Addressing Fear Head On – SAA 5 Miles

My heart was pounding as we pulled into the parking lot where
they had just begun setting up for the big event at High Tide
Farm, located directly across the bay from Gibson Island in
Maryland. As the aroma of horse dung hit my nose, I took a deep
breath and said a silent prayer.


 


I felt the breeze and remembered the email I received the night
before:


 


Conditions will be a factor; see the below latest forecast from
NOAA. (North winds 10 to 15 KT, with gusts to 25 KT. Waves 3
foot.) Please call or text me if you’d rather not proceed with
the swim tomorrow.


 


I had just learned to swim roughly one year before, and had never
come close to swimming 5 miles, much less in the open water, with
choppy conditions. But, I had stuck to the training.


 


I signed my waiver, grabbed my timing chip and t-shirt, and
headed off to make a pit stop before scoffing down my breakfast,
which consisted of gobs of sautéed sweet potatoes and a couple of
eggs.


 


Moments later, I was getting out of a minivan at the starting
line. At 6:30am, it was still dark, and the wind continued to
pick up as the shuttle made its rounds. By 6:50am, the swimmers
were suited up, and their kayakers were putting their boats in
the water.


 


Kayakers are responsible for spotting, ensuring we stay on course
and avoid swimming into each other. They also provide food,
water, and supplies such as extra goggles and swim caps. Mine
also provided a bit of good humor and cheerleading.


 


As I talked with my new friend and kayaker, Bob, I noticed the
waves were increasing in size, and my adrenaline started pumping
faster.


 


“Will I even be able to make progress in this choppy water? This
is crazy!” I thought, as I did my best to remain calm.


 


Then, Dave came over and starting asking Bob about the timing
chip and start time. Realizing that Dave thought Bob was in
charge of the event, I said, “Bob’s just my kayaker. He doesn’t
know what’s going on.”


 


Clearly not believing me, Dave continued staring at Bob, waiting
for an update on the start time. In an attempt to make the odd
stranger go away, Bob, in a thick accent, smiled and said, “I
speak no English.”


 


I burst into laughter, but Dave just looked confused.


 


“I from Ukraine,” Bob said, with a big smile.


 


Laughing hysterically, I walked away from them, over to a half
wall, and started stretching. Bob followed me and we started
chatting as I stretched.


 


Bob looked over and noticed that Dave was still looking at him.
Dave was the only swimmer without a wetsuit, so maybe he was just
too cold to think straight.


 


I was happy to have the comic relief, though. The laughter
diminished my tension, and I was ready to get started. I prayed
for the wind and waves to calm down, so that I could make it to
the finish line, where my friend and neighbor, Maria Dennis, was
waiting to embrace me.


 


Having battled leukemia a little over a year ago, she served as a
giant inspiration for me as I trained for this swim. Throughout
the process of chemotherapy, her spirit and attitude have always
been strong and inspiring.


 


Having her to swim toward strengthened my spirit, as the waves
pummeled me and made it nearly impossible to see Bob. After about
a mile of swimming in 5-foot swells, the waves decreased by a
couple of feet and the undertow picked up. I felt like I was in a
washing machine.


 


After struggling to breathe, inhaling gulps of bay water, and
making what felt like very little progress, I started laughing.
Try as I may, I could not figure out what to do with the current
or the waves.


 


In an effort to reduce the amount of water I was inhaling, I
shifted to breathing only on my left side, facing Bob, which made
staying on course much easier.


 


“Just keep going,” I told myself, “You’ve only been in this water
for thirty minutes.” The last part was my way of keeping myself
present, rather than worrying about how far I’d gone, or if I had
energy in the tank to finish this swim.


 


Refusing to waste precious time on eating, I stopped only to grab
a quick drink and pee—every minute counted.


 


While I didn’t know where I was in the swim (miles or time) when
I saw the boat, and a lady waving her arms, I flat-out ignored
her and told Bob, “Come on, let’s go.”


 


I knew she was there to pull me from the water, and I wasn’t
ready to stop. I was there to finish this darn thing. Besides,
Maria was at the finish line, waiting for me—I had to finish.


 


Moments later, I saw that she had gotten Bob’s attention. He
immediately put his arms in the air, a signal we had agreed would
let me know I needed to stop.


 


Frustrated, I stopped, and heard her say, “We need to get you on
the boat and shift you ahead. We won’t make the time cutoff.”


 


I understood the rules. I knew they needed us to be out of the
water within a specific time frame, but I wanted to finish.


 


As I approached the boat, I heard that they were just shifting us
ahead by about ¾ of a mile so that the area could be reopened to
boat traffic at the scheduled time. I would still get to finish
the swim, and hug Maria.


 


About a mile away from the finish, they said, “Jump in and
finish.”


 


Fear shot through me as I realized I’d have to spot for
myself—something I have yet to master. In fact, I wound up doing
almost double the length in my last open water swim.


 


Frustrated and uncertain, I started swimming toward kayakers,
hoping they could help guide my way.


 


Then, I heard Bob saying, “Come on, let’s finish this thing.” I
don’t know how he did it, but he managed to keep up with the
boat.


 


At the end, a friend asked, “Are you upset that they had to shift
you ahead? That you didn’t swim the full 5 miles?”


 


I said, “I showed up. I did the training, I got into that water,
and I gave my very best effort. The rest was up to God.”


 


A few days later, we got an email from one of the seasoned
swimmers letting us know that we swam closer to 6 or 7 miles,
considering the conditions. I wonder how many times we re-swam
portions of that swim!


 


On my drive home, I got a text message from Betsy, one of the
original organizers of Swim Across America - Mid-Atlantic.
“What’s your goal for next year?”


 


While the answer didn’t come to me right away, it is now
abundantly clear that I need to face my fear and address my
greatest weakness: spotting!


 


In 2016, I will swim 3 miles, without a spotter.