I wanted to ‘fix’ my stroke. I was having shoulder pain when I swam, and I wanted to make it go away.
However, it is not a break-fix proposition.
If you aren’t making the intervals that you used to or can’t swim as far as you want, or have pain, it has considerably less to do with being ‘broken’ and much more to do with a lack of adherence to the process of continuous improvement.
This can be hard to accept. It was for me. I wanted my stroke to be ‘fixed’ so that I could be ‘done’ and go back to what was familiar.
But there is no ‘done’ in the process of continuous improvement. And what’s familiar may not be serving you.
The SwimMastery Way exposes the spiral of learning. You are where you are, and there is nowhere to go but up!
Is what someone said to me this morning at the pool when I mentioned that I want to get better and that’s why I take notes in my notebook.
I started when I was young as well, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have room for improvement!
Everyone has room for improvement.
What’s your goal?
If your goal is to swim everyday because it feels good to be in the water, then great!
If your goal is to swim your first 400 meters, your first 1500 meters, or your first 10 kilometers, or even your first channel crossing, I recommend engaging in the process of continuous improvement.
If the answer is, “no,” keep doing what you’re doing.
If the answer is, “yes,” continue reading.
“How do I improve,” you ask?
Learn how to learn.
With accountability and focus, you can improve at anything. Washing dishes. Folding sheets. Making bread. Playing an instrument. Learning to sew. Knit. Tie knots. Shoot basketballs. Do yoga. Speak another language. Change a tire. Hit a baseball. Run. To name a few.
And yes, swimming. Your swimming will improve with accountability and focus.
Am I propelling myself forward in every stroke? Or am I going side to side? Or up and down?
What is the purpose of this piece of equipment? What will happen to my body in the water when I don’t have it anymore? Does it inform my swimming? Or do I have to relearn my body in the water without it?
What do you measure to gauge progress in swimming?
If you beat the send off times for the set that you did yesterday, do you know how you beat them?
If you swim further than you did last week, do you know why?
Measuring the wrong thing can give a false sense of progress. Just because you swam further than you did last week or faster than you did yesterday, can you reliably repeat your performance?
Other than waking up and going to sleep each day, there isn’t much that I do consistently. However, since learning The SwimMastery Way, I have become obsessed with the idea of habits.
Especially motor habits and how they contribute to making progress in the water.
Swimming is unique in that it is a lifesaving skill. Tuning into each shape that you make with your body presumes that you have calmed your nervous system (which may be telling you to hurry and get out of this medium in which you cannot survive). Even if you are comfortable in the water, do you find yourself racing to the other side?
It is what happens in each stroke that matters.
But if you take your attention to your hand or your feet, or what your head is doing, you lose track of the whole body. It is the whole body that we want to lever over top of the water.
It sounds simple because it is. Once you understand the motor habits that you need to develop to lever yourself over the top of the water, you can do so across any body of water, anywhere in the world.
I’ve been enamored with the idea of deliberate practice since being introduced to it in Angela Duckworth’s book ‘Grit’. I wrote about my revelations on Grit after my 25 mile swim from Newport, Vermont to Magog, Quebec in 2019: Deliberate Practice – Intrepid Water.
What I focus on with my swimmers and in my own practice, I have called many things over the years: “technique focus training”, “focus training”, “strategic swimming”, at the end of the day the goal is deliberate practice.
Clear goes on to site examples of phenomenal practitioners of baseball, golf, basketball, as well as artists, inventors, and musical composers. He describes the importance of chunking skills and practicing each with focused attention. (This may sound familiar to my swimmers!)
What about swimming?
Unlike baseball and basketball where skills stand out like hitting, catching, jump shots, free throws, etc., swimmers take stroke after stroke. In pool swimming, there are skills like starts, turns, and breakouts that can be isolated and practiced. In the open water there is sighting, drafting, and perfecting buoy turns. But the primary skill in swimming is your technique.
To deliberately practice swimming, the chunking must occur within each stroke.
Additionally, in training for open water marathon swimming, I work with my swimmers to identify each of the attributes of the swim that they need to prepare for, such as swimming through the night, beside a boat or kayak, water temperature, feed strategy, etc. Each of these components should be addressed in training.
To actualize deliberate practice in my training for Loch Ness, I thought that I would maintain focus on the SwimMastery freestyle fundamentals with the overarching theme of maintaining stroke quality while increasing tempo, in order to swim faster. But it turned out that I needed to completely let go of distance and time goals in my weekly practice and in my training swims. The process of letting go started years ago, but it would take the entire season for me to realize the extent to which these external factors take away from the experience of what is happening in each stroke.
After SCAR, I met with my coach, Tracey, and laid out my plan for the summer:
20-30 minutes of deliberate practice, 2-3 times a week focusing on maintaining the fundamental skills while exploring a range of tempos
Build cold tolerance through weekly cold dips
3 training swims to explore my skills over distance, as well as test my feed strategy.
A 12 hour training swim where I would endeavor (and fall short of) 26km
The 17km Portland Bridge Swim
And finally, a 10km swim at Applegate Lake
Tracey also recommended that I get to the open water once or twice a week for one of my practices. This happened for a few weeks at the end of May and part of June.
Practice
For several years, I have been suggesting that my swimmers let go of the pressure to complete a certain distance each week. In 2019 when I made the jump to 20+ miles swims, preparing for both Lake Tahoe and Lake Memphremagog, I focused on touching the water 3 times a week. Two practices focusing on technique and one applying that technique with a duration goal, preferably in open water. Since learning SwimMastery in 2022, I have honed my deliberate practice significantly.
I practice deliberately in my Endless Pool, focusing on the “chunks”, or aspects of my stroke that I’m trying to habitualize and applying cues to various tempos.
For feedback, I send video to Coach Tracey every few weeks so that she can check on my stroke. I’ve been swimming for more than 40 years, without focused attention on my body in the water, old habits resurface. Plus, it’s human nature. We are inherently lazy beasts and moving water is hard! It’s 800 times denser than air. With repetitive motions like swimming, it’s important to have your stroke analyzed regularly.
I also look to the water for feedback, not the clock. The clock can only tell me what happen-ed, the water tells me what’s happen-ing. I can tell when I have found the right shape with my body by the amount of pressure that I’m able to put on the water. I can also tell if I lose connection in my body because my shoulders will let me know.
My aim is to practice deliberately 2 to 3 times a week for 20 to 30 minutes. I’m working on firming up my practice times and intentions but feel like I’m at the mercy of my life sometimes. This is a big work in process for me (I think I see a light at the end of the tunnel)! But for my swims in 2023, 20-30 minutes, 2 to 3 times a week has been my mantra.
The C Word
With SCAR as an early season check in complete, and with several 20+ miles swims under my belt, I wasn’t concerned about the distance of Loch Ness. But the water isn’t in the 70F/22C’s like it is in Memphremagog. And while there’s a small chance that water temps will be Tahoe-like (if you time it just right), the air temp is another story. Plus, there’s no promise that you’ll see the Scottish sun. I wanted to understand how my body reacted to cold by thoroughly testing my cold comfort. And I wanted to have more mid swim gears as options for combating cold if it seeped in.
I stepped up my over winter swimming in 2019 after putting a deposit down with Loch Swim Alba. Without understanding the science of endothermic thermoregulation, I knew that I needed to understand how my body reacts to cooler temperatures so that I could safely swim for hours in potentially sub 60F/16C water.
In order to continuing testing my cold comfort into the warm summer months, I set out to do weekly cold dips at Vitality Health and Wellness, a local business that specializes in cryotherapy, compression, sauna, and has a cold plunge; AKA a chest freezer converted to maintain water at 41F/5C. When our local reservoir approached 50F/10C, I transitioned to cold plunging for 10 minutes, once a week. Over the course of the summer, I worked my way up to 22 minutes, a few minutes at a time. This was a huge mental challenge. I started bringing warm tea and something to read but quickly realized that I was going to need a different kind of distraction to extend the time. I tried audio books and podcasts but settled on breathwork meditations while envisioning swimming in Loch Ness. Not that I had ever been there, but the internet is full of pictures, there are stories if you seek them out, and the imagination is a beautiful thing! It was never easy and I always looked forward to it being over. I suspected I would feel the same way in the loch.
Training Swims
12 Hour Swim
The first weekend of July, some of my local swim friends and I endeavored a 12 hour swim; every hour on the hour from 6AM to 6PM. Something I recommend to any budding marathon swimmer, it’s an excellent exploration in getting comfortable being uncomfortable. Sarah Thomas first introduced me to the idea with the Cliff Ultra in 2018. This was an excellent addition to my training calendar, but it felt like I had little at stake. It wasn’t particularly cold, other than a few hours in the morning when the air was chilly. And we rested after each swim; just set off every hour on the hour. However, this was the first place where I explored letting go.
Initially I set out to do 2,000 meters each hour. Rest, repeat; every hour on the hour for 13 hours with the notion that I would put in 26,000 meters by the end of the day. After the 6am swim I saw that my watch registered 1,878 meters despite buzzing 4 times at each 500. Then again on the second swim, 1,878 meters – maybe I missed one of the 500’s? By the third swim, I was certain that it buzzed 4 times, yet it only registered a little over 1,800 meters. What was going on? It turns out that the alarm on my watch was set to activate and display my split after each 500 yards, despite the overall distance being set to display in meters. I didn’t even know this was possible! While I pushed to get the buzz each 500 and check my time, I realized I was just going through the motions. I tried to change cues each 500 but I wasn’t really present in my stroke. Not to mention that I was hardly having fun. If it’s not fun, what’s the point?
Finally, I started to let go. At noon I decided to swim with a friend who had travelled 4 hours to camp and swim with us. We swam in a different direction than I had been swimming and looked for fish! A joy that I do not usually allow myself. The pressure to get a certain number on my watch started to let up, but it was still there; I had a fleeting thought that I might be able to make up the distance later with a few longer swims.
Then I swam with my husband who was completely out of his comfort zone swimming at all, but he was doing it! Swim-hike-sit ups, every hour on the hour. I was so proud of him. Swimming by his side and being present with him, and in my stroke was a gift. I started to wonder: why am I chasing numbers on my watch in the first place? After his swim was over, I had time to play around with different gears in my stroke as I tried to catch up with friends.
I continued to set off each hour with friends in different directions exploring different arms of the lake and playing around with different qualities and tempos in my stroke. As the afternoon wore on and the number of remaining swims dwindled, my watch buzzed midswim indicating that I had knocked out another 500 yards, I glanced at it mid stroke. I was pleased to see that I was posting faster splits than I was doing first thing in the morning when I was fresh. My body felt great in the water despite being 10 hours into an all day swimming affair. It occurred to me that once I let go of my distance goal, I was able to embrace, not only the community—which was more meaningful than racking up meters – but in the process, I got to be more present in my stroke and feel into my body in the water, and play!
Portland Bridge Swim
The following weekend was the Portland Bridge Swim. I planned to test my feed strategy which failed miserably in Lake George last year, but I also set a lofty time goal for myself because I had a few fleeting moments of speed in an open water practice. It was my 4th time swimming the 17 kilometers from Sellwood to Saint John in Portland, Oregon. This year the tide would be against us for the first 3 and a half hours, then turn and theoretically provide a little push to the finish. I wanted to finish in under 5 hours, as I did in 2013 (when the current was with us the entire way).
I set off in wave 1 and within 30 minutes found myself being passed by speedy swimmers in subsequent waves. This was quite deflating. The water was also warmer than I expected which drained my energy. My initial optimism subsided, and negative self talk ensued. I found myself plod, plod, plodding down the river, having trouble maintaining focus on any one cue. I couldn’t recall the tempos that I had been working on in my weekly practice, and I was having trouble swimming straight! I was only a few hours into the swim, and I felt frustrated.
As I passed under one of the 12 bridges along the course, I decided to roll over, backstroke, and take in the sights. I thought back to the first time I swam the course, a decade ago. So much had changed in my life, and in my swimming! The next bridge I saw Marlys, my support kayaker, with her camera out. I jumped up out of the water to see if she could catch me midair – something I did under each bridge 10 years prior on my first float down the Willamette. Finally, I started to let go of my time goal and allow the ebb and flow of my mind in each moment. I straightened out, made headway and eventually the shadow of the massive structure of the Saint John’s Bridge came over me. I rounded the final peer and made my way to the finish where I was greeted by family and friends.
Applegate 10K
My next training swim was the following weekend, a 10k at Applegate Lake. I wanted to accept exactly where I was in my training. I hadn’t hit my distance goal and missed my time goal in Portland, but I knew that there was a lot more to preparing for a long swim than distance and time markers. Among other things, we have to be present with ourselves for hours on end and we have to be able to listen to our body. I endeavored to feel good throughout the swim—at the end of the day, feeling good in my body and feeling like I can swim all day is what I want from my time in the water.
A buoy course isn’t my favorite kind of swim; I love the peace and solitude of being the only swimmer in the water. But I was surrounded by friends in my local lake and even had some of my swimmers in the water with me! I didn’t have a strategy, but I leaned into each loop, focusing on swimming straight between each buoy and holding on to my cues. After 3 hours and one minute I walked out of the water pleased with my effort.
Come mid July, my training swims were out of the way but something off. I was doing pretty well at prioritizing time in the cold plunge. If I missed a week, I forced myself to make time twice the following week. But my deliberate practice lost the purpose and focus that compelled me previously. And while each training swim played an important part in my overall plan, I felt like I was just checking boxes. In the water I was having trouble maintaining focus and it showed in my swimming. When I got video and convened with Tracey, it was clear that my old habits were sneaking back – her feedback was almost exactly what she told me at the same time last year.
If I’m honest, in the height of summer, my practices were a smattering of 5-10 minute sessions between teaching swim lessons where I tried to think about something in my swimming and not the next thing that I needed to go do. And in my training swims I had the wrong focus.
With just a few weeks left before boarding a plane to the UK, I set out to focus exclusively on my cues with a very deliberate practice. With fresh cues from Tracey, I endeavored to get in the water every single day. But I couldn’t let go of the need for speed. I closed each session trying to understand how fast I was going by counting my strokes for a minute. Then I would speed up the current in the pool and count my strokes for another minute. When I couldn’t maintain my stroke count, I warmed down and got out.
How did it go?
The plan seemed to have worked out, I swam faster than I ever have in my life for ten and a half hours. I ran up on shore, did a little dance then went on about the rest of my family vacation. But when I look at the video of my stroke, I’m appalled.
Tracey reminds me to use each swim as an opportunity to come out a better swimmer, but that wasn’t the case for me in Loch Ness. I didn’t see the expanse of water before me as my canvas for further exploring my body in the water. I saw it as a body of water that I needed to get across. While I got to the other side, I didn’t get better.
In some sense, I feel like I wasted a year trying to swim fast. In the process I got faster, but I also lost the attention to my body in the water that enabled me to continue swimming marathons in the first place. Sometimes I lose connection and my shoulder reminds me.
Speed isn’t the answer, it is the by product of a well honed deliberate practice.
I want to let go even more.
Why let go?
In a world where we are surrounded by devices and apps that help us measure everything from steps and calories to intensity minutes. And in a sport like marathon swimming where thousands of meters a week and million mile years are badges of honor, why on earth would we let go of distance and time goals in our practice?
There is no insurance.
Swimming 20 kilometers in a practice, does not guarantee that you will be able to swim a 20 kilometer event. What you need to grow is your confidence. You need to trust yourself: your mind and your body. If you exercise the principles of physics and devote each practice to making swimming as easy as possible, you will be able to swim all day (as long as you fuel your body).
There is a mental toll.
Humans are exceptional beings. We can convince ourselves to do all kinds of crazy things. But swimmers also get burnt out, bored, and quit. Some swimmers never make it to the start line. With an effective deliberate practice, your brain keeps your body engaged and your body further engages your brain. This stimulation is the path to mastery.
Get time back.
While I absolutely love swimming, I’m also trying to raise two boys in a crazy world, nourish my relationship with my partner, preserve our family unit, build a business, and foster an online community of swimmers committed to finding out what their capable of; I’ll take back any time that I can get. You can take back time too! If there’s a long swim that you want to do, you do not have to have hours a day and give up weekends to train, let’s chat.
I have found swimming akin to land based mindfulness, finding presence in each moment. This is what I endeavor in the water, presence in each stroke. Just like meditating, sometimes minutes melt into hours. Other times, it’s an eternity between each second.
This year I realized, more than ever, that excess, unfocused swimming reinforces less than optimal technique. I need to let go.
Are you ready to let go? Be sure that you are on my email list so that you’re the first to hear about my new course! This is not swim coaching. This is a transformation. It is not for those who want to keep doing what they have always done. Are you ready for something different?
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 19th?” 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 overby 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!
This is the question I ask myself as I’m about to jump off a boat into 55F/13C degree water. I can’t remember the last time I swam more than 20 minutes. What business do I have jumping in a lake for a 9 mile swim?
And then there is the fact that I signed up for a 60 km race in the Arizona desert. Performance anxiety drove me away from the pool 30 years ago, why did I sign up for a RACE?
I’ve gone so far as to change my language to take the pressure off: I call them “events”, NOT “races”. With the swimmers I coach I talk about how these are milestones in our lives like getting married or having kids. It doesn’t matter if you win or even if you have to get out, only that you put in your best effort.
I joke about lowering the bar.
Unsuspecting individual: “How did you do today?”
I respond: “Better than expected. I felt good AND I finished!”
When I signed up for SCAR I thought it would be a good test to see how my swimming was doing in April. I intentionally maintained my standard practice routine: 20-30 minutes in the water, 2-3 times a week. I sought cold tolerance with weekly dips throughout the winter (head and hands out). For aerobic fitness, I started rowing on a machine in my garage, 2-3 times a week, 10-20 minutes. I was curious if I could complete the 4 days, 4 lakes, 40 miles with this base.
For the last year I have been refining my stroke to use the principles of physics to my advantage. Tuning my acuity for consistently achieving streamline shape in the water. I generate forward momentum with each arm as it recovers, then endeavor to maintain that momentum all the way to the other side – of whatever I’m crossing. Be it a pool, or natural body of water.
My swim across Lake George last year was my first test. SCAR would be the next test. Could I get in and swim across a new lake each day for 4 days in a row? What about the cold starts? Could I stick it out?
That’s how I found myself on the edge of a pontoon boat working up the courage to jump into 55F/13C degree water and make my way to the buoy line with the other swimmers in my wave. Surely my body would know what to do once I hit the water…
I finally jump. The cold takes my breath away. Any practiced swimming form goes out the window, I scramble to the start. Hand on buoy, hand in the air. Kent gives the signal. I take off from the base of the dam into the brisk, dark water.
On day 1 I’m errantly put in the third wave with the quick swimmers. It doesn’t take long for us to spread out. The speedy swimmers take off. I try to find some length in my stroke as I desperately seek the feeling of the sun on my back.
My body does know what to do. The weekly cold water dips throughout the winter pay off. I understand the sensation of cold around me versus the penetration of cold deep in my body. My head game is strong. The breath work that I have been doing is fruitful as I don’t seem to have trouble maintaining my turnover. The strategic 10-20 minute swims focusing on maintaining my connectivity and improving the synchronization and quality of each shape that I make with my body at various tempos definitely pays off. My kayaker reports that I’m taking 53 strokes per minute, higher than my usual 48. But I just started, I have a long way to go.
After a few feeds, I start to encounter very welcome warm pockets. They abruptly end. This keeps me present.
The repetition of swimming could be mind numbing, except that I have trained my focus to consider what happens with each and every stroke. Did I shoot my laser beams to the other side of the lake? Did I find a perfect streamline as I gathered momentum on the opposite side? Were my legs connected? If not, there is always the next stroke. Constantly assessing. And correcting.
Then I check, where is the kayak? Oops! I’m drifting away. Why am I drifting away? This is part of the game. Now I troubleshoot. What is happening on one side, but not the other? Eventually my ability to problem solve fatigues, but I can still create shapes with my body. My kayaker starts hooting and hollering, the finish is in sight. But I don’t look. Not yet. Not quite yet. People, a boat, I look up. 45 yards. I peek again. 10 yards. Ahhh finished.
I have the distinction of being the second to last person to complete Saguaro lake on Wednesday due to my Wave 3 start. Which I don’t mind, except that they run out of burritos. The burritos that Kent has been hyping up since we arrived. He’s told us how delicious they are. How they’re the best burritos in Phoenix. Surely there’s one stinking burrito bumping around. But no, the guys at the burrito tent are wiping down the tables and loading up their truck by the time I arrive. I’m devastated. Fortunately, my ride is open to getting takeout on our way back to the hotel.
Day 2 set in with trepidation. Canyon is rumored to be the coldest lake. The distance roughly the same as day 1, but you’ve got to survive the chilly bits, and they go beyond the start. Conscientious of everyone’s time, Kent adjusts the waves and I fall in wave 2 today.
The temperature is again bracing. This time it didn’t subside in the first few miles. I was quite proud of how my brain handled the situation. At one point my feet came together (something they should never do!) and for the briefest of moments I could feel the odd “who’s appendage is that?” sensation. It wasn’t that I couldn’t feel them. Just that they felt like I was feeling someone else’s toes. My fleeting thought was, “boy, I wonder if other people are having trouble with this temperature?”
I felt the best, for the longest on day 2. The steep canyon walls played with the sunlight, I tried to make it a game of tag but I didn’t win until the last, long turn. As we’re coming around the bend, my kayaker points out the finish. Without looking at how far it is, I foolishly pass up what would have been my last feed. “There’s too many fish,” my kayaker says. I brush her off. I have no idea what she’s talking about and I want to get to the finish. Of course it takes longer than I expect. I kick myself, why did I pass up my last feed! Finally, I touch the buoy line finish and pick up my head up. Silver twinkles catch my eye. “What is that on the water,” I wonder. And then it hit me – too many fish. Tiny dead fish. Floating all around me.
On Day 3 I had a mission. I got out at the Apache Lake Resort when last I attended SCAR in 2014. This day was all about seeing what the lake looked like past the marina. Everything was familiar, from the breathtaking view outside my hotel room on the way to the marina, to loading up in a pontoon boat and wondering if we were going to make it to the start.
Despite (or because of?) the brisk start experiences on days 1 and 2, jumping off the boat felt significantly harder this day. When the pontoon boat pulled up to the start area, I realized that I was right next to the gate. When the captain said, “we don’t have all day” (or something like that), I opened it, but found myself scooting to the side. It was as though amnesia set in, I had to watch the others to see how it was done. When I finally took the plunge, my breathing was uncontrolled and I could only manage head up breastroke. Who was I – and what was I doing here? And then it clicked. I saw the folks on the buoy line ready to go and decide to quit puttering about. I sucked it up and put my face in, forcing some semblance of freestyle to the start. Hand on buoy, hand in the air. Kent gave the start signal. And we’re off.
One arm and then the other. Forcing myself to exhale. Trying desperately to settle in. I see some commotion at the beach where we prepped, a fleeting thought sneaks in, “what if I get out now?” I know what it’s like to get out before the finish. I’ve gotten on the boat before. That’s not for me, not today.
Before my first feed I find myself surrounded by bubbles. I suspect I’m in someone’s wake, but I look around and see no one. Then a warm embrace from the water. The fizzy feeling and warmth are delightful. I get giddy thinking about a hot spring, perhaps. My mind visits each of the hot springs that I’ve enjoyed over the decades. While it’s a nice detour, I’ve lost my focus on my stroke. When I lose my focus, I shorten up, forget my edge and tend to over rotate. Which might be okay, except that it slows my momentum. I regain composure.
Fortunately, the cold subsides after the bubbly warm spot. I’m grateful. Eventually the marina in is in sight. I see the spot where I stood up in 2014. I remember clearly the conversation with Kent and Phil on that day when they were checking on me as I was walking up the boat ramp cap and goggles in hand, clearly done. Both gracious and supportive, exactly what I needed to hear.
It doesn’t seem possible to have such a glorious, windless day on Apache. Nary a ripple on the water, except those of fellow swimmers. I’m energized by the wave 3 swimmers coming up behind me. I find energy reserves. Length plus turn over translates to speed. But I can’t maintain the quality of each stroke and they soon pass. I find myself coming up on other swimmers. By design, the convergence of swimmers means the finish is close-ish. Be still my heart.
And then it’s before us. My heart swells. I’m proud. Grateful. And oh so glad to have that swim behind me.
The prime conditions and seamless start to the day allow for a lovely afternoon hanging around the Apache Resort chatting with fellow swimmers – exactly the reason people come to SCAR. Sidling up next to strangers and leaving friends. What a gift.
I couldn’t sleep after Apache. I was glad to be in a prone position out of the sun and not swimming, but sleep did not come. At one point my roommate and kayaker drifted into the room from the bar and I asked her to tell me a story. Her story didn’t put me to sleep, but I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know the person that had been escorting me for the past 3 days. Fortunately there was no requisite wake up time for the evening swim on day 4.
By the last day the Arizona heat was starting to irritate me. The troops gathered at 4:00 PM next to a parking lot near a large body of water. The shade was sparse and patience was thin. Despite the intolerable heat, we cozied up to seek refuge from the relentless sun. This was the last gathering, the final opportunity to visit in person with likeminded limit pushers. I tried to make the most of the waiting by milling about.
Finally the kayaks were unloaded, everyone started getting ready. Kent graciously accommodated my request to jump in Wave 1 – thus completing my tour of all 3 start waves – as I didn’t want my ride to have to wait for me to head back to the hotel for the briefest of sleeps.
Seeking relief from the heat, we waded into the water as Kent made is final remarks, knowing well that the crowd of people before him would quickly disperse once they landed on shore. Then the start signal. Initially the water felt welcome and refreshing. Then I was immediately ready to be done and I hadn’t rounded the first turn buoy yet! Physically I felt able. Mentally, I had checked out. I couldn’t even distract myself! I tried to soak up the last moments of sunlight. I tried to revel in the starfield overhead, but I just kept wondering “how much more?” “Are we there yet?”
I feel pretty good about the fact that these feelings arrived on the 4th of 4 days, in the last lake, less then 12 hours before I jumped on a plane to head home to my kids and my family. But maybe this is the piece that I was missing in my training? Training the “enduring”, as I call it, seems easier somehow in the longer days of summer. I have various techniques to stretch myself thin and then keep going. But in the winter leading up to a late April long swim like SCAR, I have less tolerance for pushing through. Sure, I have a cold dip here and there. But I mostly seek comfort food and cozy covers.
And then I could see the lights. And the dock. And, oh yeah, the buoy I’m supposed to touch is over there! And I finished. I did it. I never thought the last 10k would end, but I walk up the boat ramp from where we started, giddy and so incredibly glad. I made it.
Do I actually like to swim?
Yes, I absolutely love it! I love having a stretch of water before me that I can confidently cut through. I love how it feels to slip through in streamline while I gather momentum with my recovering arm. I love to fold and hold the water as I glide my frame over top of the water. And I love conducting the orchestra of shapes that my body makes in a manner that is safe on my joints ensuring a lifetime of swimming down rivers, across lakes, and perhaps one day eclipsing the channel between land masses.
My current theory is that if I welcome the stretch of water before as an opportunity to explore my body in the water and strive to make each stroke better than the last, I’ll get to the other side.
While fun for some, I’m not convinced that threshold sets, critical swim speed, or getting my heart rate up is required in my training. And I disenjoy how my stroke breaks down when I attempt to swim ‘faster’ without purpose. Unless I can maintain good form, what’s the point?
With a focus on quality speed in my training, and constantly tuning in to my body in the water, I’m pleased to say that there were points over the four days that I swam faster than I ever have in my life.
That said, it was clear to me from my swimming at SCAR that there are many more aspects of my stroke that I need to habitualize so that conscious thought isn’t required. And that getting to the open water needs to be prioritized. The good news is, I know that now thanks to my April check in, and I know exactly how to do that!
It’s a fact, swimming is a compilation of motor habits. These habits, like any habit, can be tuned. New habits can be created. Old habits can fall by the wayside.
It’s also a fact that if you keep doing what you’ve always done, nothing will change. Let me know if you’re ready to do something different!
