Grounded

When open water swimmers have to stay dry

I was dry for 22 days this spring. It felt like a lifetime, each day measured in the hours without the liquid elixir I can’t live without: cold water.

It wasn’t the first time as an open water swimmer that I’d been grounded, but in the past it was usually because of a long trip or post-event burnout. This time? It was a scratch.

A little scratch on my lower leg that I ignored because it was just a scratch. No big deal, I get them all the time! Aging is bringing thinner skin that seems to tear like parchment at bangs and bumps that only ever bruised me before. Well, this one turned into cellulitis, a serious bacterial skin infection that can enter the bloodstream.

This hot little wound healed very, very slowly, even with oral antibiotics and daily cleansings. The doctor didn’t ban me from the bay, but being a midlife woman who no longer takes health and mobility for granted, I decided not to be stupid twice. After a couple days considering waterproof bandaids, I grounded myself so as not to risk further infection from the bay’s potential pathogens.

March had already been a weird health month before April’s cellulitis. After ten blissful months on MHT (Menopausal Hormone Therapy), I suddenly began spotting and it continued for more than two weeks. An ultrasound, showing a thickened lining was followed by a uterine biopsy that was thankfully absent of Bad Things. My naturopath took me off, then lowered my estradiol patch. I felt funky and out of sorts. Then the cellulitis happened.

Staying out of cold water builds up until it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I long for communion with the sea, for the cold to strip me down into my most basic being and anchor me in the present, flush my inflammation, cleanse my brain fog, and fill me with gratitude. The absence of the water is always there, like a ghost sitting next to me that longs for incorporation.

Here’s what I learned on land:

• I am not immortal

• Ignore your body at your own peril

• Doubts will plague me wet or dry and that’s ok

• Supporting swimmers, rather than swimming, brings joy

Training for the English Channel (not me)

I asked Trudy if she were frightened by the sharks – or were there sharks in the channel? “Oh yes,” she said, “there are lots of sharks there – but they wouldn’t bother me. They are man-eating sharks.”
– Gertrude Ederle to Frank E. Nicolson in Glenn Stout’s book, Young Woman and the Sea

While I was grounded, my swimming sister Crissa was ramping up her training for a solo English Channel (EC) attempt this summer. The EC is an iconic marathon swim, 21-miles across the water that separates England from France, and one of the toughest in the world. Crissa’s real life sister Elaine and I will be crewing for her attempt, which could take 16 hours or so.

The first recorded swim was in 1875 and took 21 hours and 45 minutes. The first woman to swim the EC was Trudy Ederle (same as the “Young Woman and The Sea” 2024 Disney film) in 1926 and she beat the men’s record by two hours, swimming for 14 hours and 39 minutes. In 2019, Sarah Thomas became the first person to swim a four-way EC (you heard me right, England ➡️France ➡️England ➡️France ➡️England) in 54 hours and 10 minutes (a year after being treated for breast cancer!). These and other literally awesome women swimmers are a constant inspiration.

Crissa is just as inspiring. She’s not the fastest swimmer, but she’s steady, tenacious, and relaxed in the water. She just keeps going.

For channel swim, you don’t get a date, but rather a weather window. Crissa’s is June 22-28, during which we will wait in Dover for the call from her escort boat pilot that the forecast looks good and we should come down to the dock that night. Channel swims usually start at night to take advantage of lower winds and so swimmers can finish during daylight hours. It has happened that bad weather never lifts, which means no swimming. I’m not sure which would be harder, the swim itself or not getting the chance to try after two years of training and expense.

I couldn’t be more proud of Crissa. It’s been such a privilege to watch up close as she’s gotten stronger and faster and done what seemed impossible just months ago. The human body, mind, and spirit are truly a miracle. It takes a village, not just me and Elaine but so many friends at the Dolphin Club are kayaking her on long swims, swimming with her, and cheering her on. Our swim community is a sisterhood like no other.

Crissa under the Golden Gate Bridge at dawn starting a 6-hour qualifying swim for her English Channel attempt later this summer. Photo: Pia Hinckle

New York, New York

Meanwhile, I had signed up for one of my bucket list swims: a relay around Manhattan. The 20 Bridges swim is 28.5 miles (45.9 kilometers) that traverses three rivers (the East, Harlem and the Hudson), tricky tides, boat traffic, and passes under twenty bridges. More than 100 years old, it is one of the three swims that make up the Triple Crown of Open Water Swimming, together with the English Channel and Catalina Channel. In 2022, native New Yorker Jamie Monahan became the first person to swim a quadruple around Manhattan (yes! four loops!) in 45 hours and 24 minutes.

My relay will be a four-woman team, the “Stroke Sirens,” including Elaine, Heidi “I’m a relay whore” Skrpzek, from my 2024 Catalina Channel relay, and ice swimming friend Louise Darlington (whose lovely swimmer/Navy veteran/master arborist husband Hugh Darlington just won a seat in Pennsylvania’s state House of Representatives!). Both women are veterans of the 24-Hr Swim Relay, which Elaine, Crissa & I are now the organizers. On August 28 we will start our swim at Battery Park.

My land-locked mind quickly got to spinning about all the reasons I won’t be ready. I’ve been out of the water for three weeks. Will I be able to swim an hour anymore? I’ve got a busy travel summer, will I be able to train the “right” way? Will I build the endurance to swim an hour, climb back onto the boat, feed and rest for three hours, and then swim another hour, and repeat that three or four times?

My Swimmer’s Doubt took the wheel and drove us off a cliff for weeks. I convinced myself that I didn’t know how to swim anymore. I should just give up now. I did realize this thought pattern is not unsimilar to my Writer’s Doubt, which distracts me from doing actual writing. It’s funny how hard the nervous system works to protect itself from risk and “failure.” Woah nellie! Calm down. Breathe.

Just when my scrape had finally closed up and I had cleared myself for swimming, my sister hit a rough patch in her Long Covid journey so I spent a week with her in New York. I took walks along the Hudson River Park and imagined returning in a few months to swim past the pier I was walking upon. A solid hour swim at her Hell’s Kitchen gym pool restored my confidence that my swimming base was still there. I would be ready. I’m going to swim in you, I told the river.

Immersion

San Francisco was overcast, 52 degrees, and a nippy breeze rippled the grey-green water of Aquatic Park the day I finally swam again after 22 days dry. I spied Crissa and Quackers, her tow float, feed carrier, and cheerleader duck way off at the far side of the cove, swimming along Muni Pier towards the opening.

Crissa and Quackers (left, note feed bottles inside the duck) Pia and Papparella (right) meet in Aquatic Park. Crissa swam 7 hours that day and I swam the last hour with her. Photo: Eliana Agudelo.

I waded in. Blessed cold nipped at my waist and my back, then my armpits. I dunked myself to my shoulders a couple times, exhaling to get through the immersion shock. Aaahhh, there it is, relief, reminiscent of the first sip of a great martini.

“Hello you,” I cooed to my bay, greeting her like an old lover.

I put my head down and swam in Crissa’s direction. Cool green water on my face, kissing me hello. The water feels warmer than I remember, could it be 60 degrees? No, my Garmin watch says 57.

“Smile,” I reminded myself, feeling micro-nerves twittering in my sensitive limbic system about where and how long and how we would swim. Smiling releases positive neurotransmitters that tell your nervous system all is well. “It’s ok that it’s not sunny and calm. Moody and rippled is also my bay.”

A strong ebb tide suddenly got my attention by stopping my progress. The anchored white sailboat to my right stays stubbornly in front of me. Limby (my name for my limbic system who is always ready for Fight , Flight or Freeze and I imagine as a two-year-old) was worried about swimming in cold water. “You’re ok,” I reassured her, “I’ve got you. We aren’t injured. We’re fueled. We’re rested. You’re ok. We’re ok.”

I smile and dig into the water, breathing now with each stroke, watching that sailboat until I start to move past it. I feel strong. I remember how to do this. I cross in front of the sailboat and I feel Limby relax. I can swim. I am strong. I am happy. Gratitude floods me for Limby and our ability to separate. I’ve got her and will keep her safe, she can relax. And she says “ok, you go swim,” and curls up for a cherubic nap. It took years of nervous system retraining to move beyond my panic in the water and on land. It still feels like a miracle every time.