Swimming to Antarctica by Lynne Cox Page B

moving,” Ron yelled.
    In the back of our minds we wondered who would be the first to get out. Who would be the coldest or weakest swimmer? Who would go first or second? None of us thought,
It’s going to be me.
And none of us wanted it to happen to anyone. We wanted to complete the crossing as a team. And somehow we sensed that if one of us climbed out of the water, it would diminish the strength of the team. I used that as a motivator and told myself that no matter what, I was not going to be the one to get out. I was going to make this swim.
    About two hours into the swim my eyes adjusted to the starlight and I began to relax and stretch my stroke out. I felt as if I were swimming through a black-and-white photograph of the sea at night. Without color, the world I swam through was in stark contrast, reduced to luminous blacks, brilliant whites, and tonal grays. Looking up toward the sky on a breath, I watched the brightest stars travel across the heavens as we moved across the sea. Each time I breathed, I looked deeper into space, seeing stars beyond stars. Suddenly I felt as if I were falling upward. Shaking my head, I searched for a star to fixupon, to help me regain my balance. But I couldn’t find one, so I looked down into the deep water. I felt as if I were teetering on the edge of a great abyss. The sky was expanding upward and outward, and I felt I was on the upper inches of the water, and the entire sea was dropping below me.
    My mind searched for some stable reference point, but this was so different from swimming along the shores of Seal Beach. There was no pier, no homes, no palm trees—nothing. I had promised myself not to look back, but I had to. Only there was nothing behind us— not even Catalina Island. This made me feel more jumbled. To regain some sense of security, I swam closer to Stacey, and my hand hit her shoulder. We both jumped, but that contact snapped me back to reality, and I marveled once again at the night. Falling stars were arching across the black heavens, leaving long contrails of fiery white light. And in the phosphorescent ocean—the results of a large phytoplankton bloom—silvery bubbles rolled out of my mouth, and as my arms churned the water, they etched a trail of white iridescent light across the shimmering black sea.
    We moved together and began to slide into our pace. About an hour passed, and we stopped to feed beside the lead boat. We felt a school of small fish swimming around us, bumping into our legs and feet. Flying fish the size of mockingbirds were leaping out of the water. They’d emerge from the depths and fly across the air, flapping their fins and sailing across the sky. Some flew right into us, and we let out squeals of delight. Some arced over the paddleboards, and a couple landed in the boat. In the phosphorescent light, they were magically turning iridescent pink, blue, purple, rose, and green.
    Inspired by the natural light display, we plodded on. Ten miles into the swim, about four hours out, Nancy was having problems. “I’m so cold,” she said. Her teeth were chattering.
    The crew encouraged her to keep going, and we did the same. But she began stopping every one or two hundred meters. “I’m so cold. I don’t think I can do this.”
    The voices of her teammates surrounded her with encouragement. “Come on, Nancy, just pick up your pace. You’ll be fine. If you swim faster you’ll get warm. Come on, you can do it.”
    She swam for another hundred yards. “Ron, I don’t think I can keep going. I’m just so cold.”
    “Pick up the pace, Nancy. You’ll be fine,” he reassured her.
    “But Ron, I don’t think I can. I’m so cold,” she whined.
    Her talk of coldness was making me feel cold. And it was having the same effect on all the team. As long as we sat there treading water, we were undoubtedly getting colder. Every time we stopped, we lost heat. It was heat that we’d never get back. A chill crept into my body, and a shiver rippled