Post Coronado Download: More than you want to know

On March 28th I jumped in the crisp, mid 50F’s waters at Glorietta Bay and cruised around Coronado Island. After the corner that would never end turned into the jetty that would never end, we finally passed the fog horn. My pace slowed down in the lumpy, bumpy ocean bit, but I didn’t want to stay out there. Just under 5 hours later, I landed happily, and gratefully, a little past the orange cones at Gator Beach.

That’s the short of it.

If you want the play by play… by play… by play, complete with self reflection and tangential thought, read on!

365 days after my first Virtual Swim Practice (later rebranded Marathon Swim Stories), I had many conversations to reflect on over the course of my swim and travel. It’s an amazing gift to take 95 people on a swim with you. 95 stories of courage and vulnerability, I am forever grateful. Be sure to check out any stories that you missed!

First of all, it was Mark Sheridan, who recommended: write about your swim within 24 (or was it 48?) hours. The bulk of this was written on the plane home. Believe it not, I have spent time editing for length and attempting to make my thoughts cogent.

Planning

When I put together my training plan for a swim later this summer, it said I needed to do about half distance at the end of March. Flailing in the virtual challenge that I hoped would keep me motivated through the winter, in the middle of February, I decide to see if I can use the swim Around Coronado Island with Dan Simonelli as my half distance training swim. I have airplane miles to use. And thanks to volunteering at our local mass vaccination clinics, I’m recently vaccinated. Dan and I find a date. I get clearance from my husband that he’ll take the kids. It’s happening.

This is a test swim in many ways: Test myself in salt. Test my ocean fears. Test my technique and core focused training. Test my ability to push my limits. Test my cold tolerance. Dan knew (most of) this and was willing to shepherd me.

A few weeks later Dan notifies me that he had to schedule a procedure a few days prior to the swim and he’s not sure that he can make it. Fortunately, he’s able to find a back up kayaker. Since I’ve already booked my flight and negotiated the time away from my family, I’m extremely grateful that Jax Cole is available and willing to escort me on my planned date.

Preparation

Here’s the thing; I haven’t been swimming much. I’m home with my 4 and 6 year old all the time.

I draw up a 5 week training plan for the 11-12 mile swim. Having recently learned that I can set breakfast on the table for my kids and jump in the Endless pool for 10-20 minutes (that’s the longest I feel comfortable leaving them in charge of the house!), the plan says to swim 10-20 minutes, 5 days a week. Negotiating planned excursions, I figure two long training swims on the weekend will be key. Pilates 3-4 times a week. Acclimatization, in our local lakes (which are hovering around 45F), once a week.

The remote that controls the current for the Endless Pool quits functioning after the first swim. The second remote? Corroded. Customer Support verifies that there is no manual override on the unit. I have no current, and the limited options for local pools have tight competition for time slots.

With a new remote ordered, I take my kids with me to the lake to meet my friends for a mid forties swim. The kids eat their snack and watch from the shore, playing on the rocks and in the mud as I dip and gab and then decide to put in another 10 minutes swimming with my head down. Over this winter we’ve learned that we can dip to our shoulders for a bit and get out with minimal side effects. But the days we actually swim with our head down we get the after drop. Not a big deal. But I’m sensitive to my kids being there, watching and then going through the rewarming process too when they just want to play in the park. I decide that I’ll make this a weekly occurrence until the swim, and lean towards meeting on the one day a week when my kids are with grandma.

I step up my biking and hiking with my kids. It’s definitely not an aerobic affair, but it is a practice in strength (carrying at least 35 pounds) and endurance (“mommy, are we there yet?”). Notably, it’s my 6 year old who pushes me to the top of a nearby hump, Roxy Ann, one spring Friday while I carry his brother a chunk of the way up and all the way down.

As soon as my remote arrives I promise myself that I’ll do a 3 hour swim in the pool. Then convince myself that I should build to 3 hours, given that I’ve only been swimming 30 minutes at a whack, 2-3 times a week for the last few months.

I start with a 2 hour swim. The first hour seems like it will never end. The second one goes better. Phew! I vow to do 3 hours the following weekend.

The excuses mount, 3 hours turns into 1. I’m sticking with my new routine of 10-20 minutes, 5 times a week until the time change mid March. This throws me for a loop. I’m way off plan.

Then we’re visiting my parents, no pool access. Just a few days before I leave for San Diego, we take a reconnaissance trip to Lake Shasta with my swim buddies, kids in tow. I enjoy a crisp 1500m in low 50F’s. The perfect warm up for what’s to come.

Getting There

My kids have a playdate with our next door neighbors and I know that THIS is the moment. I should get it all done so that I can get a good nights rest for my early departure.

Having done swims more than twice as long, I go into the packing thinking I don’t need that much – it’s just a few hours longer than a 10K! But I constantly feel like I’m under estimating the swim. What’s the solution? Overpack!

I’ve been thinking about it all week, making lists on my phone, on paper. When the rubber meets the road, I just start throwing things in a suitcase — swimsuits (x3), goggles (x4), swim cap (x2), feed bottles (3 squeeze, 2 Nalgene), random feed items (2x Cliffblocks, 1x 4 oz maple syrup). Next thing I know the kids are home, I shift gears to dinner and bedtime. Surely I can quickly double check, organize and finish this and still be in bed by 8:30 PM. Surely.

Laying down to close my eyes at 11 PM, anticipating an alarm set for 3 AM for a 5:30 flight out. I’m in bed long enough for my 4 year old to run in and snuggle with his arm around my neck – which he does every night. I look at the clock after he dozes off to sleep, it’s 11:32. I close my eyes and doze off, look at the clock, 11:36. How can I possibly sleep? I take a few deep breaths and doze off again. Waking just an hour later, I decide that I should just be on my way.

This happened before. In 2018 I flew home from Kingdom Swim in Vermont with my family and had a flight out the next day to Colorado for in inaugural Cliff Backyard Ultra. After I got my kids to sleep I spent the rest of the night repacking, trying to find a balance between what I would bring, borrow, or buy when I got there. I ended up driving away from my house in the middle of the night rather than trying to get even a wink of sleep.

You see, I’m always with my kids, so they act like it’s the end of the world when I leave. My kids are fine when I’m not here. They get to be with daddy, which is a treat, because he’s usually working. But if they see me leaving? Whoa boy, that’s a level of sadness I don’t want to witness. It brings on guilt. And I’m exactly the kind of person that will allow guilt to keep me from doing things. I have accepted that I need these weekend swims a few times a year. I think they make me a better parent when I’m home, because I feel whole. But it just takes one little boy saying, “mommy, do you have to go?” And I won’t. So I leave in the dark of night. 

Pandemic travel is creepy. After sequestering myself at home with my kids for the last year, being especially cautious so that my husband can keep ‘bringing home the bacon’ (as we tell the kids), here I am, mask on, sure, but seated right beside someone on a plane?!

I vaguely recall that I’m vaccinated. And lighten the mood by reflecting on the oxymoron broadcast over the loud speaker, “please observe social distancing and stay 6 feet apart anytime that you’re in the aisle.” – before you sit down within 6 inches of your seatmate!

Traveling alone has huge perks. I get to the airport on time. I can go to bathroom by myself. And do exotic things like sit in the exit row. I can empathize with every parent in the airport and on the plane, knowing that they are doing the best they can, that I have been there, all while not having to be there in this moment.

One plane ride turns into another. I mostly doze in and out of consciousness.

Fortunately I get a glimpse of Coronado Island as we’re coming in for a landing in San Diego. It looks reasonably sized!

Once I get my car and start driving around San Diego, I immediately feel selfish. Who am I to deserve to this opportunity? Just to swim. Of all things?

Eventually I shelve the feeling and focus on making the most of the experience. I decide that the worst thing I could do is be selfish to take the time but then regret that I didn’t make the most of it.

Rest

I have a lot of memories in Southern California. My cousin and godmother live in San Diego. My sister lived off Point Loma on a sailboat for a spell and I would visit while I was in college. I moved to Newport Beach (a little over an hour north) in 1999 and would frequent San Diego where I had several friends whom I played water polo with. But I was quickly reminded why I moved away: I’m allergic to lines and crowds and trying to find parking. Not to mention traffic.

Fortunately it’s the middle of the day when I arrive on Friday and most people are at work. I grab lunch in Pacific Beach where I frequented 20 years ago, noting that not much has changed. Despite the pandemic and the middle of the day nature, there are lines to get into bars; the boardwalk is packed.

I enjoy a filling lunch at The Local, a restaurant owned by a friend that I used to play water polo with. I was glad to shoot her a picture from a sun soaked picnic table on her patio.

Memories keep flooding back. I try not to judge them. Mostly memories of insecurity, trying to fit in, and testing out different versions of myself. It was 3 years of my life where I was trying to find what I was looking for.

After taking the slow way to La Jolla with a stop at Mt. Soledad National Veterans Memorial. I get another glimpse of the island. I’m a bit bewildered as to what to do with nothing but time on my hands. No meals to prepare, dishes to wash, laundry to fold, or kids to tend to. Wanting to demask, I find my hotel room and settle in for the night.

As Jaimie Monahan wisely shares, it’s the night before, the night before, the swim that really matters. I revel in what may have been forethought, but more likely chance planning, that my swim is scheduled for Sunday but I had the where-with-all to fly out on Friday morning.

I’ve never had so much time to rest and relax before a swim. I allow myself naps any second that my eyes feel heavy. And watch the daylight turn to evening, then to night, from the comfort of my hotel room.

Mental Preparation

I had the perfect interview on the Tuesday before my swim with Mary Stella. We connect in the process, an amazing byproduct of Marathon Swim Stories when it happens. A few days prior to my departure, Mary recommends the book Can’t Hurt Me by David Goggins. I download it from Audible right away but don’t have time to listen to it until I leave. I’m consumed by it. This is all I listen to.

It takes everything in me to break out of my shell and meet up with Jeff Rake on Saturday. Diane McManus recommended that I interview Jeff. It just so happened that were both going to be in San Diego at the same time. Jeff graciously reaches out to me weeks in advance and offers to swim with me in La Jolla cove, as well as give me pointers, having just completed the Coronado swim in September 2020. I oversleep our swim date but realize if left to my own devices, I won’t leave the hotel room for the rest of the day. I depart immediately.

I figure that I’ve missed Jeff, but I’ll assess the situation and bring my swim bag just in case. As the sun creeps over the horizon, birds call from their nest on the cliffs. Wetsuited swimmers and divers with masks, snorkels and flippers, make their way into the waves that lap the base of the staircase down to the cove. Wave by wave one group after another entertains the oceans dance. Some go in, others come out. This looks benign. My ocean fears rest.

A skinned swimmer is coming in. “That’s got to be Jeff,” I think to myself. I greet him as he’s pulling his weight onto the stairs. “You must be Jeff,” I say. Bewildered, Jeff says, “what?”

Through conversation, he comes to realize who I am. As I’m standing next to Jeff, his teeth chattering, I’m flummoxed by different body physiology. I’m not sure acclimatization can help some people. As the studies that Lynne Cox took part in show, some bodies handle cold better than others. Jeff has to take the hard road. I feel more sure of my natural physiology. If nothing else, I feel like covid has demonstrated this. An ultra runner one day can’t walk to the refrigerator the next. Some are carriers with nary a symptom. Others incapacitated. Or worse. There is no one size fits all. Not for anything in life. I’m reminded that my swim around Coronado will be my own. No one else’s.

As Jeff is rewarming, I go for a dip. Embracing the cove, it’s energy. Hardly swimming. Mostly floating. Accepting. I have fear. I have doubt. But I love. I love this feeling of being in the water. Everything feels exquisite.

Jeff and I regroup for the first ever in person episode of Marathon Swim Stories!

I spend the rest of the day in my hotel room, napping, preparing, and listening to the rest of Can’t Hurt Me.

Day of

I wake up 20 minutes before my alarm goes off. The doubts start to creep in as I start the coffee pot.

It’s more of a habit than a necessity, I note to myself. I’ve been getting plenty of rest, should I have coffee today? I usually have coffee. Why not today? Well, what if you have to go to the bathroom? Jax said there’s a bathroom at the start.

Even though it’s a foreign vessel, the coffee feels familiar. Ahhh.

I sunscreen up (I read about this pre sun screening somewhere and figure it can’t hurt!).

I start making hot water for my feeds. I’m not sure how long they’ll stay warm, but figure it will be better than nothing. The previous night I added a few ounces of water to the chocolate UCAN powder that I doled out into bottles at home. This made a thick slurry. I add the hot water from my hotel room coffee pot.

At 6:45 I put the warm feeds in socks in the hopes they stay warm.

At 7:15 I hear from Jax, who’s driving down from LA. All the lights on her dashboard are on and she has to turn around to switch cars! Not a big deal, she assures me. We’ll meet up a little later than expected and, “prep more efficiently,” she notes. Splash time, 9:30 AM, is not expected to be affected.

Wow, I’m so glad that she can just switch cars! I think of all the ways that it could have been worse.

The well wishes continue to flow in by text and Facebook. I’m buoyed with hope and giddy with excitement as I leave the hotel around 7:30.

As I pull out of the parking garage in La Jolla, my excitement is penetrated by nervousness. For the entire 23 minute drive to Coronado I’m wavering. Do I want quiet on the drive? I’m not a blast motivational music kind of person, but maybe I want to be? Despite wanting to allow the opportunity to grow and change, I fall back on familiar and play the mind boggling book Livewired by David Eagleman. Unable to concentrate, I feel like I’ve been cast in Stranger Than Fiction. Someone is narrating my life and knows my thoughts, and here I am second guessing them and trying to figure out what to do about it. I can’t remember how the movie ends. I decide to write my own ending – it’s going to be a successful swim.

The Swim

Jax and I walked through the course on a map over the phone on Friday night. Everything seemed straight forward and it doesn’t even look that far compared to the vastness of the San Diego sprawl, one beach town merging into another in every direction. But now that I’m in it, at the beach where we start, everything looks big and further away!

I walk the grounds while chatting with my husband. I see a kayaking fisherman and two woman with an SUP. It seems that I’ve arrived before my kayakers. To pass time I do a few rechecks. And get a few things sorted, next thing I know Jax calls wondering where I am.

I met Penny and Jax for the first time in person. Forthright, Penny asks about my experience with 53F degree water. I confess that I have done some acclimatization in colder water, but that I’m not sure how it will go. The confession valve is open, “I’ve only done one other ocean swim and that was in Bermuda.” Skeptical, Penny reminds me that was warm water. I let her know that it was 10 years ago and that I have a vast amount of experience since then! I forgot to mention that I was at Suzie Dods 24 Hour Relay in January of 2020, for exactly the purpose of getting some time in a cold water and facing my ocean fears (day and night!).

Penny asks if I’m going to freak out if there’s wildlife. I don’t know how to answer. I’m not a ‘freak out’ kind of person– or maybe I am? A stick in the water has given me a start! But I also haven’t swam with “wildlife” very often. I didn’t know how to answer. Vaguely, Penny mentions “significant wildlife” on the ocean side. I don’t ask for clarification. We agree that she’ll let me know if I’m in eminent danger.

We talk about feed routine. Red bottle, then blue bottle until they’re gone. Then clear bottle and maple syrup to the finish. That’s the plan.

As Penny and Jax move their cars to the finish across the street, I feel like the swim will never start. I’m looking around, unsure what to do. I’ve checked and rechecked. I continue to slather on sunscreen and lube. Each time the nerves creep in, I try to breathe.

My self talk goes something like this:

“You’re not ready!”

“You’re ready.”

“What if you get cold?”

“You’re not going to get cold.”

“But what if you do?”

“Keep swimming!”

As the kayaks are being loaded and Penny and Jax are getting set, Jax said something to the effect of, “you just stay between us, try not to get hit by a paddle, and swim your heart out.”

I wanted to retort that I’m not a “swim your heart out kinda girl”, I plod. Long and strong, that’s my mantra. But I know I’ll have to be flexible today. I know that waves, wake, chop, are inevitable. And my mission is to remember my toolbox and find the right tool for the job with the changing conditions.

The next thing I know the kayaks are launched and it’s just me on the shore. Oh crap, this is happening! Suddenly I long for the awkward, get-to-know-you, swim chit chat. But this is it. It’s about to start. I better put on my goggles!

There’s a count down. I walk into the water. The warm summer-like morning and hint of sweat on my brow washes away in the refreshing water. The giddy anticipation returns and in the calm of the bay, I lunged into each stroke. So glad that there is no current unit in front of me. It’s glorious!

It feel like we quickly make it to the bridge. As we come out of the shadows back to the sunshine I mentally thank my husband for this gift, hoping that his weekend with the boys is just as blissful. I think of Janine Serell and swim because it makes me happy.

In the early parts I feel like I’m not just swimming, I’m flying. Periodically a boat wake disrupts my rhythm, but that’s the point. That’s why I’m out here, for a reality check! Being an inlander swimming at dawn in a peaceful reservoir, rarely a ripple on the water, I know I’m spoiled.

Sometimes I feel like a ping pong ball between my kayakers. When one or the other peels off, I can breathe a little easier and get a better view. Jax is taking care of the observing responsibilities while Penny keeps me on course. Sometimes Jax peels off to grab some video or take notes and I enjoy the release.

It takes me several miles to fix my left foot. It does this weird turny-outty thing and pops out of my slipstream impeding my forward progress for just a moment and forcing me to correct with my right arm. I picked it up on video last year and want to blame the Endless pool for reinforcing bad habits—I do think it’s a risk of trying to swimming at the same pace all of the time (reinforcing bad habits). But since I know it’s there, it’s sheer laziness that I haven’t fixed it.

The conference center blows by, downtown San Diego is passing on the right. On my left, the huge navy boats. Nothing seems to take long.

And then it’s an hour, my first feed. To my surprise, Penny tells me my exact pace and distance. I would usually avoid this kind of information, especially this early in the swim. And while it catches me off guard, and shocks me that I’m making such progress, I’m not displeased. I have a tendency to get ahead of myself, anticipating the next landmark, thinking that I’m further than I really am, so it became a nice reality check as the swim goes on. Each time I’m surprised and each time grateful to reset my internal expectations.

I have a twang of pain in my shoulder. Not in a location that I expect and I’m suddenly concerned that I’ll have a debilitating shoulder issue. Will I pull out? Or finish with one arm like Pat Gallant-Charette? I regret that I didn’t do more prehab. I stabilize my shoulder in the socket as I’m pulling, this seems to help.

For the first long while the water feels refreshing. At some point I could feel cold creeping into my toes. I channel my client MarySue who frequents Alki beach in Seattle, swearing that mid 50’s is an “all day” temp. And think of Colleen Blair who swam in the high 40F’s to low 50’s for hours. Her statement, “cold is just a state of mind”. I think of Pat Gallant-Charette who made it across Loch Ness, testifying that she was cold the entire time. And Elaine Howley, who reportedly took a few years to recover from her crossing of Ness. Would that be me?

I remember walking to high school during Colorado winters, surely wearing inappropriate footwear, and the cold I would feel in my toes; how I would imagine sitting by a warm fire and it would push out the cold. Imagining a fire didn’t seem to work while swimming. I tried to kick, but when I do, I lose my drive. So I just make my, driving rotation kicks really count. Then I realize that every other part of me feels absolutely fine, no need to focus on cold toes.

I’m comfortable breathing to both sides, but prefer my left. Any time I breathe right I find myself swimming into Penny. This is a constant battle for the first four to five miles. I like breathing every two strokes, every two strokes, and then three to switch sides, but it’s not working. I try breathing every three strokes so that I can check my position constantly, but it throws me off. When I get my left foot in line so that I don’t have to correct on the right, this seems to go away.

Once the initial adrenaline rush wears off, the “why’s” set it, “why do I do this?”, “Is this really fun?”, “do I ever want to do something like this again?” Anthony McCarley comes to mind, he swears that he’s the dumbest person in the world in the middle of a marathon swim. This brings a smile to my face. Which reminds me of Charlotte Brynn who knows how to make me smile while I’m swimming. She goes to great lengths to buoy your spirits because smiling on the outside makes you feel better inside, it’s proven.

My feeds seem far between. I contemplate whether my message, after the first hour and then every 30 min after that, registered. Subsequently realizing that I don’t actually need anything, I’m just restless.

My tongue feels funny. I berede myself, “Close your mouth, Shannon!” Why didn’t I follow up with Caroline Block about about the Listerine trick?! I don’t want the ‘I just ate 12 bags of Dorritos’ feeling in my mouth when this swim is over.

Exemplifying flexible, I’m annoyed deep down inside, that the boat wake is disrupting my rhythm. Swimming long and strong has morphed into a controlled flail. I engage my core and make sure that I’m pulling with my back muscles and protecting my shoulders.

Big boat. Sailboat. Yacht. Navy Seals on a raft. Another. The boat traffic is near constant. Some on the right, some on the left! This is why Jax wanted a second kayaker. I feel safe between them. I can hear the fog horn. That’s our turn.

Low back ache setting in. Engage core, engage core! But ugh, how can I engage my core when when I’m trying to be a wet noodle in waves like Sylvia Lacock recommends? There are a lot of muscles in your core. I pull my belly button into my spine and find relief.

Mentally I’m doing alright. My spirits are relatively high. My thoughts are expectantly roving. I focus on my stroke. Then the, are we there yet? Thought creeps in. Pushing it aside, I try to refocus.

I keep thinking that we we’re starting to round the bend, the mile long jetty has gotta be just ahead? Or wait, is that it beside me? No, the water is too smooth, not lumpy, we couldn’t possibly be in the ocean part yet.

The next time Penny raises her paddle to indicate its feed time I drain my warm squeeze bottle. Jax informs me that I have a sea lion escort! This seems exciting, even though I have no idea if that’s what she actually said or not. Gah, ear plugs. I hate them.

We pass a building that says FLY NAVY on the side. There are these concrete pylons, identical. Really, another one? I figure they’re a precursor to the never ending jetty. And maybe they are. They’re identical. One after another. And another. They never end! Did the current shift? Am I still traveling forward?

Rounding, rounding, rounding the corner… it turns out that this is the longest part of the swim for me.

“You’re 1000m over half way”, Penny declares at my next feed. In my mind, I’m warring with, “okay, so it’s all down hill”, like Sarah Thomas at the turn shore of one of her many epic swims, “but isn’t 1000m almost a mile? So I actually only have 5 miles left? No wait, a mile is closer to 1600m, which means I have another 600m before only having 5 miles left. Either way, I’ve got quite a bit to go and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Well, it’s about 600m by now, isn’t it? Screw it, “I’m past half way, it’s all down hill!”

The fog horn is louder now. The boat traffic has let up. Jax and Penny naturally drift away from my side but are still near.

Louder still. We’re turning hard left now. I pick up my head. There it is. I pause to admire the endless ocean before me, the birds getting their ears blasted by that horn. Then remember Penny’s comment about “significant wildlife”, I inch a little closer to the kayak and remember that there’s still a long way to go.

But my pace is pathetic. I remember what Jeff said about how many condos there are, and how it takes forever. But I knew this. I had been preparing for it – you’ll turn the corner and see the finish, but you’re not done. Still, hope bubbles up inside. I’m going to make it! You’re not done yet, I remind myself. As I breathe shoreside, I realize it’s downtown San Diego that I see, on the other side of the island! I’m not at the condos yet.

At my next feed Penny let’s me know how much my 500 pace has dropped. I note that I only trained for the first few hours. Jax asks how I’m doing, if I’m cold. I let her know that I wouldn’t mind some warm sand on my toes. “It’s not far,” she says. Is this how the rest of the swim is going to go? With the end in sight (albeit a long way to go yet), this is just the kick in the ass that I need. I try to swing my arms and pick up my stroke rate.

The bay sure, but I expected the water to clear up on the ocean side. It doesn’t. La Jolla Cove was so clear the day before, but it’s murky here. As I breathe to the left I see a head pop up, the flip of a tail? Maybe a sea lion! I’m not freaking out.

The paddle signals another feed. “You have about a mile to go,” Penny informs me. Didn’t she say that last time? I’m hoping this is the last one. I down the rest of my pure Vermont maple syrup, I prefer Grade B. The kind you can only get at the sugar bush in Vermont. We buy it by the gallon when we visit, but we missed visiting during the pandemic year and our supplies are dwindling. I mentally note, time to order more syrup!

Jax says that she can see the finish. It still seems a long way off, to me it doesn’t look like we’re much closer to the condos. But I’m averting my eyes. I resolve to stick by Penny and have her guide me in. Hope is starting to bubble up. What could stop me? I don’t know, but I’m not there yet.

After making steady progress I note the lightening of the murky water below me. A shimmer. A glimmer. Is that sand? Sure enough! But I’m not moving forward. The sand is glittering, it looks so close. I finally realize that the tide is pulling me back. It seems like we’re still a long way out, but I’m sure that I can stand. Not wanting to stand prematurely, I keep plodding for several more strokes. Then notice Penny paddling ahead and getting out of her kayak!

And that’s it. It’s over. I stand up and walk, and walk, and walk. I’ve cleared the water by far, but I’m suddenly uncertain if I’ve finished. I walk over to Penny and say something to the effect of, “that’s it?”

“That’s it,” she says.

Jax paddles to shore after catching the grand finale on video. It’s a gorgeous, bright, sunny, Southern California day. Any cold I felt while swimming doesn’t linger.

Reflections

What worked? Leaning heavily on technique; making my touches on the water count and swimming aware. And while I have much room for improvement, core work is key. In the waves I could stabilize my shoulder and leverage my back muscles. With a tight connection I could drive my hips and feel progress with each stroke. When the water was flat I could lock my shoulder back and down, keep my elbow up, and reach with my hip for a fruitful glide. When it was bumpy I carried the momentum from one stroke into the next. I look forward to honing the tools in my tool belt and can’t wait to swim in the wide open waters again!

What didn’t? I didn’t do my distance days! Any amount of additional training would certainly help with the middle part when I slowed down so much!

Conclusion

Thank you to all of the Marathon Swim Storians, whether I mentioned you or not. Thank you for sharing your story with me so that you could be part of mine. If I haven’t heard yours yet, I want to! Please reach out to me. And if you don’t think you have a story, I disagree. Contact me anyway.

My Homework

• Fix your foot!
• Do your Pilates
• Take care of your shoulders, do your prehab
• Don’t skip the distance day that you recommend to your clients!

Do you have homework too? I’m kicking off an accountability group! Contact me for details!