In Search of Memphre Recap

The waxing moon is captivating… hanging low on the horizon, glowing orange. I load my car with bags full of water, hot water in insulated thermoses, a half gallon of pure Vermont maple syrup, pre made coffee, premixed feeds, extra food stuffs, post Desitin clothes, after swim clothes, parka, etc. I stop and stare at that moon—will the bright light it casts be part of my send off?

Fog is nestled in the valley below and I have the sudden realization that it could thwart my swim start! I recite my mantra: control the things that you can, let go of the things you cannot. The fog is out of my control. I need to carry on. I go through my bare minimum mental checklist: suit, cap, goggles, passport, food—that’s it, let’s go. 

The Eastside is dark and quiet, nary a familiar car in sight. I double check the clock, 1:58 AM. I glance at my phone, it’s Tuesday. We said meet at the Eastside at 2 AM on Tuesday, right? I push aside my fears that I’ve shown up on the wrong day, that my clock is somehow wrong, that no one will show up… my pilot, kayaker, and crew, surely they will be here soon. I’m 2 minutes early. Be patient.

I turn the car off and think about picking up my phone to pass the time, but I’ve already talked to Noah, glanced at email, and read supportive messages on Facebook, so I decide to piddle about the parking lot. I walk over to the familiar marina lounge and have a flashback to “In Search of Memphre” 2017… we had two waves of swimmers that year! This parking lot was bustling with activity, swimmers, crew, support staff all milling about making preparation… but this time, it’s just me. All by myself. A solo crossing for this Search. Will this be my year?

Soon Charlotte’s familiar car comes speeding into the lot. I walk over to greet her. Within a few minutes Rob arrives. Gary also. I breathe a sigh of relief, the gang’s all here. 

Everyone goes straight to work. Gathering supplies out of cars. Huffing this, hauling that and the other to Lucky, the pontoon boat. Prepping the boat. Prepping the kayak. I want something to do. I want to prep too. But it’s too early to strip down. Too early for Desitin. I walk back to the car from the boat with Charlotte, and ask, “do you ever wonder why you do it?” Humbly, she says, “At this stage, yah. But as soon as I hit the water and take those first few strokes, then I’m like, oh yah!” This is exactly what I need to hear. At this point I feel uncomfortable that I need help from people and that so much stuff is required to support me while I endeavor to swim across a big lake. Why am I making 3 people get up before 3 AM and sit on a boat and in a kayak for 15 hours just for little old me? I hold on to the thought that I too will remember why, just as soon as I take my first strokes.

The night is cool. Overnight lows are predicted to be in the high 30’s F. At our crew meeting the day before, Charlotte guessed the water temp was 66F. We chose this night because the alternative, while 20 degrees warmer, included rain, and plenty of it. I remember back to 2017 when the water was 64F, the air temp was in the 40’s. We started at 1am. The night was crisp and cool, like this one. I started out comfortable, but after slogging through the dark night, just as day was starting to break, I admitted to my crew that I was cold. My hip flexors were sore and cramping. Elaine smartly encouraged me to focus on one more feed. Just one more feed. Every time I took a stroke, the pain in my hip flexors seared. I couldn’t imagine this pain passing. I knew that I’d warm up as soon as the sun came up, but I couldn’t imagine enduring. I couldn’t imagine walking up on the beach in Magog.

This time I could. I’d been imagining walking up on that beach ever since. This year was different. I spent time acclimatizing to colder temperatures by taking a dip in our local reservoir twice a month all winter. As the lake water warmed, I mixed in cold showers. As the hot southern Oregon summer continued, I resorted to blasting the A/C at 60F when I was driving. Heck, I swam 21 miles across Lake Tahoe in water temps hovering around 64/65F. This year I was ready.

I brought my feed supplies to Lucky. I talked it through with Charlotte, maple syrup and water every feed. Electrolyte every other feed. Protein every other hour. Coffee and donut at breakfast. Soup for lunch. And a bunch of other stuff: Lara bars, cliff blocks, peaches, peppermint tea, Advil, gas-x, Rolaids. I didn’t have these things on my feed plan, but I let her know that I might make requests. She set up a feed station on the boat. We signed our waivers. Had a safety briefing. It was almost go time. 

I don’t feel the knots and butterflies in my stomach feeling that accompanied me through years of age group swim meets. But I feel a weight. I left my family in Oregon. Flew all the way across the country. I’ve asked 3 people to take time out of their lives to accompany me. I feel selfish. I push the thought out of my mind. I remind myself that I have one thing to do today: swim. That’s it. The whole day. Just swim. Don’t stop. 

We enter the marina lounge, last call for bathroom, time to suit up, Desitin up, Vaseline up, final preparations—it’s time. Charlotte graciously helps with Desitin and Vaseline, then we head to the dock. Gary is already in his kayak. Rob is at the helm. This is really happening! 

It’s too shallow by the dock, so Lucky needs to get out a ways before I start. I strip off my towel and shirt and hand them to Charlotte. I’m afraid of being cold. Much to my surprise, I don’t mind the cool air. A light shines on the rocky area where I will start. The boat pushes off. Gary is ready. But it isn’t time, not quite yet. I’m afraid of being cold. I dip my toe in the water. “Not quite yet Shannon,” comes over Gary’s radio from Charlotte. “We’ve got to get out a bit.” My mental pep talk ensues, “you don’t feel cold. The lake is warmer than the air. You can do this.”

Next thing I know, “5… 4… 3… 2… 1… go!” I spontaneously wade into the void, but cautiously. The water, the night, it’s all pitch black. I feel around the rocks with my feet so as not to slip. Wading, wading. I’m aware that Gary is near me, but I’m focused on the black void. Trying to discern the water from the night. It hasn’t really occurred to me, but the boat is consumed by the fog. 

The water reaches my knees, I hit a concrete block and walk over it. It’s up to my thighs. It might be deep enough to swim, but I‘m still wading. I wonder what I‘m waiting for. Why am I still walking? Gary can attest, I think my last words are, “oh shit, I really have to swim!” 

I dive in.

The lake weed tickles my legs, it gets caught around my arm. I take a stroke, and another, and another. Do I have a feeling of relief? Do I remember why I’m doing this? I’m not sure. But I know that I don’t have anything else to do today. Just swim to Canada. That’s it. 

I’m trying to just swim. To find a rhythm. But having trouble orienting myself in the dark, adjusting my eyes to the lights in the hull of Gary’s kayak. Is he drifting off? Coming closer? Should I get closer to him? Where’s the boat? I remember how the boat would drift off during my Tahoe crossing, when I was nodding off. How the lights would skew as my perspective shifted because I was drifting off into swim sleep. But that’s not happening, we’ve just begun. I’m just disoriented in the dark. I look up and see lights. Is that the boat? Was it green that we put along the hull? Is that a green light? I tell myself, “just stay by Gary, it will be fine.”

Trying to find a rhythm, trying to gauge my distance from the kayak. No, he’s definitely drifting off. Is he talking on the radio? Ahhh, he’s coming back towards me. But he’s supposed to set the course, I set the pace. How can he set the course if he’s falling behind me? I’m confused. Getting frustrated. At what point do I check in and make sure everything is okay? Do I just keep plodding along? Do I voice my concerns? Or just leave it up to him to let me know? Would he let me know if something was wrong? Oh shit. What’s happening? 

I pick up my head up and ask, “how’s it going?” “Just fine,” Gary assures me. “Do you have any idea where the boat is?” “No idea,” Gary says honestly. Despite the fear that this evokes, I’m beyond grateful for Gary’s honesty. I suggest that we will surely be able to find them when there‘s more light and he says, “hopefully before then, they have your feeds.” “I can make it a few hours,” I say. I remember back to 2011 when Charlotte lost her kayaker right off the start and blazed on for 7+ miles. I have a big dinner in me, I have plenty of ‘reserves’, we’re fine. 

I stick by Gary’s side. I know we’ll eventually find the boat. But I still peek ahead. I see lights. They spread and diffuse in the fog. It doesn’t look like the boat. It’s dark. It’s foggy. It’s pointless for me to look. I remember my job—swim to Canada. Gary will find the boat. The boat would find us. Just swim.

I know Gary needs to come about to the port side of the boat, and that he started on my right side. So I expected that he’ll fall back and come up on my other side at some point. Every time he falls back even just a few inches, I think maybe he’s switching. The lights in his kayak are such that I can’t tell exactly how close or far I am from him. I can’t tell if this is my fault or if two different colored lights in the front and the back of the kayak might help? I’m so disoriented. I can’t get a rhythm. I’m thirsty. I wonder how any marathon swimmer endures this dark and disorienting part. I’m glad we started at 3am, the dawn will come, the night is short—just keep swimming.

Alas, Gary falls back and comes up on my other side, the boat appears! A wave of relief comes over me. I‘m in a kayak-pontoon sandwich. This is great! Gary on my left. Charlotte and Rob on my right. I see red lights blinking on the boat. What signal did we agree for feed time? I pick up my head. Charlotte throws a line with my feed bottles. “Well hello there,” in her friendly New Zealand accent. I’m surprised how cool and calm she is despite what I perceive as utter mayhem that just went down. I’m grateful for water. I don’t care for anything else, but I feign a swig of electrolyte. Chase it with water. I want to make light conversation about the interesting start, but my comment is lost. And I realize I’m dawdling. I told Charlotte that I don’t dawdle on my feeds. Time to go. 

The next feed comes up quickly. “Already?” I think to myself. But gladly take a swig of maple syrup, chase it with some water. Get going. 

I look to see if I can make out shapes on the horizon. But just see the yellow lights in Gary’s hull. I see a bright flashing light to the left… the lighthouse? That’s about 3.5 miles? Hey, we’re making our way up the lake! 

There is bright light streaming over the bow of Lucky. Is that a spot light? I see the silhouettes of Charlotte and Rob. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe. And then it hit me, the sun! That’s the sun rising! Already! I quickly calculate in my mind, we were supposed to start at 3, but it was probably later than that. Sunrise is around 6:15, so first light is probably at 5/5:15? So I’ve been swimming, about 2 hours… oh boy, long way to go. Keep swimming.

As dawn breaks, steam rises off the water. There are banks of fog that the boat slips in and out of. Low clouds slung across the scenery. An idyllic Vermont fall day, I keep telling myself. And I’m right in the middle of this beautiful setting. I’m trying to grasp the feeling of peace that I get looking at that picture. But I’m in the middle of it. Peace isn’t quite what I feel, but I’m happy.

I can feel the drop in air temperature each time my arm exits. I’m so glad that I’m in the water. It’s warm! Gary looks cold. He’s rubbing his hands together. I feel bad for him. I want to cheer him up, warm him up, something. But just have to keep swimming. 

It sneaks up on me, all of a sudden I’m uncomfortably tired. It feels like Tahoe all over again. This horrible ache to just sleep. I think, maybe if I float on my back I could just close my eyes for a second and get a little cat nap. Then that gut wrenching feeling overcomes me, did I nod off? I see the kayak, I see the boat. I’m in the sandwich. But I close my eyes for a second and they don’t open right away. Am I still between the kayak and the boat? I need caffeine. I start anticipating my coffee and donut feed. 

I see the signal, feed time! This wakes me right up. As I approach the boat Charlotte runs down the list of options, but there’s no coffee. “I need caffeine next time, please.” I take off swimming, slightly refreshed from the break, hoping to stay awake.

Ugh. It’s the worst feeling. The back of your eyes ache. They just want to close. Your mind drifts off to la la land. Some part of your body reels you back in to the task at hand, swim dammit! I can see Charlotte getting up. Is she getting my feed ready? Oh I hope so. I’m Pavlov’s dog, salivating in anticipation. 

Is she signaling? Oh, that must be it. Yes! Nope, she’s walking away. Dang it. 

That’s it! It’s time! I sprint towards the boat. I didn’t know my arms could turn over this fast! Amazing what the promise of food and interaction can bring.

Charlotte mentions that we’re maybe 200 meters from Canada! I realize that Derby bay and it’s familiar islands near where I used to live on Sunset Acres, are behind us. But I also know that 20 miles of this lake is in Canada. Swim.

We keep the caffeine flowing for awhile. So. Much. Better. Mental note: next time, just put the caffeine early in the feed plan. No sense waiting, I hate that feeling. 

I told Charlotte the day before that I have a pretty good sense of time, but not today. Sometimes it seems like forever between feeds. Then it goes by fast. Then I approach the boat when I see Charlotte kneeling down and she says, “you’re naughty. Get swimming.”

A song, a song, surely I can think of a song to occupy myself between feeds. “The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hurrah..” seriously!? That’s the best you can do? “Cecilia, you’re breaking my heart…” Grrr, my internal soundtrack has never worked well, but today it’s severely broken.

Next feed Charlotte says, “anytime you see me do this (she puts her hands on her head with her elbows up high), it means we love you and you’re doing great!” I just about cry. And get back to swimming.

At the next feed I ask if we’re near Georgeville. I remember the boat ride to Georgeville in 2017 after I threw in the towel south of Ile Ronde. I remember the cliffs and hills around Owl’s head receding and the lake opening up. Surely, we’re close. Gary says, “Nope, Georgeville is up around the next bend.” My heart sinks. But Charlotte chimes in, “we’re more than half way!” Just the spin I need. I swim on.

Charlotte brings news from the outside world! “Sarah Thomas says that she loves seeing people swim this lake.” Skeptically, I say, “Sarah Thomas?! All the way from Dover?” “That’s right!” Sarah is my super-mega-idol, if you can legitimately add superlatives to the word idol. So hearing this adds a pep to my step, to say the least!

Next Charlotte starts getting really creative with my feeds, introducing items that I know I didn’t bring on board: pretzels, grapes, ginger cookies. Sometimes she asks what I want next, sometimes she surprises me. My very own feed innovator. This is fun! 

Charlotte asks, “Shannon, do you like music?” “Yes, of course I do! But I can’t think of any good songs” “Okay, next feed.” So I take off, anticipating some good tunes in 30 minutes.

“Sweeeet Car-o-line…<dun, dun, dun>” is playing! Charlotte points out Ile Lords island just up ahead. She makes this sound significant. But I’m afraid to ask why because I know the remaining distance won’t be as short as I’d like it to be. I’m thankful for the wind at my back and much of the lake behind me. Swim more.

Charlotte is dancing on the boat. She holds up flags, towels, shirts, anything that will make me smile. It’s absolutely perfect. I know I’m getting a good push from the wind so I just try to hold my form together and ride the waves.

“Now Shannon, I know you’re tired and you’ve been swimming a long time, but we have just 2.95 miles left. I want you to dig deep. I need you to increase your stroke rate, just 3-4 strokes per minute for the next 30 minutes. That’s all, just 30 minutes. I know you can do it.” Suddenly I’m wondering if there’s bad weather on the way? Why do I have to go faster? That’s it, something horrible has happened and they don’t want to tell me until I’m finished. But at the same time, now I have a conceivable goal! I’m energized. And pick up the pace.

All the while I’m swimming I’m looking for validation. Is that a thumbs up? Am I doing okay? Finally, it’s feed time and it comes. “That was so good. Nice job! … Now, I want you to do it again.” My heart sinks. I don’t know how I could possibly keep up that pace for a minute longer, nonetheless 30! Charlotte reminds me how we’re knocking off nearly a mile each feed and how we’re so close! I make an excuse that I have a hard time reconciling increased stroke rate with actual speed, which is true. But I take off willing my arms around at as fast of a rate as I can muster.

I’m afraid to look ahead. Out of my peripheral vision I see the houses getting closer. Boats, docks. I know I’m close-ish. It’s shallow. I can see lake weed. Then patches of sand. A rock bottom. We must be close. I’m certain it’s been more than 30 minutes. Obviously Charlotte isn’t going to declare a “last feed” – that’s fine. I’m not tied to it. I’m glad to push through to the finish rather than have a last feed – I think foolishly. Last feeds are really important – you need the energy to get to the finish! I get the signal for feed time and I sadly realize that I’m probably more than a mile out – Charlotte had mentioned that it gets shallow as you near Magog, but seriously? A mile out? I’m struggling to keep my feet off the ground – for some reason I’m sure that I’ll be disqualified if my feet touch the bottom. Charlotte’s directions are clear, they’ll guide me all the way in. She can see the orange jacket on shore that signals the finish. She’ll point to the beach when it’s the last 25 yards and I’m not to pick up my head and sight until then. I nod. I’m ready to get this thing done.

I’m proud of myself for not picking my head up until I’m sure that it will actually contribute to making a landing. I think I sight twice before the sand comes up beneath me. I figure that I could walk, but I know that walking will be challenging after this much swimming, so I keep stroking until my finger tips hit bottom. I made it. Today I swam to Canada!

Why? Because I can. I feel invigorated. I feel alive. My heart is bursting with love and gratitude. My cup is full.