Pam, me, and Priscilla
waiting for Mike and Sean to come pick us up for the ride out to the start
Steaming out to Little
Brewster with Sean and Mike at the controls
8 Mile
³Was that the double horn?² I asked, dragging my jacket over my head, shivering in the cool morning breeze. My boat crew, Mike, Sean, Pam and Priscilla, and I had been patiently waiting for the single warning blast when we heard something sounding far more like the double blast of the official start of the 2006 Boston Light Swim. A quick look around at the other boats, swimmers contorted in mid-air off the bows, confirmed that the race was indeed underway. I leaped into the water. Splash!
³Ouch! Thatıs some cold water!² I thought as I surfaced, gasping for a first breath—and a second, the heavy chill pressing the oxygen out, out. All that nervous checking online of the buoy temperature the week before seemed a futile waste of time, as the water was surely not the balmy 65 or 68 degrees Iıd been expecting.
In that momentıs acclimation, before I could put my whole face in, three swimmers breezed past me while I stalled in a clumsy breaststroke. I was sure I wouldnıt see any of them again until the finish line. But their easy pace set me in motion. With my blood finally roaring, I put my face in the water and started swimming like I had all summer.
Mark Warkentin breezes
past at the start
I decided to compete at the 2006 Boston Light Swim sometime in mid-June after a casual conversation about what open water swims locally were worth doing. Greg OıConnor, who took 5th place overall this year, mentioned the Boston Light and I was intrigued. Eight miles sounded just gutsy enough to be truly hardcore without risking serious damage to myself. ³Sign me up!² I thought.
Iıd always been a strong swimmer and always looked for the toughest race; I was particularly fond of the 200 Fly and the 1650 Free for their cringe-inducing cachet among my swimming friends. In college I often moaned to my coach that there just wasnıt a race long enough for me to win and that the taller, slimmer swimmers would beat me off the flip turn every time. ³Youıre built for open water swimming,² she replied. ³With your body composition and that bouncy stroke youıve got, open water is probably the best place for you.²
I got my first taste of open water racing while working as a lifeguard in Long Beach Township, New Jersey and discovered that I really liked it— from the cold water to the fierce competition to the longer distances—it just made more sense to me than wearing a rut along a black line in some perfectly controlled, 78-degree environment. The most memorable swim from that era involved a murderous melee at the buoy that left me with a black eye. That night at the bars, I flirted with boys who asked what happened: ³Ah, you know, just some open-water swimming. Itıs a contact sport. You should see what the girl who started it looked like afterwards!² People whoıd never swum an open water race didnıt understand my bravado and worried for my sight; fellow open-water swimmers laughed and clapped me on the back in solidarity.
After I graduated from college and the beach patrol, I took nearly five years off from swimming, enough to restore my need for the sport after an insidious burnout that had been building over the 16 years of my career. I was still insecure in the new-found motivation that had surfaced in January when I finally started making masters workouts at Longfellow Spots Club in Natick a real habit. Returning to swimming after such a long time away was humbling. I was suddenly, painfully mortal— I had always taken for granted that I could jump into any pool any time and expect to put on a respectable show. But I found the masterıs workouts excruciating and a little embarrassing at first. I just wasnıt the swimmer I once was, but I stuck with it until it wasnıt so hard any more and soon began to remember that other person Iıd been: the swimmer.
Once the warm weather arrived, I found my way back to open water swimming via Lake Cochituate with some of the masterıs swimmers who gather at Pam OıNeillıs house every morning. And thatıs where Greg mentioned the swim. I was intrigued but not sure I had enough time to train. Eight miles. A little over two months. Does that math compute?
Maybe the math wouldnıt workout completely, but I did all summer. Every morning brought an early dip for a maintenance workout of roughly 2,000 to 3,000 yards and every Sunday was reserved for a longer swim, starting with four miles and building incrementally to an eight mile swim a few weeks before the race. Iıd done my homework; I felt ready.
Mike and Sean, best boat
captains EVER!
I stroked away from the flotilla at the start off Little Brewster Island and steamed towards Georges Island. After a mini-eternity, I checked my watch: only 7 minutes into the race that would take upwards of four hours. I was sure Iıd been swimming for at least 20 minutes. That could be a bad sign. Undeterred, I put my head down, breathed frothily into the water and stretched. With that motion, that tight coil in my core loosened a half rotation and I relaxed into a rhythm. I felt strong, the water rushing along me, aiding me to the finish line. I looked down at my watch a bit later and was startled to see that Iıd pulled up along Georges Island in less than 30 minutes. Nearly two miles in 30 minutes? I shouted to my boat crew, ³Iıve got a hell of a current pushing me down here!² They cheered me on.
Approaching Georges Island
Somewhere in the alley between Georges and Rainsford Islands, the water flattened out and warmed considerably. While conditions at the start had been very good, they elevated to idyllic proportions in that channel. Training in flat, freshwater doesnıt help you learn to combat wind and waves and chop, but when I slipped into that tranquil section of the race, I felt like I was back in Wayland on a Friday morning, sprinting with the pack to Framinghamıs town beach. I made up some ground on the swimmers who had creamed me at the start.
About 40 minutes into the race, I paused for my first water break.
Water break
³Youıre doing great!² my friends shouted down to me. Youıre in 4th or 5th place right now and thereıs just one woman ahead of you. Sheıs still in sight and you seem to be gaining on her.² Mike pointed towards the sinuous shoreline of Long Island. We could just barely make out the far end of the bridge in the distance.
I was electrified by this information and by how quickly Iıd dispatched with the first three miles. ³Is that her boat?² I pointed towards a white rectangle on my horizon.
³Yes, I think so. Go get her!² I tossed the water bottle up to Pam and kicked mightily back to prone. Could I possibly dare to catch up to Dori Miller?
As I crept up on the bend of Long Island, around mile four and a half, I felt a subtle shift in the water. The tune in my head also swung from a buoyant Christina Aguilera to a darker Eminem. How either of those songs got lodged there to begin with is a mystery, but there they were, the soundtrack to my race. The chop picked up and suddenly I was beyond the protective reach of Rainsford and battling the great open ocean again, staring right at the monstrous Long Island Bridge. I needed more water.
Swimming the wide-open
ocean towards the Long Island Bridge
³Where is she?² I gasped as Pam carefully lowered the blue bottle to me.
³Uh, I think sheıs long gone.² Mike looked truly apologetic in delivering the message that Iıd lost the chase for first place among the women. Then hopefully, ³Youıre still sitting in 5th place. Youıre doing a phenomenal job!² Priscilla piped up, ³Yeah, woman, youıre rockinı it! Youıre frigging amazing!² She purred a delighted giggle. Pam dragged the bottle back to the boat by its tether and tossed me a packet of Gu.
After the feeding, I felt a little deflated but determined to tackle the last half of the race. I got my bearings on the bridge and started off again. Under the broad, rusty span of the bridge, Doug Belkin caught and surpassed me. Far more adept at navigating the chop, he made it look easy. And I grew frustrated, first choking on his chase boatıs exhaust, then watching his orange cap grow smaller and smaller until the only way I knew he was still there was from the reflective orange sweater his boat captain wore.
Doug makes it look easy at
the bridge
Watching him go, I pointed myself toward the Boston skyline, but each time I looked up, Iıd been swept further from the center of the channel towards Thompson Island. At first I thought this to be a fortuitous navigational circumstance, but I was still too far from Thompson for any of the buffeting benefits that Rainsford had offered me. I struggled to stay in deeper water and to keep from getting sucked west past Moon Island. Any hope of capitalizing on what was left of the current running in my intended direction withered with each additional wave that battered me.
Next stop, Boston!
Swimming strong in the middle of nowhere
Frustrated, exhausted, chaffed, and annoyed, I paused for some water.
³Am I on track?² I asked. My voice was shriller than Iıd meant it to be. A Gatorade bottle materialized in the water next to me.
³Yeah, youıre doing fine. Just keep hugging the shoreline around the bend here, then weıll shoot off across the bay into the finish line. Youıre at about six miles already and youıre doing fantastic!² Mike made it sound so easy. I just wanted it to be over.
I left the Gatorade bottle bobbing at the end of its rope and set off again, but the chaffing on my shoulders screamed its presence. My straps had been growing more uncomfortable despite the Body Glide and Vaseline Iıd carefully applied at the start. The friction became unbearable after that brief respite. I dived down a few feet, hiding in the water, and slipped my arms out of my straps. The water pulled the suit down to my waist, and I was swimming topless. Perhaps not the most hydrodynamic or modest way to finish the last couple miles, but certainly more comfortable than with the chaffing straps up around my neck. If my friends in the boat noticed, they didnıt say anything. They just cheered and pointed and maneuvered the boat to be with me into the finish.
Even the thing from the
deep needs to breathe once in a while
If only the whole race had
been downhill
As we rounded the bend at Thompson, I sighted for the Hancock Tower. Even as a non-native of Boston, approaching that skyline from the water was powerful; here I am swimming towards one of the worldıs most spectacular, important cities, seeing it from an angle that few other people have experienced. The awe, however, was short-lived, drowned by the bumpy water and the wake weekend boaters sprayed in my direction. I struggled to aim shallow into the finish, not to drift perpendicular to it, but I drifted anyway. Off to my right, I noticed Gregıs boat keeping pace with mine, but on a shallower angle with the finish.
Steaming towards the
finish
Somewhere in the middle of Dorchester Bay, which had seemed so narrow when I was on the dock at the Yacht club that morning but now seemed to have widened by a factor of ten—so wide I could barely make out the flotilla of yachts anchored at the club that I had been worried the night before I would have to swim as a slalom course — I looked at my watch to see I was at 2:53. ³Do you think I can get there in under seven minutes?² I shouted to my boat. Nobody seemed to hear me. I couldnıt gauge the distance, but caught sight of the fabled ³bright handball courts² gleaming white as Dover in the late morning sun. ³Am I going to that white building?² I shouted up again.
³Yes. Actually, aim for a little right of there and you should drift right in.²
I chugged and I chugged and looked at my watch. 3:04. Damn, not going to break 3 hours and the handball courts donıt look an inch closer than they were ten minutes ago! I trucked along for several hundred more strokes and looked up. Still no closer. 3:17. Head down, swim some more. 3:23. ³God, how far away is it?! Am I going backwards?!² I felt my resolve breaking, hot tears fogging my goggle lenses. Pam and Priscilla, my two closest girlfriends, leaned over the rail of the boat, ³Youıre doing great, E. Youıre almost there! Youıre so close!² Priscilla added a colorful string of expletives indicating just how impressive she thought I was and I was suddenly laughing, no longer caring if I would finish in less than 3:30 as Iıd set my goal for the race to be. I might still make it in less time than that, I probably wouldnıt, but the most important thing was that I would make it. There was no doubt about that now. And my friends were there with me, pulling for me just as hard I as pulled on each of those last half-thousand strokes.
We bobbed out there for a moment. I took a sip of Gatorade, got my head together for the finish and slipped my arms back into my suit, gritting my teeth as the straps stung back into place. ³OK, folks, topless show is over. Letıs get this thing done already!² I charged toward the fences. Finally catching sight of the FINISH banner, I angled to the corner and kicked like the sprinter I never was. When my fingertips grazed the sand, I dropped my legs and awkwardly evolved onto land. A pair of Tiki lamps, a small crowd, a camera in my face, a white box in my hand. ³What was her time, John?² I heard Fred ask, his marker poised over the results board. ³3:37:35. Second solo female finisher, seventh overall!²
Land ahoy!
Sprint onto shore
And then Pam was there scooping me in a tight hug, Priscilla running along behind her snapping pictures. People I recognized from the dinner the night before congratulating me, Sean and Mike clapping me on the back and shaking their heads in amazement. A champagne bottle, cold and sweating, was thrust in my hands. A celebratory toast, a hot shower, some lunch, a nap, and a check of the website 2007 swim is on Saturday, 18 Aug 2007 at 10:00 am. An email sent: Guys, what are you doing on August 18th, 2007? I need a chase boat and a support crew²
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