deck, where several members occupy themselves by viewing a TV documentary on--what else?--sharks.

By morning, coaches and paddlers alike can be found on deck--bundled in thermal blankets, down jackets and insulated boots--where they have spent the night in an effort to allay the nausea.

Tension rises as York turns around and spots a massive tanker looming less than 800 yards away. If the tanker draws closer, waves from its backwash could pull the weakened Hill under. Crew members calm down when the tanker chugs off in the opposite direction.

By 8 a.m., after 12 hours in the water and still seven miles from shore, Hill is discouraged. “I don’t know if I can hold out. It seems like I’m getting farther away.”

90% Mental

“Don’t talk like that,” Dean yells sharply. “You’ll psyche yourself out.” Others cheer loudly. “You can do it, John.”

“A swim like this is 90% mental,” Dean explains to an observer. “He’s got the training to make it. We just have to keep his spirits up. Sometimes that means we have to bully the swimmer a little. They hate us for a few days afterward, then they’re glad we made them tough it out.”

Among the six-member crew, Dean clearly excels at bullying. While York is given to sing-song encouragement--”Come on, John, swim right, keep your stroke up, you can do it,”--Dean steps in when a firmer hand is needed.

“Quit being a baby and swim,” she barks, after Hill stops to complain of a sore chest. “It’s all in your head. Now get your ass in gear and let’s finish this swim.” Reluctantly, Hill lowers his face into the water and takes up his stroke again, slowly, painfully.

Gulped Salt Water

“Why do I always wind up being the bad guy?” Dean mutters, shaking her head and chuckling. Later she explains that Hill’s chest is sore from swallowing salt water. “It burns all the way down,” she says, grimacing.

To occupy the time--”Watching a swim like this is like watching grass grow,” one paddler remarks--crew members keep a log that also will serve as a keepsake of the swim.

“Dad’s really plugging away,” son Andy writes. “Almost everybody is seasick, but who cares?”

Carr’s entry is more philosophical. “The water is glassy, John. We’ve got the Eagles on the tape machine, playing ‘Take It to the Limit.’ We know you will.”

By 10 a.m., Dean becomes anxious. Hill is within five miles of the mainland, but the rising tide will last only three more hours. “He’s got one hour of slack after that and then the tide goes out,” she says, chewing her lip nervously.

Begins to Weaken

By 11:30 Hill has begun to drift. His left arm barely clears the water with each stroke; his kick has slowed to a flutter. Dean decides to swim alongside him for a while, to urge him on.

Less than an hour later, she clambers aboard the boat.

“He’s losing it pretty badly,” she tells the crew.

Turning a pale blue, Hill has become disoriented. He is failing to respond to questions. He enters the beginning stages of hypothermia, a condition in which body temperature begins to drop. The water is about 66 degrees and will get colder as he gets closer to shore.

Skiff Loaded

In case they have to end the swim, crew member Andrew Thieme loads an emergency skiff with blankets and hot packs. He jerks on the outboard motor cord, only to find the motor has stalled.

“Jesus, I don’t believe this!” he yells frantically. “Hand me some oars.”

York dives and swims to Hill, while Thieme rows out and captain George Harris radios a Los Angeles County lifeguard boat to stand by.

Fifteen minutes later, Hill looks up, smiles at the crew and yells, “I’m no quitter.” Face down, he resumes his stroke with renewed vigor.

“He’s just showing incredible determination,” son Andy marvels. ‘I feel so proud of him. It’s a lot to live up to.”

“If I had that kind of motivation I’d be a millionaire,” paddler Bruce Tuttle says.

Shore 2 Hours Away

By 2 p.m., Dean tells Hill, “You’re in the home stretch now,” although privately she admits he still has a 2-hour swim.

An hour later, an exhausted Hill is battling the outgoing tide. His right hand slaps the water almost flat, with seemingly no force but gravity pulling it in. His left arm barely moves.

On deck, a cool breeze blows over the bedraggled crew. Member Bob Tierney lies like a corpse on deck, smothered in damp towels in a belated effort to protect his already fuchsia-toned skin. He is awash in a small tide of crushed soda cans, saltine boxes, apple cores and T-shirts.

In the distance, nearly 200 friends, well-wishers and gawkers have assembled on the beach near Marineland and on the cliff above to cheer Hill to the finish. Wife Liz Hill and others hold up a six-foot banner that proclaims, “You Did It.”

Thieme rows to shore ahead of Hill, accompanied by Dean, the official timekeeper.

Path Through Kelp

With two swimmers ahead to tear through the thick, slimy kelp that floats like a barrier in front of the rocky shore, Hill struggles to reach the mainland.

Finally, after 19 hours and 15 minutes in the water, a pale and shaking Hill staggers ashore.

On deck, son Andy falls back with a thud. “Thank God.”

Captain Harris turns to Andy. “Your old man is something else, kid.”

“I know.”

Lifeguards from the county patrol boat wrap the trembling Hill in blankets and speed him to a Redondo Beach lifeguard station. From there, he is taken to South Bay Hospital for treatment of hypothermia and a checkup.

By the following morning, Hill’s natural ebullience had returned, along with his natural color.

‘Feel Pretty Good’

“I’m a little sore,” he admitted, “but other than that I feel pretty good. A lot better than I thought I would.

“There was a point there when I really wanted to quit. I was so cold, so tired. The only thing I looked forward to was going to my hot, stuffy car and just sitting in it, not rolling the windows down or anything. Pretty weird, huh?”

Why didn’t he quit? “It was partly because I didn’t want to let down Penny and John, and partly because in a way, it’s much easier to suffer through it than explain why you failed. I think that’s true of life in general. People aren’t interested in why you fail. Then, if you’re like me, you’d have to try again, and it wouldn’t necessarily be any easier. I guess I just don’t like to fail.”