PROVINCETOWN — The intensity of the physical and emotional exertion I was about to undertake didn’t hit me until I was packed into the last Funk Bus full of neoprene-suited sardines and en route to the Breakwater Hotel, the starting point of this year’s Swim for Life.
I wasn’t wearing a wetsuit. Not a good move for a first-time participant. As was its due, the September chill of the North Atlantic proceeded to humble me, not bringing me to my knees as much as bringing me out of my body.
The bus dropped me and my friend, Emma, who matched me in a red Speedo one-piece swimsuit, prismatic goggles, and an orange swim cap, at the hotel’s parking lot. Almost all the other participants had started the swim already, and the repeat Swim for Lifers with us, who were on average several decades our seniors, weren’t too happy that they hadn’t waited for us.
I wasn’t glad, either, but my thoughts had nothing to do with principles of fairness or aspirations to win. To me it meant that I’d be entering the water with less shark bait for any would-be predators to choose from.
The thought didn’t bode well for the rapidly accelerating flutter in my chest. Still, I entered the splashing fray, muttering a few expletives under my breath. Jay Critchley, wearing a homemade and necessarily absurd crown, counted down from three for us and we took off.
It’s hard for me to translate here the visceral shock of those first minutes of swimming. I got brain freeze any time I fully submerged my head, so my thoughts didn’t flow as much as they condensed and floated like crudely formed ice cubes to the surface of my consciousness.
Some points of focus I can recall: Diana Nyad swimming from Cuba to Key West at age 64; green seaweed that looked like shiny bibb lettuce carpeting the sand; jealousy for a spotted dog barking happily on the shore; the length of time it takes to drown. The temperature-induced threats to my nervous system and extremities had, I noted, distracted me from full-blown shark panic.
Every so often, I broke this dissociative reverie to make sure that Emma was never more than 10 feet ahead, behind, or beside me. Once I clocked her, I resumed the cycle of my swim. It started with a wind-knocked-out-of-you feeling, then moved to a quickening stroke and kick speed interrupted by my wondering if I had ever before been so cold. Then it came around to finding heady transcendence and gratitude, losing both, considering swimming to shore, denying the impulse, and setting my sights on the tower of the Provincetown library, a landmark ushering in the end.
I honestly couldn’t tell you how long all this took. Eventually, the bay got shallow and the congregation at Johnson Street Beach came into view. I kicked faster. To my left, a kayaker cheered me on. He was close enough to identify, but my cognition was so impaired that it took me a full minute to realize it was my friend and colleague, William von Herff.
I swam until I had to stand up and try to remember how to walk. Emma looped her arm through mine. We stumbled toward the sign inscribed with our Sharpied names that was held aloft by friends. There were sentiments and hugs exchanged, but the details are hazy since that’s when the full-body teeth-clattering shivering began.
That didn’t end until I ate a plate of food I couldn’t taste, stripped off my wet swimsuit under a towel in the middle of the parking lot celebration, and received one of those aluminum foil-esque emergency blankets intended for victims of environmental trauma. That seemed appropriate.
All in all, I’m glad I swam, even if it was more swimming for my own life than what I had intended.
