Cold crawl

Hitting the water with a splash, I began stroking as fast as my arms would turn over. I knew it was going to be cold, really cold, but I had asked not to be told the water temperature until I finished. I didn’t want to psych myself out before I even got in. Nothing had ever felt as good as that moment. The year was 1987, and I was attempting the first swim across the Bering Strait from the United States to the Soviet Union. I swam with absolute elation. My strokes -- what I could feel with numb arms -- were strong and powerful, and I moved rapidly across the Bering Sea’s calm surface. The sea’s tranquillity was in such contrast to the way I felt, full of energy and excitement.

The 2.7-mile swim between two islands -- Little Diomede in the U.S. and Big Diomede in the Soviet Union -- would mark one of the coldest swims ever completed, in water that could drop to a biting 38 degrees Fahrenheit. Six degrees colder and it would be one big ice cube. With each numbing stroke, I was also trying to bridge the distance between the two countries during the beginning of the end of the Cold War.

Within moments, my two escort boats were behind me, and I started to worry. They were supposed to guide me, but the crew didn’t appear to know where it was heading. Although I didn’t know it, the water was 42 degrees. In water that cold, every moment we strayed reduced our chances of making it across.

It was like being on the very edge of life. I had to be acutely aware of everything, to stay attuned to my body, to make sure I wasn’t going into hypothermia.

Looking through the clear, icy, gray-blue water, I examined my hands, which were like paddles. That meant I was maintaining fine motor control and that my brain was warm. If my fingers started spreading that would signal danger -- that I was going into hypothermia and my judgment might be impaired.

My shoulders were splotchy red and white. The blood from the exterior of my body was pooling in the core to protect my heart and vital organs. I began sprinting, trying to generate more heat than I was losing.

“We need to take your temperature,” shouted Dr. Jan Nyboer Jr., a member of my medical support team, as he grabbed the receiver. I started backstroking but I didn’t produce as much heat as when I swam freestyle. The frigid water rapidly sucked the heat from my body. It was like standing wet and naked in front of an air conditioner on high.

The ocean waves kept bouncing Nyboer around as he tried to hold the receiver near my stomach to receive a transmission from the thermopill, a metal pill I had swallowed that contained a radio transmitter. The readings would ensure that my core temperature was normal, but I was annoyed. This was slowing me down and reducing my ability to create heat. It would take only two or three minutes, but that was too long.

“She’s down to 97 degrees. Lynne, are you doing all right?” asked Dr. William Keatinge, a University of London expert on hypothermia who wanted to use the information on my core temperature readings in his research.

“Yes, this is great,” I shouted happily, covering my real feelings. I had to appear warm. I didn’t want them to pull me out.

But I was worried. Before the swim, my temperature had been 100.7. That was normal before a big swim, but it had already dropped three degrees, and I’d been in the water for only about half an hour. My cutoff point was 94 degrees -- the beginning of hypothermia. My time limit in the water was three hours. By then, the water would have cooled down my peripheral areas, and after the swim was completed, my core temperature would fall further.

We thought we were halfway across the strait, but there was nothing to indicate where the border was, and no sign of the Soviet boats. Visibility had dropped to 10 yards. I hated fog. I had been lost in it when I swam the Catalina Channel. If I got lost in the Bering Sea, in water this cold, I wouldn’t only be lost. I’d be dead.

Suddenly, both boats made sharp 45-degree corrections. Don’t they realize that every moment we stray off course, we diminish our chances of making it? How could I expect them to know? They hadn’t expected me to get into the water. They didn’t think anyone could swim the Bering Strait and survive.

After two more failed attempts to get temperature readings, I decided not to stop again. I couldn’t afford to. I had to swim faster, had to stay warm.

Suddenly we made another sharp correction. I didn’t know it, but the pilots weren’t sure where we were. They had hunted walrus only along the border, never crossed it. They didn’t know what the currents were like on the other side. No one seemed to know how far north we had drifted. A journalist who was also a sailor helped make a critical course correction.

The crew searched for the Soviets, knowing that we needed them to guide us to shore. A sound like a small boat’s motor kept growing louder then fading. And then, a beautiful sight: A dark gray Soviet boat motored slowly out of the fog.

For 11 years I had imagined meeting Soviet sailors in the middle of the Bering Strait. Radio reporter Claire Richardson yelled, “What day is it, Lynne?”

“It’s tomorrow. It’s tomorrow!” I shouted.

We had crossed into Soviet waters and the international date line; we had reached from the present into the future. My goggles filled with tears.

With the Soviet pilots guiding us, we moved directly toward Big Diomede. “Your stroke rate is dropping to 56,” Nyboer said. “Down from 70 strokes per minute.... You’ve got to pick it up.”

We were less than 400 yards from shore of Big Diomede Island. The current grew stronger, and the water temperature dropped to a bone-chilling 38 degrees. My body screamed, Get out!

We were almost there. Fifty yards. I was tiring, and I was so ready to finish. I couldn’t wait to crawl into a warm sleeping bag. That thought made me swim faster. I saw the Soviet crew pointing to a snowbank a half-mile south of us where Soviet people waited for me.

“You can stop now,” Keatinge shouted with concern, afraid that my temperature would drop more. He pointed to a rock where I could stop. “If you stop now, you will have succeeded.”

We were 50 yards from our goal.

“She’s heading in to shore,” Keatinge said, relieved.

But when I turned to breathe, I saw the little black dots that must have been the Soviet people on the beach. I asked myself, Will you be satisfied if you stop now? Everything you have done has been about extending yourself, about going beyond borders. You can stop now.... God, I want to. I’ve got to think about how cold I’m going to be when I climb out.

I took a few more strokes.

“Finish on that rock,” Keatinge coaxed. “The flat one.”

I knew I would regret it if I didn’t push on. I turned left, paralleling the shore. Keatinge looked surprised, then worried. He must have thought I was becoming disoriented and going into hypothermia.

“Bill, it’s all the way or no way,” I shouted.

He grinned, and the crew cheered. Their wave of energy carried me. But it was really hard swimming. The current was diminishing my speed by half. The current was supposed to be easier closer to shore, so I angled in, and it made all the difference.

My hands were purple-gray, like a cadaver’s. My shoulders were the color of blueberries, and my arms, legs, and trunk were splotchy white. They felt heavy, like meat taken out of a freezer. My face felt detached from my head.

I swam faster. People on the beach were running, slipping on the ice, picking their way down to the water’s edge.

Nyboer and Keatinge shouted, “Sprint!”

Then I saw it: The sea floor rose to meet me. I could almost climb out. Life-size people towered above me on the snowbank. I pulled off my goggles and stuck them in my mouth. I needed both hands to crawl out. I tried to move forward, but the incline was steep. Three men leaned toward me, smiling and shouting in Russian. After 2 hours and 6 minutes in the icy water, I felt the warmth of their hands in mine.

From “Swimming to Antarctica: Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer” (2004), by Lynne Cox, published by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House Inc.