In Search of Nessie

I am half way through swimming the length of Loch Ness – a swim that I have been planning for 4 years – when my crew waves me down for a regular feed. They toss me a plastic bottle tied to a piece of line so that I can drink, drop the bottle and the crew can reel it in. As I’m attempting to chug carbohydrate drink, I hear, “We’ve made a strategic decision. You need to pick up your stroke rate. And we’re going to shorten up feeds. There’s some sort of record breaking potential…”

I’ve never been quick at feeding on long swims, I’ve always seen it as a time to check on the crew and see how they’re doing. And the only time I can recall being asked to pick up my stroke rate was after 20 hours of swimming in Lake George last year when it was consistently falling well short of my usual 48 strokes per minute, signaling to my crew that something was wrong.

“Oh, okay.” I say, a bit bewildered. “How long are we talking?”

“3 or 4 feeds… or so”

“Try to pick it up to 56 strokes per minute.”

This sounds oddly vague – I was looking for an indication of how many miles were left; even though I wasn’t sure that I actually wanted to know. Is it 3 or 4 feeds? I feed every 30 minutes and usually swim a little under 2 miles an hour, so 3 feeds would be around 6 miles, 4 would be roughly 8 miles. That seems like a big difference. And what does ‘or so’ mean? But I don’t seek clarification. I repeat the statement to myself, 3 to 4 feeds or so, pick it up to 56 strokes per minute, I think I can do that.

I arrive in Inverness anxious to hear from my pilot. I completed the medical and booking forms and paid the final invoice weeks ago. Emails with questions, unanswered, hung in the ether. Our family made plans for planes, accommodations, trains, a campervan rental and meet ups with friends and colleagues, months in advance. When we arrived on the 11th of August, I was sure that I’d hear from Stewart at Loch Swim Alba any minute; but nothing.

Pam, my SwimMastery coach colleague drove 8 hours from Leeds to crew for me. She met me on the 12th. Still nothing; another night of exercising patience. My parents arrived from California and settled into our cozy abode. Beyond getting over jetlag, we familiarized ourselves with the area: walking up and down the river Ness, watching boat traffic on the Caledonian Locks. I even got my feet wet in Loch Ness on a day where the wind whipped ferociously. What was, I thought, the first day of my swim window Pam called the pilot for news. He did not pick up.

On Monday, the 14th – day two of my swim window – Pam connected with the host of the VRBO where we were staying. It came up in conversation that the primary reason for our stay in Inverness was for me to swim the length of the loch. Our host, Gregor, was exuberant at the news. As I tried to busy myself and my family, Pam and Gregor went looking to see if they could find the berth of Stewart’s boat.

I also needed to round out my crew. Pilot and observer were theoretically squared away, but it would be a tall task to keep me motivated and keep feeds warm for a 12-14 hour swim, Pam needed backup. My friend Marlys, who is a professional swim guide, happened to be in Scotland. She had a very short window before she had to fly out for work; we decided to have her take the train to Inverness in hopes that a Tuesday swim would somehow materialize.

Later in the day we rendezvoused back at our rental. Pam excitedly gathered everyone in the garden requesting that Noah and my parents busy the kids so that we could talk. Under an ominous Scottish sky, we each took a seat around the patio table. With a big smile Pam declared, “We swim on Wednesday.”

She went on to explain that Stewart wasn’t expecting us until the following week.

If communication between swimmer and pilot is important in marathon swimming, we were off to an atrocious start. I was aghast to realize that I have been miscommunicating with my pilot for 4 years! I booked Loch Ness after completing Lake Memphremagog in 2019. The plan was to wrap up my Triple Crown of Lake Monster swims in two years: Tahoe and Memphremagog in 2019, and Loch Ness in 2020. (edited). When the pandemic hit, I was quick to reschedule. First for 2021. Then 2022. But 2023 ended up being the year for my first intercontinental trip to swim. In our email correspondence Stewart used the notation “w/c”. I was unclear on what the notation meant and endeavored to spell is out in my responses clearly (to me) writing, “week ending August 19^th?” We had considerable communications back and forth discussing my swim window, ultimately, I agreed to “slot 2 w/c 19 August.”  I thought this meant “week completing” when in fact it means “week commencing”. I proceeded to book all our travel presuming that the swim would be over by the 19th of August. I was mortified to discover that the error was mine. The fact that Stewart was able to grant me a spot the week that we were in Inverness was heroic.

Once I got over myself, we had a new issue to resolve. Marlys was scheduled to depart by train Wednesday at 10 AM to catch her flight out of Edinburgh (4 hours South) bright and early on Thursday. While we found a later train on Wednesday, we also learned that the winds dictated a swim from Loch End to Fort Augustus, putting us an hour north of the Inverness train station, making travel plans extremely tight for Marlys. I had a moment of pause as I contemplated the possibilities. We had been talking about a 12-14 hour swim, but I had a hunch that I could swim faster. I devoted my training this year to maintaining good form and memorizing various tempos in my body; I wasn’t planning to doddle in the chilly waters of Loch Ness. It occurred to me that this was the time to work with my crew to develop a strategy. To date I had only ever told my crew to keep me fed and happy. I wanted to be oblivious to how long it had been or how far I’d come until the end was within a few miles. In my conversation with Steven Munatones following SCAR, I specifically mentioned that I don’t go into a swim with a strategy; I just try to get through. Suddenly it occurred to me that even I, a run of the mill swimmer who just tries to finish marathon swims, could embrace a time goal for a set distance. We got to work breaking down the swim into chunks and devising a strategy.

After final preparations are made, with no confidence that sleep will come, I lay down, it’s 9 PM. A few last pokes on my phone, then I select a sleep meditation figuring it will help pass the time. I’m surprised to wake in the dark of night, streetlights streaming through the window. I grab my phone wondering if it’s time: 12:30 AM.

My alarm is set for 2:45 AM, I wonder if I can fall back asleep for a few more hours. I take a sip of water, observe the sounds of slumber around me. The traffic noise from the open window diminishes as the night wears on. Trying desperately not to project what will happen in the water, I focus on my breath. Another sleep meditation. I don’t recall dozing off, at 2:30 AM I get up.

In the kitchen, Marlys has already heated water for the carafe and made hot chocolate. I make toast and coffee to start my day.

Despite the early hour, Noah and my mom send me off with hugs, kisses and wishes for a good swim. The car is loaded, but I feel like something is missing. I remind myself that all I need is a swimsuit, cap, goggles, and ear plugs – I’m ready.

As we start to drive, the car is silent. I cannot, for the life of me, think of anything to say. Thankfully, Marlys pipes up and asks if it’s a good time for motivational music. “YES,” I exclaim.

I have no idea what she put on or how long it took to get to the rendezvous point. When we arrive and exit the car, the quiet is deafening. There are no signs of life. Did we come to the right place?

Pam picks up her phone and calls Stewart. No answer. She tries him again. It feels like forever. He picks up. Words are exchanged. Eventually, a light turns on in a boat further down the canal. My audible exhale surprises me. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. We start unloading the car. Pam and Marlys shoo me away, but I have to help. I don’t know how to stand idly by. I finally meet the generous captain who moved his whole schedule around to shepherd me up the loch.

After a safety briefing and orientation to the boat we motor down the canal to Loch End. Gathered at the table in the cabin chatting with Alan, the observer, it occurs to me that we are actually underway. The boat movement is imperceptible. I can hardly believe this day has come. This swim was planned for 3 years ago – it’s been more than 4 years since I first set my sights on Loch Ness. Really? How has it been that long? I’m incredibly grateful to be on this boat, on this morning, in this place, with these people. My heart is bursting, and I haven’t even started.

The indigo sky is separated from the inky, black water by steely clouds. It’s eerie. The stories of Nessie sightings play through my head – could they be true?

I ease myself down the ladder into the blackness. The stress of wondering and waiting is finally over. All eyes are on me. I don’t want to dilly dally. I’m ready to get the show on the road. I slip into the water, stuff my face in, and swim my heart out in the direction of the start beach.

How far is it again? Stewart said it was about 50 meters. I assure myself that the water isn’t that cold; I prepared for this. I force myself to exhale. The desperation subsides. I remember now, I’m going to be swimming all day; I’m supposed to enjoy this. I ease into my stroke then notice something deep below. I can barely make out texture. It looks like I might be able to stand. I slow down considerably, then switch to breaststroke. I take in the darkness above and below the water. It feels good, I assure myself. The water feels good.

As I reach my foot down to touch the pebbled bottom, I marvel at the stark clarity. I could have been looking at my foot in a mirror! I pick up my head and walk slowly trying to take it all in. The colors, the sounds, the smells, the sensations, but my senses are limited. It’s hard to make out details in the dark, and ear plugs mute the world around. I turn to face Loch Ness. Everything is completely still. A light on the boat shines brightly. The sky reveals hints of the breaking day.

What was the signal we agreed on? I have no idea. I raise my hand to indicate to the boat that I’ve cleared the water. I don’t hear or see anything. Well, this is awkward, I think to myself. I raise my hand again and yell into the silent dawn, “Can I go now?”

Faint sounds of affirmation waft across the water. This is as good a signal as any. I trot into the water, push off Loch End and start for Fort Augustus.

Right away I feel strong and steady. Abba rings out in my head at 60 beats per minute. I’m finally swimming! I pass the boat, keeping it on my left. I know that it will start to plod beside me, but for the briefest of moments it feels like it’s just me and the loch. I sneak a peek at the expanse of water before me. A calm comes over me. If Nessie is here, she is a friend.

Someone is already on deck pointing in the direction of travel. For a minute I wonder if I’m swimming straight (in the hubbub of setting out on my Lake George swim last year I was so focused on each stroke that I swam away from the boat). I check my distance from the boat, take several strokes, breathe to the right. Three more strokes, breathe to the left. Boat is in the same position. Okay, I guess they are just pointing. Who is it anyway? I can’t tell in the dark. My mind works through the options and motivations of each person onboard – I’m grateful for the quandary as I try to settle in. 

Feeds come and go, initially the time between each seems surprisingly short. I’m in the zone! But I’m already wondering how long it will last; this is a quick offramp. I’m out of “the zone”. Deflated, I catalogue my preparations, how can I possibly swim 22.5 miles? I have to remind myself: one stroke at a time.

We broke the swim into 3 sections: First Urquhart Castle, then… I can’t remember… then finish. I wonder how close we are to the castle. The temperature feels comfortable, my stroke feels good, but I feel full – oh so full! In our strategy session we agreed to increase the calories of my feeds on the assumption that I would be burning more calories to stay warm in the cool loch waters. However, I did not test a higher calorie load during training swims; it was a shot in the dark. I decide to tell my crew rather than keep the discomfort to myself, which I have been known to do in the past. It pays off, they quickly adapt my feeds.

I see someone leaning over the side of the boat with a camera. They are there for several breath cycles. I try smiling as I turn to breathe – what a ham. On my next feed my crew announces that I’m passing Urquhart castle. I’m thrilled that I’m already a third of the way up the lake! Immediately I set my sights on getting over the hump and into the second half of the swim.

Then the doldrums set in. The full feeling has subsided, and I feel strong. But my initial energy has worn off. I slip into my comfort zone, 48 strokes per minute (SPM). Then the forbidden thought creeps in, “Am I cold?” And another, “Am I going to make it?”

I immediately push the thought out with some positive self talk: “YES! You’re past 1/3 of the way! You didn’t sit in those torturous ice baths for nothing! You KNOW what cold feels like, your toes are just a little uncomfortable.”

Positive self talk is helpful, but I need more. I remember a trick I used when training in the cold plunge; I would allow just my toes to peek out of the water and feel the hot Southern Oregon summer sun. Thousands of miles away under a gray Scottish sky, I visualize I’m stroking along, but my toes are being warmed by the sun – the imagination is a beautiful thing.

I’m able to keep the cold at a distance with various mind games. It’s present, but I don’t let it in my bubble. On the next feed I drink as much as I can, then pour the warm liquid over shriveled white toes. This surprises me, but I don’t have another thought about whosever toes those were.

When I pass halfway in under 5 hours, the crew decides to start pushing me. In my training I worked on learning various tempos in my body. Through strategic swims, I explore cues at different tempos while trying to maintain stroke length. When Pam holds up the white board that says: 56 (SPM), I confidently pick up the pace.

Maintaining the pace is a different story. I stop for a quick feed and Pam or Marlys relay a goal to me. I set off in good spirits with great intentions, and within a few minutes the white board appears with my current strokes per minute and a friendly reminder of my goal.

Inevitably, my stroke count drops to my usual and comfy 48 SPM and the white board appears again with either some encouraging up arrows, or a target stroke per minute goal. Remember, I usually swim ‘in the dark’; other than my best estimation, I don’t know how far I’ve gone or how long it’s been. I’m used to my crew offering cool, collected smiles and words of encouragement. To date, marathon swimming has been an exploration in how easy I can make it to swim and far I can go. But I asked for this. I never intend to lollygag on a swim, but this is a new level. There is absolutely no reason to poke around in dark, cold water. Plus, Marlys has a train to catch.

I had to metaphorically pinch myself sometimes when it occurred to me that I was not just swimming, I was swimming in Scotland! The water clarity was astounding, but it was hard to conceptualize in its inky blackness. It was only when I spied the detail on a leaf suspended in animation about 4 feet below me that I realized there was something to this world. I imagined I was swimming in interstellar space. Where else could I swim in complete blackness? The stark clarity and detail of every bubble, the ripple of my skin as my hand entered the water, clearly seeing my feet hang down below me on each feed. Nowhere that I have swam before, perhaps nowhere I will ever swim again.

Each feed is harder to pick up and maintain the pace. I try to calculate how many feeds it has been since Marlys mentioned “…some sort of record breaking potential…”. Has it been 2 or 3? How much more of this can I endure? Pam and Marlys are tireless in their encouragment. Each in their own way; exactly what I need.

The last part is a blur. I remember getting tired of the white boards telling me to turn my arms over faster. I start breathing to the right a lot more. I hadn’t heard anything about the record breaking potential since Marlys mentioned it and figured that I’d fallen short. Negative self talk ensues: Just like so many things in your life, you surrender. Memories surface of conceding my spot on our high school state relay team. Being overtaken in the last few meters of a triathlon. I’m not a fighter. I always give up. Just resign yourself to supporting others.

Something catches my eye intruding my self flagellation. A signal from the boat. It’s feed time. They announce that this is my last feed. I don’t care anymore. I’m so close, just 30 minutes to go!

Shore comes into view. Stewart warned me before I set off that clearing the water in Fort Augustus involved quite a long run on some jagged rocks, I can’t remember how far. He encouraged me to swim as far as I could even when it was shallow enough to stand up. I took this advice to heart and swam and swam and swam until I absolutely could not take a stroke without scraping my arms, then I stood. My family was there, but they were so far away! I guess this is the long run at the end. I take a tentative step to make sure that I can bear weight and to judge the threat of the rocks on my feet. It’s not as bad as I imagined. I take a few more timid steps before breaking into a trot. In my mind’s eye, it was an exhilarating sprint to the finish.

As I approached Noah, the boys, my parents, and Gregor, our VRBO host, I think I yelled, “don’t touch me!” Which we definitely discussed beforehand – it’s every marathon swimmer’s nightmare that they’ll get touched as they are exiting the water, disqualifying their swim from ratification. I clear the water, do a little dance, and turn back to the boat, expecting a horn to sound. I accept some muted cheers as my sign that I can give sloppy wet hugs to my family.

I want to know my time, but I don’t ask. Instead, I ask what time it is even though I’m not exactly sure when I pushed off. I think someone said 3:30? But I don’t know where to put this piece of information that I requested.

I remember the looks on faces as I approached. Maybe wonder? There were more people milling about Fort Augustus than I expected. I remember smiling a lot. Somehow Pam made it to shore and started covering me in towels and blankets. She handed me a cup of warm miso soup. I don’t remember shivering. I believe I took a minute to express my gratitude to Stewart for making the swim happen while we were in town. There were pictures, handshakes and hugs and talk of it being a great swim, but it did not compute for me. I mostly recall trying to figure out who was going to sit where, as we loaded up in Gregor’s van to head back to Inverness.

Much later, after dropping Marlys off at the train station, returning to our rental and a warm shower, I was scrolling Facebook and saw a picture of three stop watches posted by Loch Swim Alba. My mouth dropped open when I realized that I not only exceeded my goal of breaking 12 hours, to ensure that Marlys would make her train on time, but I completed the swim in 10 hours and 28 minutes – pending ratification – setting the record for the fastest swim to date from Loch End to Fort Augustus.

I’m still trying to reconcile what it means to break a record for a seldom swum course (most swim Fort Augustus to Loch End) in a far off location to achieve the little known Triple Crown of Lake Monster Swims. Perhaps it doesn’t mean anything. But I’m undoubtedly excited for what’s next.

As another birthday approaches and the numbers creep into middle aged, I’m trying to figure out what’s important to me. Why did I want to swim across a lake in Scotland? Why was I chasing this obscure list of swims in the first place? Why am I pleased with myself for breaking a record? In all of my figuring, I’m also considering that perhaps it doesn’t have to be figured out. It’s more important to evaluate: what did I learn in the process? And how will it influence me going forward? Do I want to keep doing the same thing over and over? Or do I want a different result?

I’m thrilled to see where I can take this new knowledge about my body in the water. Prior to a swim, my coach, Tracey, reminds me to come out a better swimmer than I went in. It’s empowering to consider that I can use the expanse of water before me as a playground. But when I look back at footage from Loch Ness, I’m appalled at my stroke. Last year when I swam Lake George each stroke was a revelation in how my body can move more easily and without pain through the water. I came out of that swim a better swimmer than I went in. Not so in Loch Ness. My stroke suffered with the focus on swimming faster. Initially I didn’t think that I came out a better swimmer, then I considered that there are many dimensions to “better” (in my community we talk about getting “better” in every sense of the word). In this swim I discovered that, with some encouragement from my crew, I can swim hard for longer than I ever would have thought.

Now what? I’m intrigued by the idea of letting go. I spent my year trying to let go of distance and time goals in my day to day practice. I let go of tension when I get in the water so that swimming is easier. I let go of control when I start a marathon swim. What else can I let go of?

And I want to fine tune exactly when and how to engage. It occurs to me that it’s more of an art than a science. My theory is that I can do more with less and I want to continue that exploration.

A big lesson for me through my marathon swimming journey has been acknowledging that I cannot do everything myself. Learning to accept help. More important, reaching out for help. It takes a village to pull off a big swim like this, and I’m so grateful for mine. Thank you to my coach, Tracey Baumann, who stayed up all night (in Australia) while I was swimming, she was literally with me every stroke of the way. To Pam for all of your amazing contributions – there is no way that I can list all of them, I could not have done this swim without you. Thank you, Marlys, for hoping on the train even though we had no idea if a swim would materialize – I loved having you on my boat. I have no idea what hoops Stewart and Alan had to go through to make a swim happen when it wasn’t even my swim window – my gratitude is enduring. And to my family for adventuring with me every day and always patiently waiting for me while I swim.

More on ‘letting go’ and training in a cold plunge in the next installment!