Category: Event Recaps

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Letting Go: Training for Loch Ness

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.

What is deliberate practice? Atomic Habits author, James Clear, says, “Deliberate practice refers to a special type of practice that is purposeful and systematic. While regular practice might include mindless repetitions, deliberate practice requires focused attention and is conducted with the specific goal of improving performance.”

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?

Change is hard. Let’s do it together.

Email me for more details.

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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 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 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!

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Do I actually like to swim?

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!

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That one time in Lake George…

Have you ever had a crazy idea?

And then a piece falls in place that makes it seem possible.

And then another piece.

And another.

So you keep moving forward…

More pieces fall in place.

It seems improbable. You’re not even sure it’s a good idea. But you’re curious…

Here’s my story of following curiosity:

Last year my big swim was connecting the True Width and the Vikingsholm in Lake Tahoe for my longest duration swim at the time of 15 hours for 26 miles (this includes the 3 mile connector between the two routes, which I swam—because who wants to get out and get back in).

This year I set my sights on the 32 mile length of Lake George. It was a logical step up in distance. But I was curious…

I had a notion to follow in the footsteps of the amazing Caroline Block and do the round trip (it’s a serious pain in the butt to ride the boat (or even drive) back to the start). I even boldly messaged Sarah Thomas and asked her, “how did you know when you were ready to jump distances?”

Following my successful Tahoe tour, I took my usual time off to reset, set sights, and anticipate the rebuild.  When the time came to return to the water, I was surprisingly uninspired. To get my head in the game, I always resume swimming with my local Masters team. Friends make it more fun! But I was still having trouble motivating. Worse than that, I was having pain in my shoulder that I couldn’t resolve through my usual ‘Back to Basics’ routine that I test and tout as a coach.

After years of intrigue, and several months of participating in the monthly coaches calls as an Affiliate Member, I signed up for the SwimMastery Fundamental Skills Coaches Training scheduled to begin in January of 2022. I limped through the holidays aimlessly swimming here and there, doing shoulder strengthening exercises to curb the discomfort. Doubts about pursuing my crazy idea, nonetheless continuing marathon swimming, ran rampant.

When I met Tracey Baumann, one the Instructor Trainers and cofounders of SwimMastery, on the first day of the course, I was immediately hooked on her commitment to deeply understand safe movement patterns and serve the swimming community. Additionally, I loved her engaging teaching style: asking questions to see what we were thinking, having us stand up, follow direction, watching how we understood our bodies to move and gently correcting us, all over Zoom.

The course blew my mind. I could hardly believe that I had been coaching for so many years, mostly helping people swim like me. Now I have a method of teaching that enables me to address each swimmer individually. Tune into their unique abilities. And safely guide them to finding efficient shapes in the water. Additionally, I have gained a global network of coaches to lean into when I need support (because we all do), that are value centered, principle based, and committed to lifelong learning.

With this new knowledge, I found that I could swim pain free. I ran to the pool to put my learnings into practice. But change is hard. I was overwhelmed and didn’t know how to proceed. I had a crazy idea; I couldn’t wait to transform my stroke. But I needed a guide.

Through my time with Tracey in the fundamental skills course, I felt like we clicked. Her message resonated deeply. In a one on one conversation I confided that I wanted to swim the 100km round trip of Lake George, but that I have young kids, a fledgling business, and limited time to train. I laid out my traditional technique focused training that I teach in my Quickstart for Marathon Swimming virtual group coaching course: continuously focus on technique, sprinkle in some confidence boosting swims to stretch your mind and your body. Tracey whole heartedly agreed with my approach. Best of all, she agreed to coach me.

This was a big deal. I haven’t had a swim coach since I was 17. Perhaps a few people stood on deck over me while I was in a Masters practice. But I haven’t had an honest to goodness coach that was invested in me and my goals in 30 years.

Finding efficient shapes in the water.

With Tracey’s guidance, I committed a solid 6-8 weeks from mid February into April this year doing no more than 20-30 minute swims 3-4 times a week focusing on specific aspects of my stroke using cues. But I was eager to test my speed and distance, I slipped a few times. I did two 6km days in April and one in May.

Through the mastery oriented practice that SwimMastery taught me, I had a new appreciation for my relationship with, and how I spent time in, the water. Rather than “workout”, I honed my practice: teaching my brain to find efficient shapes and tuning my acuity for consistently achieving them.

This was new.

This was exciting!

This was also really, really frustrating.

I found that practices with my friends at masters stoked my ego—trying to make intervals and keep up with my lane mates. My old habits and shoulder discomfort cropped back up.

I had to slow down.

Change comes from shelving your ego. Ignoring the clock. And literally finding your body in the water.

Through the process I transformed my freestyle from one where my shoulders did ALL the work, wreaking havoc on my arthritic shoulder joints and forcing me to do shoulder strengthening exercises anytime I ramped yards, to a connected, torso driven machine. 

Practice essentials.

By May I felt solid in the fundamentals and we started to play with tempo. Still no clock. A completely different way of swimming than anything I had done in my 40 years in the water.

Then it was June. Swimming took a backseat as I prepared for summer days – kids, camps, teaching swim lessons, trying to keep my clients and Intrepid Water programs afloat. I think I made it to the lake twice.

Days slipped by, then weeks. Tracey consistently checked in, asking how my training was going. The prompts forced me in the water to focus, gather footage, and get feedback.

I set up July to be a month of mental confidence boosts and put my technique to the test. Some 10k loops into the night at one of our local lakes, the 17km Portland Bridge Swim, and close it out with the 10 mile at Kingdom Swim after coaching Swim Tech Camp with Charlotte.

On July 1st, I got sick.

I started out trying to rest my way to health. What’s that saying? “You’ve got to feed a cold.” I ate. Slept. Tried every supplement under the sun. Barely getting out of bed and making my husband do all the cooking, cleaning, and playing with the kids. I never tested positive for COVID, but what started as wooziness, depleted energy, and exhaustion turned to a nasty summer cold with a cough that wouldn’t let up.

I couldn’t shake it. The coughing kept me up all night. My planned weekend of 10k loops didn’t happen. I went to urgent care only to confirm that it wasn’t COVID and there wasn’t much they could for me. I decided that I was on the mend and made the drive to Portland to swim the bridges. But I was up all night coughing horribly, I decided not to risk it since I needed to get better to teach Swim Tech Camp and swim in the Kingdom.

The Keegan’s on their way to Vermont.

Our family took off for Vermont mid July. I had an incredible week with some amazing humans geeking out about swim technique, practicing dryland, and spending some precious time on stage with Charlotte. I was still coughing at night but couldn’t resist commuting the 1.5 miles to camp from the Eastern shore of Lake Memphremagog to Charlotte’s place. It was my first time in the water in weeks and it was divine.

Come Saturday, I prepped for the 10 mile at Kingdom Swim. My training was so limited thus far; I honestly didn’t know what to expect. I was looking for a mental confidence boost and to see where I was at since transforming my stroke.

On the 10th anniversary of my first 10 mile swim (without a wetsuit), I surprised myself with my best time. (Of course we all know that you can’t compare open water events, but I know you do). The cues worked. I was able to adapt to the changing conditions and maintain my solid foundation of technique work. It was a huge bonus to bring home the mid sized maple syrup and beef jerky. When I finished, I ran up to Janine, one of the first to sign on as my crew, and said, “I think I can do 20 more miles!”

That was exactly the boost I needed.

But my crew needed more. It was less than four weeks until my scheduled swim in Lake George. I signed up for a double, was that a realistic goal?

I met with my crew. I talked to the pilots at Waterhorse Adventures. We lost a crew member and gained two more. It was getting uncomfortably real.

In my waning hours in Oregon leading up to my flight, I felt absurd. This was an absolutely crazy idea. What was I thinking? I had a conversation with my husband about The Alternative. You know, The Alternative: just stay home and do the same thing I always do: make breakfast, see my kids off to school, follow up with clients and create content for Intrepid Water, then gather my boys at the end of the day to listen to their stories of lessons learned, characters in class, who was a good listener, how they challenged themselves, and in what ways they felt proud, make dinner, read the kids to bed, stretch, sleep, and do it over again the next day.

It took every ounce of courage to pack my stuff, leave my family and fly across the country for this swim. It helped that I was excited to see friends and meet people that I only knew virtually. And while it’s hard, I was looking forward to exiting my comfort zone. Beyond that, I was curious. How far could I go? Could I swim continuously pain free?

The Narrows, as seen from my flight over the lake.

Leading up to the swim I rested as much as possible. But also met up with local swim enthusiasts and lake guides, Bob Singer and Deb Roberts. We swam a bit. Flew over the lake and took a short boat tour. I first met and fell in love with Lake George in 2012. Now, 10 years later, I felt like I was getting to know her. Soon, one stroke at a time.

A weather delay allowed for more rest. I meditated. Tried to center. I listened to my doubts. And reasoned my way out of them: You have been swimming your whole life, you’re at home in the water, swimming is easier than walking, just see how far you can go.

Right up until pushing off the rocky bottom of Lake George and taking those first strokes, I had to remind myself about The Alternative and how this swim, this attention, this crew, this boat, this kayak, all of it was here for me to not only break free of doing the same thing that I do every day, but to see how far I could go with a solid technique as a foundation.

We arrived at the dock for the start of the swim to dark clouds and rumbles of thunder. Loading up the boat, rain spit from the sky. Then it poured. I was anxious. Do I stand up? Sit down? Lay down? I didn’t know what to do with myself, I helped string lights on the boat canopy. Genuinely lost, I mindlessly looked at my phone.

The rain slowed. There were still gloomy clouds to the North. We knew the weather was supposed to abate by 8pm, but I didn’t want to wait two more hours. Kellie looked at the radar and we decided to do final preparations: stash clothes, put on cap, set goggles, Desitin.

Someone getting coated in white paste is an odd sight in a popular tourist destination. A few people stopped and looked on. I tried to smile and laugh and make light as imposter syndrome creeped in: Who do you think you are? You can’t swim this whole lake. You didn’t train enough. You’re not going to make it.

Me, myself, and I quarreled.

I chanted my mantra to allay my fears, “you’re at home in the water, you’ve been swimming your whole life, just see how far you can go.”

It was shallow, I decided to climb down the boat ladder. I don’t remember how I got to the wall. There were people around, I don’t know how many. I had a smile pasted on my face to hide the fear. My crew told me to, “chat with my ‘fans’,” while the boat was getting ready to push off. I focused on the two little girls closest to me and thought of my boys back home. One of the girls said, “my mommy tells me everyday that I’m strong, I’m courageous, and I can do hard things.”

Chatting with the girls. Photo credit: Mina Elnaccash

“Your mommy is smart, and she’s absolutely right!” I responded. “How old are you?”

“I almost said 6, but I just turned 7,” the little girl replied.

“Really? I have a 7 year old at home,” I said.

“Oh wow,” I hear a woman’s voice in the crowd, “now I’m inspired.”

“YOU can do hard things too,” –I think I said.

“Are we ready?” I asked the boat.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I heard back.

I took a deep breath. I can do hard things, I’m at home in the water, I’ve been swimming my whole life, let’s see how far I can go…

Double Rainbow over Lake George. Photo courtesy of Kellie Latimer

Without realizing it, I pushed off between beams of sunlight beneath puffy gray clouds under a gorgeous double rainbow on the 64th anniversary of Diane Struble’s inaugural crossing of Lake George on August 23, 1958.

My first cue was to breathe. Just breathe. My goggles fogged up. I sensed that I was leaning left, only to be confirmed when I took a breath. I was pulling away from the boat towards shore. I was extremely aware of everyone, including a drone, looking on. “What are you going to do about it?” I asked myself. I corrected with some bilateral breathing. Swim. Just swim.

It wasn’t long before the sun set. Dark was coming on. Gary got in the kayak. I was still feeling strong. The changing light made me feel like I was cruising. But I knew that we started just a few hours ago. I couldn’t be more than 4 miles up the lake.

How far was the Narrows again? I observed the lights on shore. I knew there were lights for much of the swim through the Southern part of the lake, but not through the Narrows. I kept seeing lights. And more lights.

Twilight twinkled on.

Then it was dark.

Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe.

From my perspective the boat was beautifully lit, and all was well. I played with my breathing rhythm. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. First Gary was there, then he seemed to drift away. Or was I drifting? The boat was there, then it was right there. I’d snug over towards Gary. Then the kayak was right there.

I consider myself a straight swimmer but found myself correcting the left lean that cropped up at the start. I decided to breathe every three strokes to check my positioning. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Distance between kayak and myself was acceptable. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Distance between myself and the boat was growing. Stroke, stroke, breathe. The kayak seems further away. Stroke, stroke, breathe. The boat is further away.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

This was frustrating. I was having a hard time figuring out who I should follow. The boat had the course, but Gary was my night escort. We talked about following the boat at one point through the narrows, but I was never sure if we had reached that point. I kept wondering when it would come. I wished we had flushed out the plan in more detail.

I was oozing gratitude for the amazing conditions; there was no wind, nary a wave. I thanked Lady Lake. I leaned into the gratitude and thanked Gary, my crew, observers, and Jim, at the helm. I tried to count the hours by estimating where I was in my feed plan. I had jelly beans once, that was feed 10. But there was no guarantee, my crew took my request to heart and were creative with my feeds. They kept me laughing and smiling. When they sent me Fritos, Rick broke out with the Frito Bandito song.

When Kellie was on deck she would look on and smile at me. It’s hard to express what it feels like to be the center of everyone’s attention like this. It’s not something that I’ve ever thought of myself as craving. But I certainly responded. Leaning into the stroke that I honed: weight shift, trident forward, weight shift.

Playing ping pong between the boat and the kayak kept me busy. More than anything, I was pleased that I wasn’t sleep swimming like I did across Tahoe in 2019. I can only remember one sleepy zone out between feeds. I put in a request for caffeine and it arrived the next feed. I felt alert, just unsettled: ping, pong, ping, pong. I should have asked more questions. I just kept swimming.

As the night wore on, I discovered a problem with my right side breath. My head wasn’t as low and comfortable on my right and I was drinking a lot of water. I decided to work on it. That’s what SwimMastery is all about! I had a toolkit to troubleshoot problems in real time. I investigated what I was doing on the left side that was working. I tried to recall the feedback Tracey gave me in my last few videos. Then I searched my body in the water for the differences. I had to search beyond my habitual motions and tune in to the feeling of the water on my body. Finally, I found it. Lean into the left trident when you breathe right, be patient with the back leg, then shift your weight.

It felt great to have something to troubleshoot.

Now what?

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Energy forward. Stable trident.

The day dawns. Photo credit: Mina Elnaccash

As daybreak neared, I was trying to find the feelings I had in my Tahoe tour the year before; I felt like I was one with the earth as a new day spun into light. But such feelings can’t be recreated. I tried to find presence. I sought peace. Then, out of nowhere, it popped in my head: “am I going to turn?”

Uh oh, this thought was not supposed to come. To turn, or not to turn, was not an option. But there it was.

I pushed it out of my head. Release, recover, trident forward. Do it over again.

One gift of swimming through the night is watching the cascade of light as the day dawns. The light plays on the texture of the water, changing with each breath. Pewter and steel take on sheens of birch, peach. A beautiful scene, turn to the watery abyss, only to have a different scene on next glimpse.

Stroke, stroke, breathe. Energy forward. Always forward.

My mind played with the anchor perched on the bow of the boat. What did it look like? An eagle with a fish in its mouth? Perhaps a pelican? An upside down Toucan? I welcomed and encouraged the playful thoughts.

Dawn turned to day. While I was swimming, I would think of things to ask my crew, then forget to ask when I fed. This happened repeatedly.

It seems improbable that I kept going. The doubts started to come on strong. I can’t make it back to the start. It’s impossible.

I tried to focus on sending my energy forward. I toyed with cues. But mostly I wondered, when should I tell them? When do I tell the crew that I’ll swim to Ticonderoga then I’m done.

I’ll never forget Mary’s face when I said, “I’m 98% sure that we’re going to plan B.” It was a good exercise to say this out loud—she looked genuinely surprised. I realized that they couldn’t see the doubts that had been haunting me since the start. If it didn’t look like I was having trouble, I wondered if I was better off than I thought, maybe I could make the turn?

My crew rallied. Everyone was on deck. The whiteboard read: “Plan A is the way!” The support buoyed my spirits. Maybe I could make it? I decided that I wanted to turn around so that I could just focus on the swimming and not the damn turn.

This was a nice change. I allowed myself to let go of the doubt, I buckled down and swam.

The approach to Diane’s rock in Ticonderoga drags on and on. And on. I had been warned about this. The water was shallow, about six feet and warm. Once Kellie got in the water with me, I knew we were close-ish. But. It. Just. Kept. Going. The houses get bigger, you’re swimming right by them, but you have to keep going. Around the corner. Continue down the channel. It just keeps going. And going. And going.

Swimming with Kellie on the approach to Diane’s rock. Photo credit: Mina Elnaccash

Finally, Gary says, “see that rock with the tree on it? That’s where you’re going.” I look up and see a tree coming out of a rock that is about 30 yards away. But that’s not where Gary is pointing. There’s a rock just ahead of me. Maybe 10 yards. I put my head down and take one stroke, then another. Gary is pointing to the right; I look up and realize that there’s a rock right next to me. “Right there,” Gary says.

To my right, I see a flat rock covered in goose poo. There is green fuzz coating the rocks on the approach. I spy a plaque on a rock a little further to the right with less goose poo. As I head toward this rock, Kellie points to the goose poo rock and says, “right there, just clear the water.”

There’s a 10 inch swath of poop free rock that I eye. I’m aware of the slippery rocks but still try walking only to resort to a spider crawl. I slip my way up the rock, banging my knee, and stand briefly. The boat horn sounds. I’ve done it! I made it to Diane’s Rock!

Kellie encourages me to sit down, and Gary passes over the breakfast scramble that I’ve been dreaming of for the last several hours. I tell Kellie, “I was thinking about swimming more, but that finish broke me.”

“This isn’t the finish, it’s the turn,” Kellie says.

Oh crap, I realized, “I asked for this, didn’t I?”

Reality set in. I told my crew I wanted to turn. They are 100% invested in getting me back to the start. I felt like a kid faced with a chore that I didn’t want to do. How can I get out of this? I don’t want to swim anymore. I’m done. Oh, but wait. That’s exactly why I have a crew here. That’s exactly why they had me state my goal prior to the start. They knew, better than I, that I might waver. This was new to me.

I needed them in that moment in a way that I don’t let myself need people. I think this is what it’s all about for me. I’ve felt the teamwork on past swims, but never like this. I had to lean into trust. I had to believe in my crew.

Kellie said, “Just swim to where the kayak meets the boat. That’s all.”

Ahhh, so this is what marathon swimmers mean when they say, “swim feed to feed”. I’ve heard it a thousand times, I’ve thought it before, but never believed it so much as I did in this moment. Okay, swim to where the kayak meets the boat, that’s it.

Finally, I started to find presence in my swimming. Something I had been seeking the whole way up the lake. Weight shift, energy forward. Weight shift, energy forward. Is all there was.

But my monkey brain was still looking for an out. Is that a storm brewing? Surely that was lightening. Should I tell them I saw lightening?

Shannon, what’s your job? Swim.

The conditions continued to be flat and gorgeous. I convinced myself that it was a sign, I had to keep going. I was actually getting a slight push from the North; how can I quit when the conditions are so good?

The warmth of the shallow waters in Ticonderoga wore off. At first I wanted ice water to wash the warmth away. Then I got chilled.

My crew notified me that my stroke count dropped from 46-48 strokes per minute to 40. They asked for me to pick it up. Try as I might, I could not will my arms around any faster. And I kept getting chills in my body despite being surrounded by warmth.

We agreed to chemically induce a pick-me-up with some caffeine next feed. But I knew something was wrong. Well before feed time, I decided to tell my crew what I had suspected for a while, “I think my body is shutting down.”

We agreed to 5 more minutes of swimming, then reconvene. I pushed on. My thoughts roving, should I have said anything? What if they tell me I have to get out? Am I okay with that?

Heading South down the lake. Photo credit: Mina Elnaccash

I wanted to know what it feels like to make the turn. Now I know. For a moment, I wondered if I could make it to 24 hours. I asked Mary what time it was, a topic I usually avoid. The mark was three hours away. Three hours sounded like forever. While I really wanted to see what it would be like to swim through another night, the thought of dark, when the sun on my back wasn’t warming me, sounded dangerous. I was physically done, but mentally I could go longer; this felt like a significant accomplishment.

Mary stopped my stream of thoughts and offered a few options. I could touch the boat and the swim would be over, or I could swim about 1000 yards to exit at a state park. I liked this option. Whether it was or not, it felt more dignified to walk up on shore. I have gotten in the boat in the middle of a swim before, and I knew that ultimately I would get on this one. But it felt good to have an end (even if it wasn’t The End) in sight, to make a final slog, watch the land rise from the depths, navigate the shallows, and find my footing on terra firma once more.

After 22 hours, 20 minutes, and 36.5 miles (unratified) of swimming, I walked up on the beach at Rogers Rock State Park.

Grateful for warmth. Photo credit: Mina Elnaccash

I did not anticipate the importance of setting not just a goal, but a lofty goal. If plan A had been a one way swim of Lake George, it would have been just another successful swim.

I wanted to challenge myself to find the hard parts, and I did. It was hard to keep swimming after the turn. And in those last 4 miles, I laughed, cried, berated myself, and found presence. I wanted to see how far I could go with the torso driven technique that I adopted through SwimMastery and while my body shut down, I think I could go further with better preparation.

Throughout the swim I was inspired by the Marathon Swim Stories bestowed to the community, my clients commitment to themselves and allowing me to be part of their journey, and the generous support and connection of my virtual swim coach (whom I have yet to meet in person), Tracey Baumann.

Post swim, I cannot believe how fine I feel. Sure, I had some muscular soreness in my deltoids and triceps, but my arthritic shoulder joints feel great. Physically I was drained, but no more than if I had a hard pool session. Even Mary was surprised that I wasn’t comatose, or at least sleeping more. Heck, I couldn’t believe that I was still standing upright at 10pm chit chatting with my crew the same day that I got out of the water.

Does that mean I should have swam further? I don’t think so. I got out when I my body was shutting down. I feel accomplished. I still love swimming. I want more. 

Sometimes I wonder if I could give it all up. After all, there is a significant financial, physical, and emotional burden to such trials. But then I would get stuck under the weight of every day and limit myself to the known, the familiar, and creature comforts. I would rather tap, “the human commitment to exploration,” as one of my clients, Will Hodgess, sagely states, “of the absolute beauty and privilege of being alive, and possessing both a functioning body as our vehicle, and a brain to experience it in all its wonders.”

For a period after each swim, I cannot remember the day, week, or month. I am awakened. I see beauty all around. I radiate love.

What are you curious about?

Follow that curiosity.

Get a coach. Yes. It’s an investment. But this is your one and only life we’re talking about!

Hone your practice. Change is hard, but what’s The Alternative?

If you’re looking for a guide, I’d love to chat with you. If you’re intrigued, find out more about SwimMastery.

Thank you, to those who have supported me in my most recent exploration of my functioning body: Mary Stella, Kellie Latimer, Rick Born, Mina Elnaccash, Gary Golden, everyone at Waterhorse Adventures, my husband Noah Keegan, and my boys, Roen and Soren.

And to those who came before. It is your courage and curiosity to cross bodies of water that inspires me.

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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!

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In Search of Memphre Recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I dive in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My brilliant crew: Rob, Gary, and Charlotte
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Have you planned your events for next year?

The other day my training partner and I were reminiscing about a time when we signed up for open water swims the week before the event or even day of, and now we find ourselves planning swims 8-10 months in advance! If you’re looking to try a marathon swim in 2019, consider that for safety reasons longer swims are capped and sometimes sell out well in advance. For channel crossings, there are a limited number of certified pilots, and they book up quickly. It seems that more and more people are looking to test their personal limits with open water swimming (and  a shout out to the triathlete’s out there pushing their limits in THREE disciplines)!

I have an outline of swims planned for 2019. The biggest swims are already paid for and on the books. Now I’m planning filler and training swims to round out my schedule. And I want to budget time to swim with YOU too! If you’re local, let’s go play in one of our lakes! If you’re not, let’s meet up somewhere! With a husband and two kids who have schedules of their own, putting a stake in the ground for my absence well in advance is critical – so tell me, where can I find you in 2019?

If you’re looking to challenge yourself in the coming year, here are a few of my favorite swims that are already accepting applications for 2019:

SCAR opened on November 1st – 4 days, 4 lakes, almost 40 miles of swimming in the desert in April. I tried Apache and completed Roosevelt in 2014, great swims, great community, great opportunity to challenge yourself.  

END-WET registration is open. This is the longest swim in North America. Mid June, 36 miles down the Red River in North Dakota. It’s also the most affordable ultra marathon swim out there! 

Lake Willoughby, Vermont – was chosen as the US Masters Swimming 5 mile National Championship. This swim in August is a great excuse to visit the Northeast Kingdom and the championship is a bonus if you’re competitive like that. This lake has a special place in my heart as it was the first time that I pushed for a distance greater than a mile, it was my first point to point swim (where I realized I could swim TO PLACES), and later became my first lake to double cross as I further pushed my personal limits and besides that, it’s just plain gorgeous. 

If you want to put in more swim miles while you visit the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, consider staying for all of Swim the Kingdom Week to check out a different lake each day. 

Pacific Open Water Swim Company is currently taking applications for Tahoe and supports a plethora of open water swims in the Bay Area. It’s inspiring following them on Instagram! Can’t wait to meet these guys in July!

Here are a few of my favorites that will be opening registration soon:

Portland Bridge Swim registration opens on January 1st. The swim is the first weekend in July. Swim under 12 bridges over 11 miles down the Willamette River in Portland, Oregon. It’s fun swimming through downtown and seeing the city sites from the water. 

Mercer Island Marathon Swim, on Lake Washington, outside of Seattle. I had the distinct pleasure of doing this event in 2018 and just loved it. Registration is planned to open in early January for an end of May date for 2019. 

On February 1st Swim the Suck registration opens, this one fills up fast. My husband and I took our first trip to Tennessee last October for this swim and I certainly hope it won’t be our last, I loved it! This is an awesome event complete with beer, taco bar, and custom pottery mug on completion.

If none of these tickle your fancy, check out the LongSwims Database to see all of the marathon swim events (10K or longer) out there! 

How is your 2019 planning going? What are you signed up for? What are your favorite marathon swims or limit pushing events?

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Cliff Ultra Swim Recap

I rarely have time for such things, but this was a unique weekend, and I uniquely had time to compose a weekend swim recap for you. Fair warning, it’s a long one: I turned around from a border busting swim and family vacation in Vermont to take a personal escape for a little more swimming in Colorado with my sister, Julie. We grew up here, but I moved away 26 years ago—which is hard to comprehend, how have so many years gone by? Everything seems so big, crowded, and vaguely familiar. It’s an odd sensation. After much ado for camping supplies and food stuffs, we made it to Wellington lake at 8000 feet elevation just a skosh before the sun tucked in. We got the late comers welcome, meeting cliff notes, and set up camp before dark. I was road weary, to say the least, I could hardly wrap my mind around what I was about to embark upon, and had no idea what I was thinking when signed up for the Cliff Backyard Ultra Swim:https://mountainswimseries.com/eve…/the-cliff-backyard-ultra

I woke up Saturday feeling horrible. My stomach, my head, my body—just horrible. I hoped that water, a medium that I often considered to be more familiar than land, would make me feel a modicum better. Right on time, at 6:02 am, 16 foolhardy swimmers and I hit the water. It was warmer than the air, a refreshing sub 70. I felt as though I was thrashing about, but rounded two buoys collecting the requisite number of cards, and finished my 1.5 miles with 17 min before the next opportunity. I ate crystallized ginger to settle my stomach, drank water to ease my pounding head, and wondered if I could make it one more lap.

On lap two, the sun was higher in the sky, the buoys were clearly visible, geographic sightings in place, I settled into my stroke and my place well behind the lead pack. I arrived to shore, relinquished my cards as evidence that I’d visited each buoy, felt comfortable about the pace I established, but I still felt horrible. More ginger. More water. Maybe one more lap. And thus my motto for the day was forged.

So how does a person go from, “just one more” after lap one, and get all the way to 16? Easy: salty blue corn chips, warm cinnamon sugar butter tortillas, hot chocolate, ramen noodles, Julie, Kristi, Steve, Diana, inspiration, support, encouragement, love, and Sarah Thomas.

Don’t get me wrong, it was hard. It took three laps to right my stomach woes and a few more to kick the headache. Mid day brought bright sunshine and warm outside temperatures that made the water feel frigid for the first mile. I’d return to shore finally acclimated to the water, get out, get warm and dry, then do it all over again.

My personal pep talks centered around, the financial investments that had been made to get there and leaving my family for a weekend of swimming. How could I go home and tell my kids that I quit when I hadn’t even swam my longest time or distance? Then my wonderful friends Kristi and Steve showed up with their two boys. Diana and her two kids came all the way out to support me, could I do just one more?

There was a fly by thunderstorm. Bald eagles soaring overhead. Gorgeous scenery. Lake goers drifting onto the course. Rain. Wind. Pockets of sunshine nestled behind sheets of gray. Glassy calm. More wind. A torrential downpour. Thunder. Lightening! Sun set. An encouraging voice from my swimming idol. Twilight. And then it was really dark. On lap 16 I swam past the far buoy, accidentally sighting on a light on shore. With only two left in the water, we had kayak escorts, but had to do our own navigating. Graciously, my kayaker let me know I had swum long, I was so glad to turn around. The wind whipped up washing machine style. My kayaker blew ashore. Fortunately the finish was very well illuminated. My everything had been hurting for at least 10 laps. I knew I was done for, but I also knew it would be hard to quit. When I landed and Sarah said I had just 3 minutes if I wanted to go again, I threw in the towel. I had been posting the same time for each 1.5 mile loop all day long. But when I missed my time, I decided to relinquish the rock to Last to Fail Stephen Rouch.

I can’t stop crying every time I think back on Wellington Lake. The people. The heart. Just epic. Sarah and Karl, thank you for creating an event that allows a middle of the road swimmer like me to be buoyed by support and encouragement and achieve more than I thought possible.

Thanks to my husband, Noah, who wrangled our darling munchkins ALL weekend so I could swim laps for 16 hours in a high mountain lake.

Lastly, my sister stepped up to crew for me without any idea what she was getting into. But she took her job very seriously and prepared more than I could have ever suggested or recommended. She was perfect for the job and I can hardly express how grateful I am to her for being there to look after and support me. I think she thought I would quit sooner, and defying her was a pretty good motivator—fortunately, her closing comments before we drifted off to sleep after hour upon hour upon hour of watching me swim were, “are we going to come back next year?”
#intrepidwater #adventureswimming #secondtolasttofail #lastwomanstanding #renewedfocus

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