The Great Chesapeake Bay Swim
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The
Great Chesapeake Bay Swim
June 18, 2000 -- Annapolis, Maryland.
4.4 Mile Open Water Swim across the Chesapeake Bay.
4.4 miles of cruel currents, waves, and
limits.
It
is 7:30am, the Monday after another race.
My arms and shoulders are sore, and the sting of chafe on my neck from the
wetsuit still tingles as I move across the room silently to start another day.
The mirror over my dresser usually holds my finishing medals for a few days
after a race, until I move them to the trunk where I keep all of my
memories...all the ribbons of past battles fought and won.
On this morning, the corners of the mirror hang empty, and the face that stares
into the mirror is emptier still. For the first time in my career, the Monday
after is not a time for pride...but a time to think of what could have
been...what should have been...but wasn't.
I don't notice the pain in on my skin anymore - the questions that linger hurt
far more.
From the day I pressed 'Submit' on the application button at Lin-Mark to the
night before the Chesapeake Bay Swim, I had been longing for the race to come.
Through the encouragement of Pete Priolo and Eric Weiss, I had decided to take
the plunge (*pun*) and give this race a try. It was so insane, I simply had to
give it a shot - 4.4 miles across the currents, swells, and chop of the
Chesapeake Bay for, as Pete said, "The most prestigious finishers shirt in
swimming...that's the one to have."
I spent most of February racking up yardage like never before. March, April, and
May held most of the same...long swims every Friday afternoon. Pretty soon I was
getting very tired of the yardage - and my nerves were fraying. After my last
test swim - a 6,000 meter, non-stop endeavor that had me flipping back-and-forth
at the YMCA pool for an hour and forty-five minutes, I knew that this race was
not something I would want to do again. When I passed through the IM-Split of 3800 meters in 1:05 and
knew that I would still have 3300 to go in the actual race? I knew I had really
bitten off more than I should have...and if I could just finish this thing I
promised myself that I would never do it again.
The breed of person that can specialize in swimming for so long is special -
they have a gift of concentration and focus that I was learning I didn't
have...and the feeling that I was a 'poseur' in an event for more serious
swimmers was something I tried to ignore...but wouldn't leave my head as I
tapered down in the last days.
Eric and I drove down to Annapolis on Saturday afternoon after an adventurous
ride earlier in the day. I had already run 10 miles earlier that morning with
the 'Fast Tracks' group, and then we set out at 9:00am for 50 miles of hills
before taking off. It was already in the low 80's when we started, and I was
pretty toasty from the run...so I let Eric go. He was feeling frisky and wanted
to do some intervals, so I waved 'Bye bye!' as he tore off, 3 minutes at a time.
We rode hills and step-climbs into a hot, Southerly, block headwind for 26
miles...until we turned around to enjoy the tailwind we had earned. This
enjoyable, downhill cruise lasted precisely 3 miles, until I ran over an unseen
(but heard) chunk of metal that destroyed my rear tire in a spectacular blowout,
complete with smoke, fire, sound effects, and colorful words. The wound was
serious - a 1" gash that went sidewall-sidewall across the entire tire (ba-dum-bum).
Feeling a bit like Mr. Wizard and a bit like
Tim Allen, I used a Power Bar wrapper to try and hold a new tube in place so
that we could limp home...but that lasted all of 2 miles before detonating in a
rather unspectacular *bang* at 10mph.
We were 5 miles from anywhere and out of tubes...but since the tire was trashed
anyway, I decided to ride it and protect the rim until we could find a phone.
Eric stayed by my side as a very-drunk riding Apollo weaved all over the
shoulder (stupid crowned pavement) at 8 mph until we found a phone and some
shade.
A call to St. Lynda, and we were thusly rescued a short time later...as I joked
"Well, if I had to pay the karma Gods somehow, I'd rather do it today,
eh?"
Once checked into the hotel we met up with Mark Markley, Cary McConlogue, and
Pete Priolo for dinner at Maria's...and then off to bed to feign sleep the night
before a race once again. My head was racing: The day was finally almost
here...and I'll I had to do was get across that stupid bay and be done with this
pursuit once and for all.
I couldn't wait.
The next day dawned warm and muggy, just as the previous day...but I didn't
really worry about it. With a water temp of 68, the air temp could have been 120
and I wouldn't have noticed. Eric, Mark and I all ate a quick breakfast...which
for me was a cup of coffee and a muffin. I didn't want to put too much in the
tank before heading out, so I kept it simple. Mark volunteered to drive, so I
quickly gathered all my gear and dumped into the backseat. Halfway to the start,
I realized that I had forgotten my
bottle...and I wouldn't be able to drink before the race. I tried to remember if
I had hydrated enough before bed, and aside from 4 glasses of water at dinner, I
couldn't remember the last time I had drank anything.
I resisted the urge to panic...at least the water would keep my core temp
down...
At the finish park, Eric and I gathered the gear we'd need for the swim and
hopped on the shuttle bus to take us across the bridge to the start. I tried to
split the swim up in my mind...noting that there was the entry to the channel,
the Main Span over the Shipping Lanes, a long section to a Cantilever section,
and then just roadway to the finish. I joked with Eric "Okay, so it's a
Columbia swim, an IMC swim, and then another Columbia to the finish.
Right?"
I tried not to worry...but I noticed that the bus ride was long. Very long. I
closed my eyes a few times...and opened them to notice that we still weren't
across. My stomach knotted even more tightly. "You just have to get
across...just get across..." I thought.
At athlete check-in, my nervous state went from 'Piqued' to 'Mild Panic' when we
walked across the lawn to the registration table, and I noticed that from this
perspective, I couldn't even *see* the other side of the bay through the haze. I
wanted to go home. I had no business being there. "I'm just a tri-geek
poseur! I only need to go 2.4 miles on the longest day - what the (#$? am I
doing here going 4.4?" I was not in a positive mind-set...but I was snapped
out of my meltdown when the volunteer looked at me and said "Photo ID,
please?"
Yes, I had a photo ID with me. Problem was, it was in Mark's car...4.4 miles
away.
"Well, you'll need to talk to that woman right over there..." he said,
pointing me at Linda Toretsky of Lin-Mark timing. I headed over to see her, and
she said "Hang on a second..." as I got there, she needed to say
something over the bullhorn to the field assembled.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE THE NUMBER OF YOU PEOPLE THAT DON'T HAVE PHOTO ID! DID YOU
READ ANYTHING? IT'S BEEN ON THE WEBSITE FOR 6 MONTHS. DID YOU SEE THE WEBSITE?
DID YOU CARE WHAT IT SAID? IT IS ASTOUNDING TO ME...HOW UNPREPARED SO MANY OF
YOU ARE..."
As her tirade went on for the next 2 minutes, I silently hoped that a meteor
would just come down and take me out *spliff*, rather than face what I was about
to face. She finished yelling at the field and turned to me...and I said
"Hi. I'm Bob Mina, moron. I am one of the unwashed heathen without Photo
ID. If you'd like to point the bullhorn at my ear and hit the 'siren', that's
fine..."
My 'Best-Defense-is-to-make-your-would-be-killer-smile' plan worked: She
thankfully grinned and took my name down, reminding me that "If you show up
without ID next year...you'll be banned for life. Go register." As the
sweat from just standing in the early morning sun poured down my brow, I though
to myself "Not to worry...I'm never coming back here again, once I finish
this thing."
Eric knew I was in a very bad place, and he was trying to calm me down...but it
wasn't working. I was hot, nervous, frazzled, scared, sweaty, and now really
thirsty. I'd been up for 3 hours and I stupidly hadn't drank a thing beyond that
cup of coffee. Cary McConlogue had run into Eric and I, and I asked him for a
sip from his bottle. He noticed that I didn't have anything...and said "You
know, you should be drinking...you'll dehydrate out there for sure." I said
"I know..." but without a bottle and as stressed as
I was, I couldn't think clearly enough to do something so simple. I had let my
anxiety overrule my actions, and was now in a 'Deer In Headlights' posture.
Cary must have sensed it. He wordlessly let me finish his one bottle, then he
headed to the water fountain, re-filled it, and simply returned to me with the
word "Drink." I popped the top off and downed an entire bike bottle in
30 seconds. He asked me "Do you want anymore?" and I said
"No...with 20 minutes to the start, that's as much as my body will
absorb." I thanked him...and he went on his way. I was still thirsty...but
I knew that drinking anything now would be in my stomach sloshing around...it
was
simply too late to undo the mistake now.
Eric and I waded in for the start, and I just wanted the gun to go off. I used
to hate getting up on the blocks in swim meets...since the tension was the worst
part to me. Once the gun went off, I relaxed...even in midair before I'd hit the
water - just because it was time to stop thinking and time to start doing.
I wished Eric luck, and I looked across the haze again: "Columbia, IMC,
Columbia. Columbia, IMC, Columbia."
The first few yards were much more pleasant than any triathlon start I'd even
been in, with plenty of space to get into a nice, easy rhythm. I cruised out
into the bridges, and sighted constantly to make sure I was staying to the left.
Pete had warned Eric and I about the flow of the currents, and that they'd be
coming from the left at the start, sorta' slack in the middle, and then from the
right. I tried to relax, and just keep
moving along. Another long day in the pool...the last one!
As I was coming around one of the first pilings, I suddenly noticed this guy to
my left swimming *backstroke* and I thought "What kind of show-off, moron
swims backstroke for 4.4 miles?" Just then the show-off-moron in question
smiled at the face I didn't know I was making, and I realized that Eric was
feeling frisky, again. "I haaaate youuuuu!" I sang out loud, letting
him know that this was all still his fault. He waved back, rolled over. and
carried on like a normal human being that somehow has decided that swimming 4.4
miles under a bridge across an inhospitable shipping channel on a Sunday morning
instead of having coffee and reading the paper is something he'd really like to
be doing.
Soon, we had entered the 'High Span' portion of the bridge - the suspension
bridge that rises over the shipping lanes...also indicated by a sudden,
slap-in-the-face drop in the water temperature. Here, the currents started to
dance with me as I had feared they would. I fought to stay left, and they kept
pushing right. I angled, sighted, and was still frustratingly always drifting to
the right. Soon I was in a constant state of slip, like a plane landing in a
50mph crosswind. Swimming at a 45 degree angle was the only way to keep from
being pushed beyond the South Span (and out of the race), and it was exhausting
work. I couldn't settle down and just stroke here...I had to hard-pull all the
time, and of all the fears I had coming into this race...this was the biggest
one: 4.4 miles of all-out, gut-busting hard-pulls.
The chop was starting to feel unsettling as well. It wasn't too big – the
waves were only 1-2 feet high - but they seemed to be coming from everywhere at
once. Sometimes slapping me in the face from the right, other times hitting me
from behind, flipping my wetsuit leash over my head. I tried to settle into a
rhythm...but there was none to be found.
After what seemed like an eternity of struggle, I got past the main
span...waiting for the 'slack' time to kick in. The current didn't seem to be so
bad, but the chop was really starting to get to me. I looked at my watch and I
was 1:00 into the swim - about 1:10 more to go, I figured. I saw a kayaker
nearby and popped up to ask him "How far am I?" He replied "A
mile and a half." No way. It has to be more. I asked him "A mile and a
half to go, or a mile and a half in?" Straight faced he said "Sorry.
1.5 in."
The panic button in my head was instantly pushed: "1.5 miles per
hour. I'll be out here over 3 hours. I'll never finish this thing..."
I put my head back under, and I get going again.
The second bridge was now my next target, and I started to call it 'Columbia',
referring to my breakdown of the distance in the bus. "Just get to
Columbia, and you'll be there in no time." The current seemed to be a
little less now, and I noticed I could swim straighter than before – the first
positive thing I could think of all day. I bounced from wave to wave, but found
that I was starting to get dizzy. I tried to swim through it... but soon I was
breaking stroke every few hundred yards to pop my head up, catch a breath, and
wait for the dizziness to subside. I
didn't know what was happening...but I knew it wasn't good.
Soon there were kayakers following me - my head-popping routine becoming noticeable
as someone not having a good time, I guess. After about 30 minutes my breaks to
tread water weren't enough, and I started hanging on the nearest kayak to catch
some air. "You want some water or Gatorade?" They'd always ask...and
each time the thought of putting something in my stomach was frightening. I
began to arrive at the awful realization that I was getting seasick, and I
didn't know what to do about it.
It had happened once before to me in the ocean - in 1997 I'd swam some yards at
Bethany Beach when Lynda and I were taking a weekend down there, but I'd
completely forgotten about it until now. I thought it was a one-off deal - too
much sun, not enough water, who knew. Now
- I did...it was happening again.
The prospect of being ill for the next 2 hours until I finished seemed
terrifying, but so did the possibility that I might not finish. I didn't want to
quit. I couldn't quit. I'd never quit anything in my life. 29 years, not one DNF
- ever. Sure in my USCF days I got pulled from a crit here and there, but the
officials usually had to resort to sending a car after me with a hook, or making
a human barricade at the finish line. I don't quit. I can't quit. I have to
finish this thing...I don't care how sick I feel.
I did my best to keep on bit by bit. I'd swim a few strokes of freestyle, a few
pulls of breast stroke, then I'd stop and rest until the dizziness calmed down a
bit, trying to keep moving the best that I could. Stroke by stroke, inch by
inch, I made my way down the channel. Nobody was near me now...the field was
well spread out.
After 45 agonizing minutes, I finally made it to 'Columbia' bridge. The chop was
still unrelenting and random, and there was no shelter coming anytime soon. I
asked the nearest kayak "Where am I?" He said "You're just past 3
miles - maybe 3.1, 3.2? How are you feeling?" I was feeling really, really
bad. I couldn't put my head underwater anymore...and that last mile looked like
100 from where I was, but I lied. "I guess I'm okay. Is this really a
'good' year for this race?" The kayaker said "Oh, yeah. This is pretty
good - about as good as it ever gets, really."
My motivation was crushed. What little self-confidence I had about making it
across the Bay was on the ropes, teetering, awaiting the knockout blow. After
all of the training, all of the time, all of my worry...and here it was an
'easy' day, and I was falling apart. Mark Allen said once that his biggest fear
was being run down by Dave Scott when he had nothing left to give. In 1988 it
happened as he feared, and he said to himself "Okay, here's your worst
fear. It's real. Face it, and see what happens." My biggest fear about this
race was real, and now, and I would have to face it if I was going to finish.
I couldn't give in. I had to take my chances. I let go of the kayak and started
breast-stroking. If I kept my head out above the water, maybe the nausea would
fade...maybe I could keep it together long enough to reach the jetty...pull,
breathe, kick, glide...pull, breahe, kick, glide...
50 yards later, I noticed that the bubbles on the surface of the chop were
moving sideways faster than I was moving forward. My wetsuit (a Long John) was
billowing out like a parachute with each pull and acting like a brake, as well
as allowing the current to grab me like a puppy by the scruff of its neck.
I stopped one last time. I looked at the shore, and I knew I had no choices
left. It was over.
I waved to a Jet-Ski, and he came right over to me.
"Hi. I'm athlete numer 614, and I need to drop out."
As the words came out of my mouth, I couldn't believe I was saying them...yet I
knew that to carry on was foolish and dangerous. I knew it was the right choice,
but it still hurt like hell.
"Okay, just step up the ladder on the back, and I'll take you to a
boat..." I stepped up on the one-rung ladder, and in the chop this was no
small adventure. I noticed that the pilot of this craft was about 150 pounds.
With the water weight and wetsuit I was probably closer to 200...and after being
in the water for 2 hours, completely incapable of balance. I lurched up, he
leaned right, a swell popped us left, and I became an instant Bob-Over as I
gracelessly high-sided over the Jet Ski, back into the drink. The second
try was more successful and we took off, leaving the twin spans and about 100
more swimmers behind.
The transfer to a volunteer boat was a little smoother, but as soon as I sat
down the rocking and rolling motion of the boat made me even *more* ill. I was
sitting in the back with 2 other non-finishers, one of whom a woman who had
finished 6 straight Bay swims but had gotten seasick for the first time in her
life today. The other fellow wasn't saying much - he had quit at mile 1, seasick
as well.
After a few minutes, I noticed we weren't headed for shore, and I was starting
to feel positively green. I needed to be on shore very soon, or the wave machine
needed to stop. I asked the nice couple manning the boat "What would it
take to get us to shore?" The husband replied "I'd need a medical
emergency - I can't leave here without declaring an emergency." I asked him
"Define 'emergency'." He answered "Well, if you were to need
medical attention, I guess."
I closed my eyes for a few seconds, then asked the woman to my left "Can I
get next to the railing for a moment?" She shifted, and right on cue about
2 gallons of Chesapeake Bay Water returned to it's home from my stomach in one
shot. I turned to the husband and said "I'm sorry. Will that do?"
He clicked his radio and said "Race Control, this is Lincoln 6, we're
headed for Hemingway's requesting medical assistance on arrival." And
punched the throttle.
As soon as we were moving, both of the other athletes in the back of the boat
gave me a thumbs up. I may not be able to finish today, but I'll be damned if
I'm going to suffer out here one second longer than I have to.
Medical support checked me out - my arms were tingly, but my blood pressure was
110/70, and my HR was 70 bpm. I wasn't tired, I was just plain old seasick. The
hardest part of the day came when I had to enter the finish corral to officially
hand in my number to make sure that Lin-Mark Timing didn't think I was still out
there.
Someone tried to hand me a medal - "I'm sorry, I didn't finish."
Someone tried to hand me a finishers shirt - "I'm sorry, I didn't
finish."
Someone tried to hand me some food - "I'm sorry...I'm not hungry."
Someone I didn't know, beaming, shook my hand and said "Good Job on a tough
day!"
I smiled and said "Thanks. You too." It was easier than telling the
truth, and he didn't have to know - it'd make him feel bad anyway.
I found Eric, and I thought to myself 'He did it! Say something positive!' He
looked back, and before he could say anything I said "I got sick. I quit.
It sucked." Whoops. Eeyore the triathlete strikes another chord for despair
in racing.
Eric said "I'm sorry, I really am...but I'm not proud of you. I've never
been proud of you, so you didn't disappoint me at all by not finishing." In
all my years of fine depressive-snits, I've learned that nothing breaks a bad
mood like a smart-ass, and the son of a b*tch made me smile for the first time
in 4 hours. I needed that - the whole idea was his fault, anyway.
I know I made the right choice out there. It hurts to have been so close, but I
would have probably gotten violently ill out there and been in real trouble had
I continued, so I'm at peace with my decision.
There are plenty of people on this list that have DNF'ed 1/2IM's, IM's, Olympic
Distance, Sprints...and they've all lived. Now I'm one of them, and in a way,
I'm relieved. For every race the past 5 years I've always thought about my
personal 'No DNF' streak and how proud I was of it...but also how I was silently
scared to death of what would happen when it had to finally break...I wasn't
sure how I would handle it.
I found that the sun still came up this morning. St. Lynda still hugged me and
kissed me before leaving for work. Oscar still attacked my ankles when I stood
still near the bed. I still needed to shave, and I still desperately
wanted my coffee.
The mirror's corner may be empty this morning...but as long as I'm still there
to look and see how sad that reflection is even at it's worst, it can never be
that bad of a day.
Hurricane Bob
* I'm just a mirror of a mirror of myself *