"The doer alone learneth."
-Nietzsche
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| Starting Line: the southernmost tip of Lake Champlain, just north of Champlain Canal Lock 12, in Whitehall, NY. |
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My Lake Champlain Swim Journal
Copyright 2004, Christopher Swain. All Rights Reserved.
August 25, 2004. Swim day #1. North from Whitehall, NY. Weather: Mostly sunny. Hours in the water: 3.5. Water Temperature: 64-66*. Statute Miles: 4. Freestyle strokes: 3,000. Crew: Josh and Nicole (one in the boat and one on land. You figure it out.)
It's about a four foot drop off the wall of Lock 12, down to the surface of Lake Champlain. Just after noon today, I made a leap of faith off that wall. As the brown water roared up my nose into my brain, I pawed for the surface and thought, "Here we go."
Yeah, I'm a clean water swimmer. Trouble is, I only swim in dirty water. Recognize the foam on the water behind the lock door in the photo on the right? Well, you would if you smelled it.
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What's really driving this Champlain Swim is the fact that my daughter Rowan's swimming lessons got cancelled. She takes lessons in Mallets Bay on Lake Champlain. When the beach isn't closed due to high coliform counts, that is.
When there's crap in the water, my daughter can't swim.
We live across the street from one of the most beautiful waterways in North America, and it isn't safe for my kid to swim. Excuse me, but that is messed up. That is wrong. That doesn't work for my daughter, or for the kids in her swim class, or for me.
So I'm out to make the Lake more friends. But it isn't a simple proposition. Lake Champlain is too beautiful for its own good. When you look at Mallets Bay you don't see the bacteria, viruses, microorganisms, gas, oil, lead, PCBs, phosphorous, pesticides, algae, and invasive plants that have effectively stolen my favorite lake from me.
I can see some of that bad stuff through my goggles. The rest of it might show up in a blood test. Or as a rash. Or as an infection.
But I am not looking to lay blame here. I am looking for answers. And I am looking for a way to help.
This much I know: Lake Champlain needs more than one champion. It needs a champion for every square mile of it's 8,000+ square mile drainage basin.
Lots of people are working hard on the challenges facing the Lake. But what we need is more than a hardworking few. What we need, I think, is a cultural shift. We need a lake protection mandate that feels as heroic as the one that helped us to split the atom, as the one that put men on the moon.
August 26, 2004. Swim day #2. North to Pulpit Point. Weather: Mostly sunny. Water temperature: 64-66*. Crew: NiBo & JP. Statute miles: 8. Freestyle Strokes: 6,403.
This morning, the water boasts the bouquet of a pond life smoothie: notes of mud, plants, tannin, poop, and gasoline, are all in evidence.
As this waterway slowly unfolds into a lake, it looks a lot like a river: a closely held snake of brown-green water wandering through a valley of hardwood. Roots in the water, maples and oaks and birches and willows stand guard over a stream sometimes only fifty feet wide.
When the valley does start to widen, it is no longer tree roots that push the stream around but six hundred foot hills of granite cushioned by wetlands. Soon, there are bays as large as football fields, tucked into the outsides of bends, and plastered with water chestnut and eurasian milfoil.
The "broad lake" is still tens of miles away, but already we can see tops of ridges diverging in the distance, jacked apart by a blue-white slice of sky.
The water chestnut and milfoil have spread like juicy rumors through Lake Champlain. Water chestnut was brought to the US a century ago by a Harvard Botany Professor (or so the story goes) who liked the look of it, and the milfoil, well, no one is quite sure. Aquaria? Ballast water? Fragments stuck to boats? Water garden escapee? We'll never know.
However they were introduced, these plants-without-predators now threaten to conquer the entire water column. It is easy to envision a day--in the not too distant future--when there might not be a swimmable channel in the lower Lake.
Already Vermont and New York State "harvest" the water chestnut, chopping paths through the vegetation with a machine that looks like a cross between a swamp buggy and paddle wheel-powered tractor. The harvesters are clearly fighting a losing battle, but what are the alternatives? No native fish appear to want to eat these plants (no surprise there) and introducing a toxin to the lake strong enough to kill the stuff would effectively nuke the entire ecosystem, and, ironically, clear the way for another invasion of non-native flora. What to do?
As usual, there is no obvious answer. I shoulder past these wet nets of greenery, hoping for a breakthrough.
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Here's haiku poem from our faithful on the water coordinator, Josh Parish:
Water chestnuts got
Thorned damn seed pods--you got shoes
Or you got stitches
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| Invasive Water Chestnuts stage a coup in South Bay. photo: C. Swain. Double-click to enlarge. |
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| Soldiers in a losing battle? I cross paths with a harvester. photo: Josh Parish. Double-click to enlarge. |
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August 28, 2004. Swim day #3. To Chipman Point. Weather: Overcast, scattered sun, windy. Water temperature: 66*. Crew: Ol' Jay Pee, and Ol' Nicky Bo. Statute Miles: 7. Freestyle strokes: 7,200.
As the lake broadens there is more fetch--distance over which the wind can kick up waves. Today we felt it as a quartering tailwind, which pushed a gaggle of brown, foam-streaked, foot-tall waves up my back.
My shoulders burned. What is it? Am I just getting old? Michael Phelps swims this far on an average practice day and then hops back into his Escalade none the worse for wear. He's a far better athlete than I, but you know what? He's also 19 years old.
Well, I'm thirty-six and I push on anyway, because I'm stubborn, (and because there's a fat bottle of ibuprofen waiting for me on the dock).
That's enough whining.
The lake is deeper now, sometimes over twenty feet, but there is still a distinct channel. Stray out of it and I find myself wrapped in sinuous tentacles of eurasian milfoil. Each tendril or stalk is thin enough to dance in the current, and covered with a fine coating that looks like thousands of short hairs. These invaders seek the light and stretch toward the surface looking for it. They need the warmer, slower-moving water of the shallows. When I cut a turn too tight, I swim into a forest of weeds. My arms break through them easily, but they soon enough they pile up on my shoulders and drag me to a stop.
At times today, the lake was half a mile wide. Houses and farms were sprinkled over the hills. It began to look like the kind of place folks would want to build a vacation home (and just so long as they don't pipe their sewage into the lake, we can be friends).
I barely made the seven miles I needed to get back on schedule. I'll have to do seven miles a day from here on in, to finish on September 24.
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We close with a haiku from Nicole Bowmer, our field coordinator:
Swim Swain swim some say
Better days are ours to make
Some say hope dies last
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August 30, 2004. Swim Day #4. To Fort Ticonderoga Ferry. Weather: Overcast, headwind. Water temp: 68*. Crew: J & N. Statute Miles: 6. Freestyle strokes: 7,215. Unlike Ethan Allen and his merry men, I did not pause take possesion of Fort Ticonderoga on my way past it. Back in the eighteenth century, Ethan and his brothers and his pals were residents of what is today called Vermont. By any account, they were rather rowdy, big, brawling types. (It is recorded that Ethan was able to pick up a sack of flour with his teeth and throw it over his own head.) Woe to the British crown--defender of New York land grants--that Ethan and his posse, known locally as the Green Mountain Boys, got their land grants from New Hampshire. The Brits did not recognize the New Hampshire grants, and Ethan and the boys didn't like the idea of paying twice for the same land. So, for this reason--more than any particular interest in the outbreak of revolutionary war hostilities--Ethan and his boys went joyriding down to New York one fine May evening in 1775, and after a bloodless couple of minutes composed mainly of dragging Brits out of bed, captured the Fort. Benedict Arnold was along for the ride, though he was not in command. By some accounts, Mr. Arnold thought very little of Mr. Allen's plan. By nearly every account, Mr. Allen thought even less of Mr. Arnold, but tolerated his presence anyway. Mr. Allen wasn't interested in Mr. Arnold's troops, though. Mr Allen and his friends managed just fine without the 400 troops Mr. Arnold had available to him. These days, the only Green Mountain Boys I see on the Lake are flying Air National Guard fighter aircraft out of Burlington. They make a lot more noise than Allen and his buddies, and I suspect they'd do a lot more damage if they were to lavish their attention on Fort Ticonderoga. +++ I swallowed a lot of water today. My left shoulder hurts. Back at the hotel, five ibuprofen went down easy. People say things to me like, "This swim is a third of the length of the Hudson, a tenth of the Columbia. It should be a piece of cake for you." These folks mean well but they don't know this Lake. Lake Champlain is, almost by definition, NOT a piece of cake. It is an inland sea, and even with a small headwind, the Lake toys with me like I'm some sorry, soggy hunk of styrofoam. I am humbled hourly. (Which I secretly enjoy.) August 31, 2004. Swim Day #5. To Monitor Bay. Weather: Partly sunny, headwind. Watertemp: 68-69*. Crew: Papa & Bobo. Statute miles: 6. Freestyle strokes: 7,300. The wind scatters foam across the scalloped surface of a brown, grey Lake. I swim past International Paper's mill just abpve Ticonderoga. I am no pulp mill virgin, but all the same I pause to enjoy the nostril-searing stench that the mill so thoughtfully adds to the air of this region. Later, as I swim over an underwater sewer line big enough to be marked on the nautical chart, Josh swears he smells sh*t. But, I can't separate it from the rotten egg scent of the mill. Lake Champlain's come a long way, but there is work to be done. For too long this Lake was nothing more than a highway, a waste stream for industry and a sewer for the towns and cities who claimed its beauty in their tourism brochures. Some of that has changed, but ALL of it needs to change. Not just because my daughter can't swim inthe Lake some days, but because, if we are who we say we are--people who love this Lake and live here because of it--we can't pollute the Lake and still be the people we claim to be.
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September 1, 2004. Swim day #6. To Crown Point. Weather: Mostly sunny. Water temperature: 68-70*. Crew: JoJo “The Moose”, and NiNi “Redline”. Statue Miles: 6. Freestyle strokes: 7,415.
The rotting egg stench of the International Paper Mill floats along with me all day, buoyed by a friendly tailwind. Even six miles upstream, the smell hangs on like the memory of a nightmare.
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| Arrival at the Crown Point Bridge--last Lake Champlain Bridge before we reach Canadian waters. photo: J. Parish. Double-click to enlarge. |
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| The International Paper Mill at Ticonderoga, NY. photo: C. Swain. Double-click to enlarge. |
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I still can’t believe this mill is even on this lake. Do the folks in Burlington and Plattsburgh even realize what a blot it is on the lower Lake? I am all for jobs, but why not put people to work on developing a technology that doesn’t foul the air and water that we all love?
There are lots of brilliant people at IP who could develop this technology, and all they need is a reason. Why not give them one? Click below to e-mail the folks at International Paper. Ask them to discharge only pristine solids, gas and water from their Ticonderoga mill. (And tell them you’d be happy to buy their paper if they did.)
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I got seriously chafed today, and then once the sun came out a heat rash? pulp mill rash? blossomed down my sides under my wetsuit. These swims sound cool, but I daresay most folks wouldn't enjoy the side effects. Want to be a river swimmer? Leave your vanity on the dock.
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Crown Point Is a narrow dogleg--a left turn, a straightaway, and a right turn--and then the Broad lake starts to open up. Suddenly, there are no more navigation markers to sight on. Just haze and hills and mountains and blueyellowgreybrown water dusted with lemon drops of sunlight. I fell my eyes widen and my breathing deepen as I take it in.
From the chart I know the depth will soon go from 20 feet to over one hundred. I am a bit thrilled. I’ll be in Champ territory now. Plenty of water to hide a Plesiosaur in, out here in the Broad Lake. (What’s this? Do I believe in a Mythical beast? Yes, I do. Why not? Everyone says he’s friendly. And out here it is a little isolating anyway. I could use a pal who spends his days in the water.) Nearly every day I leave the house to swim, my daugher Rowan says, Are you going to look for Champ? And I tell her that I am. Because, well, I am. I’d like nothing better than to meet Champ. People say it’s a bunch of hogwash, but this lake needs a monster, especially if he's willing to chow down on eurasian milfoil, water chestnut, carp, and pulp mill liquor.
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| Side effects: chafing and rashes. The diagonal stripe is wetsuit seam chafe. The eruptions could be from heat, contaminants in the water or something else. They appeared on both flanks after today's swim. Double-click to enlarge. |
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September 3, 2004. Swim Day #7. To Camp Dudley. Weather: Partly sunny, tailwind. Water temperature 69-70. Crew: Josh "Judd Frye" Parish & Nicole "Sacajawea" Bowmer. Statute Miles: 6. Freestyle Strokes: 7,515.
Surfing the northbound short-frequency swells gave me a psychological boost--it sure beat battering head-on into the waves. I stretched out my strokes, dropped my head and let it rip. It felt good for about 4000 strokes and then it turned back into work.
I keep hoping for a glimpse of Champ. My daughter asks me every chance she gets, "Did you see Champ?" I want to be able to tell her yes, but that wouldn't be right. So Champ, if you are reading this with your dark, liquid eye, how about joining me for a Clif Bar tomorrow off Scotch Bonnet? Say about 1 pm Eastern?
September 4, 2004. Swim Day #8. To Basin Harbor. Weather: Overcast, headwind. Water temperature: 69. Crew: Curly & PJ. Statute Miles: 6. Freestyle strokes: 7,203.
The clouds are frozen in place like dirty snow. Thready rings of yellow and orange light betray the sun behind, but the light that reaches me is bled of warmth. I feel the chill today, and as I turn northeast at Westport I wonder, Did I wait too long to start this swim? Will I run out of warm water? Is this too-well-loved wetsuit going to make it?
This was the first headwind that really had some room to scare up some waves. I bash into them head first, and then pitch and yaw and skid down the back sides, glimpses of horizon and gray water trading places often enough to make me nauseous.
Maximum water depth in the channel crossed the 200 foot mark for the first time today. Looking at the chart later, I see that I swam above some relentlessly hilly terrain.
I got a few whiffs of sewage and manure today. The Lake Champlain Watershed is approximately 71% forested, 18% agricutural land, 6% developed, and 5% surface water. So what I am smelling in the water is likely to be what has run off the farmland and residential land in the basin. The land that I live on and that produces the food that I eat every day.
Sometimes it is hard to remmeber that everything we put on the ground or down a drain in this watershed ends up in the Lake eventually. That our choices pose the greatest threats to this beauty called Champlain.
If you change the oil in your truck, and dump the waste down a storm drain anywhere in this 8000+ square mile drainage basin, there is more to your crime than illegally dumping one gallon of used motor oil.
You just contaminated one million gallons of fresh water.
There are only 6.8 trillion gallons of water in Lake Champlain. That's means we are just 680,000 unethical oil changes away from losing our favorite lake.
Which seems like a lot until you look at what else we are doing, every day.
But nobody likes the gloom and doom, so let's try to focus on the positive. On what we can do today.
Why not the links below to check out the our Clean Water By 9AM page, and learn nine things you can do for your local waterway before you even get to work in the morning?
Or visit the Lake Champlain Committee's website and Take The Lake Champlain Pledge:
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September 6, 2004. Swim Day #9. Past Halfway Mark--To Shelburne. Weather, Partly sunny, tailwind. Crew: Parish & Bowmer. Water temperature: 68. Freestyle strtrokes: 7,800. Statute miles: 15.
A fierce tailwind folds the lake into trains of waves that want to flip my feet over my head when they heave past me. I swim the same old speed but every few seconds, I bodysurf down the front of a wave at 5 or 6 miles per hour. Then I slosh to a near standstill but, a few moments later, I am lifted back up and we do the same dance again. I try to keep my hip rotation and my stroke rating on track, I try to breathe in the troughs, but everything is messed up: I swallow water, I slash instead of stroke.
But we are flying here. The water and the wind are in charge, and I am along for the ride.
September 7, 2004. Swim Day #10. To (same latitude as) Burlington Community Boathouse. Weather: Partly sunny, tailwind. Water temperature: 68-69. Crew: Josh-a-matic, and Ni-coal Miner. Freestyle strokes: 3,000. Statute Miles: 4.
More fun with the tailwind today. I know that all good things must come to an end, so I live it up today--logging easy miles--and hoping for a few more days like this later in the trip. This system will likely blow itself out tonight, and the remnants of Hurricane Frances will show up tomorrow and then we can look forward to lots of rain.
When the rain comes, of course, everything on the streets of Burlington and South Burlington and Plattsburgh and Essex and Colchester will wash into local storm drains and into the Lake. Copper and asbestos dust from brake pads, metallic dust from rubber tires, detergents and solvents from washer fluid, gasoline, fertilizer, herbicides, pesticides, oil, raw sewage from sketchy septic systems, and un-scooped dog poop will all wash merrily into Lake Champlain.
Everything anyone put on the ground anywhere in this 8000+ square mile watershed will end up in the water. And I'll be there to swim in it. Beaches will close, and the waves will sport a fashionable rainbow sheen of oil for a few days. But other than this swimmer and a few stalwart sailors and paddlers and boat captains, most folks won't notice.
But this not-noticing creates a sort of disconnect. And it gets us all in trouble. It keeps us from seeing that since WE are the ones driving and fertilizing and washing and not cleaning up after our pets, we are the ones polluting the Lake. As painful as this is to realize, it is liberating, too. Why? Because if we are the ones harming the Lake, we are the ones with the power to help the Lake instead.
Every time we ride our bikes to work, or eat organic produce or resist the temptation to fertilize the lawn, our Lake catches a break. Is it worth it? Yeah, I think it is. Why? Because it feels good to get a little closer to the pristine Lake of our dreams.
And it's not just about feeling good. Lake Champlain is a special place. We are drawn to it. Many of us live where we live because of Lake Champlain. Even if we can't explain the power the Lake has to inspire or awe or touch us, we know that power is there. We know there is something much older and bigger and more powerful in these waters than we can name. A power that can entrance us, coupled with a beauty that can nurture and inspire us. In short, all the requirements for a Sacred Place. And if Lake Champlain is a sacred place--and I believe it truly is--then here's a challenge: let's treat it like one. Let's protect this Lake with all the love and reverence and gratitude that our spirits can muster.
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| Somebody's car has an oil leak, and they parked next to this storm drain, which is 150 yards away from Mallets Bay. What do you think is going to happen when it rains? photo: C. Swain. Double-click to enlarge. |
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September 8, 2004. Swim Day #11. To Burlington City Boat Ramp. Weather: overcast (here come the remnants of Hurricane Frances). Crew: J & N. Freestyle strokes: 123. Statute Miles: 0.04.
Last winter, if someone had said we'd figure out how to combine a press conference, a school visit and a paddle-along event all on the same day, I'd have been dubious. But we did it this morning.
As I arrived in Burlington, I was greeted by students from the Gailer School in Shelburne (we met earlier to talk solutions), as well as representatives from the Mayor's Office, The Lake Champlain Committee, The Lake Champlain Basin Committee, The Vermont State Agency of Natural Resources, The ECHO Leahy Center for Lake Champlain, and the Champlain Kayak Club. It was an informal event--my year-old daughter Celilo ran around and between everyone's legs--but it was a significant one. Everyone signaled their support for the dream: a drinkable Lake Champlain by the time Celilo has kids of her own.
All of these ortganizations have been working hard on Lake issues for years. In a way, I am nothing more than a cheerleader who is willing to put his life on the line for the big dream. Before we went our separate ways I said to everyone, "I know I didn't grow up here, but I live here. And I promise that I'll taste every mile of this Lake. So I hope that you'll stay in touch, and let me know what I can do to help."
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| We have an arrival: racing the paddlers to the Burlington City boat ramp. Photo: Heather Swain. Double-click to enlarge. |
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| Climbing out to meet friends, family, and colleagues. Photo: Heather Swain. Double-click to enlarge. |
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| Fay, from the Mayor's Office, reads out the "Let's Clean Lake Champlain Day" proclamation. Photo: Heather Swain. Double-click to enlarge. |
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September 9, 2004.
The remnants of Hurricane Frances dump a foot of water into our aluminum Love Boat overnight.
There's such a thing as too much rain for an open boat.
A day of bailing and battling squirrely winds seems like a bad deal. So we bag it--no swimming today.
September 10, 2004. (Supposed to be) Swim Day #12.
My Uncle John is a tug boat captain. He reduces nautical advice to the bare bones. As a boy, I remember him saying, "Keep the wet side down."
This morning, as we crested a slippery, double-crested, six-foot wave in our 12 foot aluminum john boat, we spun sideways into a forty-knot gust of wind and went airborne.
Josh, the boat, and I were all blown backwards. In the air, I remember thinking, "I hope I don't get hit with any of this gear that's flying past my head--or the damn boat" and "I wonder what the motor's doing" and "Ah sh*t there go the oars".
I had my wetsuit on, so the shock of 65 degree water was negligible. But Josh, faithful skipper of the escort boat, wasn't planning to swim today.
As I surfaced, I went into capsize drill mode. I came to the surface, heaved in a breath of air and gasoline vapors and started my mental to-do list. It went like this: 1. Find Josh. 2. If he doesn't come up in five seconds I have to dive for him. 3. 1-2-3-4-5-sh*t! 4. Ah, here he comes and he is cursing so he has an airway. 5. Grab the goddamned oars. 6. Let's get this boat turned right side up and get Josh out of the water. 7. Sh*t!
I draped myself across the hull of the boat and stood on the underside of the gunwale. Josh pushed up on the opposite side. After a few tries, a miracle occured: a gust of wind caught the side of the boat just as it cleared the surface, and we were just able to roll the boat over on top of me. Now it was right side up and awash, threatening to sink as that Coast-Guard-minimum factory-installed floatation got the monster workout of its young life.
Now all gear trapped under the boat shook free and sank, or officially became flotsam, and the wind blasted travel mugs, water sandals, gatorade bottles, cushions and oars south toward Lock 12.
I went through the "Can any of that stuff save our butts?" exercise and lunged for the oars and the cushion (which last can serve as a PFD in a pinch). Everything else, Tevas, fins, swim gear was out to beat Benedict Arnold's Champlain Fleet record, to the bottom or to Whitehall.
I let it go.
Josh digs the SwissTool out of a drybag as it floats by. I tie everything useful to the bowline. Now it can float but it can't get away. I carve a bailer from a Gatorade bottle. Josh grabs a Nalgene bottle. And we bail. We bail until the sun has torn halfway across the sky. And this could be just twenty minutes. Who can say? The zipper on my suit is open and I am getting dosed with chilly water every wave, but it is Josh I am worried about. I don't want to alarm him but I need to get him into the boat ASAP and keep him bailing so he won't go hypothermic on me. But if I get him in the boat too soon, he'll sink it and then we'll be pretty well f**ked. Or at least that's how it looks two me, two long miles from the nearest shore.
Already the reproaches have started inside my head: "You shouldn't have come out today," "Wrong boat for the job," "What were you thinking anyway with a North wind?" And I know the answers to these questions. There is just one answer. I'll swim this Lake. I'll try to swim every day I am not hurt, visiting a school or playing with my daughter. So here I am. Put another way: I screwed up by leaving the dock, because I am impatient, because I want to get out there, because I have gotten away with swimming on days like this too many times. And now, it has all caught up with me.
I know how this stuff plays out. After a while in the water--minutes for Josh, hours for me in my suit--we'll both start to lose function. If we can't bail the boat enough and get Josh in it and then bail it the rest of the way, we'll need serious help, but actually we'll need to call for that help well BEFORE we need it.
So here is the dance I dance: I try to figure out whether it LOOKS like we'll run out of options in the near future, before I (1) fire up the drenched cell phone or (2) pop a flare or (3) give Josh my gloves and cap and wait for this hulk to blow to shore.
The only problems? I am not psychic, I am not sure a drenched cell phone will work, I can't afford to open the bags to try, I don't know if anyone can see a swimmer with a flare, and I am not sure Josh will make the float: he is lean, the water is cold, and that would be a long float--two or three hours at least.
So, yeah, we're pretty screwed, but I am not ready to admit it yet.
So we bail and bail and bail and finally Josh makes a try to get into the boat. But he can't do it. "There's no blood in my arms," he says apologetically. But he tries and tries again and then, somehow, heroically, he is in, and I am screaming "Bail!" and we bail like crazy hoping that one wave won't fill it up and send it to the bottom of the lake 200 feet below.
After a while (hours? minutes?) we are ahead of the water, and I get in and we bail and we bail and finally there is nothing left to bail. And of course the motor is dead, so I ship those oars we rescued and I row.
Like crap, but I row.
And chunks of time pass like walls of wind from a subway tunnnel.
We tell jokes. I have regressed to fourth grade so mine are like, "Hey why didn't the green machine go to college? Because his extension cord wasn't long enough." And Josh's jokes are harsh: high school cuts set in delivery rooms and barrooms. We are both freaked out.
But I row and Josh paddles and weeks pass and even though I am just figuring out that I should have grabbed the space blanket because Josh is shivering I know we'll make it because we are finally inside the Burlington breakwater and then just 100 yards from the dock and then the Coast Gaurd roars up in a Rigid Inflatable Boat (which is the boat WE needed today).
"How you fellas doin?" they ask.
The Coasties must suspect something. Why would anyone be out for a row today? I wonder how much of our performance they have seen. They seem to have only just spotted us, though. I dodge the capsizing issue, and then I turn down their kind offer of a tow.
"No thanks," I say.
Hell, we are 100 yards away from the damn dock. The last thing we need is a tow and all the paperwork that'll come with it.
So, yeah, I led us here and I got us in trouble and now I just turned down a tow and that might make me stupid. But eff all that: we survived.
And that means we are going to finish this trip under our own power, thank you very much.
(And yes, Uncle John, I'll try to keep the wet side down.)
September 11, 2004. Swim Day #13. Schuyler Reef to Jones Rock. Weather: Partly sunny, windy. Crew: Josh and Nicole. Statute miles: 7 Freestyle strokes: 5,012.
Students of latitude will note that Schuyler Reef is north of the Burlington City Boat Ramp. Our GPS receiver was killed in action yesterday, so we have no exact way of locating the point we last stopped out on the Broad Lake. So we need to start and finish today at known, charted points. I choose the “SR” navigation buoy off Schuyler Reef and the #31 buoy off Jones Rock and woth the help of the wind of 5,000 freestyle strokes, trace a line between them. (This leaves about one and one half miles of water that I will need to go back and swim before I can claim to have swun the entire length of the Lake. That little mission will have to wait until we get another GPS receiver.
All sound of which sounds fine. Except that I am not fine. I am messed up. I am still freaked out from yesterday.
We are different men, than we were two days ago, Josh and I. I have lost some confidence in my own judgment. I’’ve swum over 1,800 miles in open water, and not been so close to needing a rescue as I was yesterday. And Josh? Well, you’d probably need to ask Josh, but from where I sit, it looks like the Skipper of the John Boat Wolverine has rigged this boat for a dive. A line now runs around the inside of the boat and everything item in the boat neatly secured or clipped to it. If we rolled today, we wouldn’t lose a thing, except, perhaps, our own lives. Josh is ready for the lake in a way he was not a few days before.
I notice other things: he’s growing a beard, and his eyes squint as he tiurns into the largest swells, powers up the faces, slows at the crests, and eases into the troughs. Now he is not just the pilot. He’s really driving this boat. He is a veteran: when walls of wet crash into his lap, his eyes never leave the waves ahead us.
For some reason, this makes me smile.
September 12, 2004. Swim Day #14. Jones Rock to Cumberland Head. Weather: Partly cloudy, tailwind. Crew: Josh and Nicole. Statute miles: 7. Freestyle strokes: 6,030.
Up here we are closer to land, but the waves have had tens and tens of miles to build under the wind’s lash. So they are big. But, at least, they are going in a helpful direction. I am no Laird Hamilton, but I do enjoy surfing these four-footers. After three hours though, I feel nauseous. And then, suddenly, the surfing becomes a grind. My head aches. My nose runs. The voices in my head are all whining. By the end, lame as it sounds, I am just getting through the day.
September 13, 2004. Swim Day #15. Jones Rock to Cumberland Head. Weather: Partly sunny, windy. Water temperature: 65 degrees F. Crew: Josh & Neecole. Statute miles: 7. Freestyle strokes: 5,183.
I crawled up on history today. 190 years and two days ago, right here in Plattsburgh Bay, Commodore Thomas MacDonough of the US Navy, led a home-built fleet in the most decisive naval battle in our nation's history. Out-manned and out-gunned by a more experienced British Fleet, MacDonough 's savvy tactics and local sailors overwhelmed every British warship sent against them. Never since have we faced a challenge from a foreign navy on our own inland waters.
I imagined those cannonades today as I swam. This was made all the easier by the rolling waves that boxed my ears.
I finished up with a runny nose and an ice cream headache. Not promising signs. As I write this, chills breakdance their way through my limbs. I am sick. I want to pretend I am not, but I am. Aaaah! It makes me so mad. So often, I get away with it: swimming in crap, in cold water, day after day, that I start to feel entitled. Like I don't deserve to get sick. Like I don't have to pay the piper. Yeah. Right.
September 14 & 15, 2004.
Can you say, "Simple swimmer Swain is sick" ten times fast?
September 16, 2004. Swim Day #16. Toward Isle La Motte. Weather: Cloudy. Crew: Parish & Bowmer. Water temperature: 65 degrees. Statute miles: 4. Freestyle strokes: 4,830.
We have good conditions, but I am not quite myself. (My precise delusion is: "I don't have time to be sick anymore." Well, delusions notwithstanding, sick people don't swim fast.)
We rack up inside the Gut at Camp Abnaki. These folks give us a great welcome, and then we are off to a school visit in Burlington. I have Kleenex cravings.
At home my wife confirms that, yes, men are complete wimps about being sick.
September 17 & 18, 2004.
I am off to give a speech in British Columbia to a group of young leaders from the Columbia River Basin. I'll be back in the water on the 19th.
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I almost cry when I see Columbia Lake again. This is where it all started: the headwaters of the Columbia. I still can't believe I survived that swim.
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September 20, 2004. To Isle La Motte (Fleury Bay). Swim Day #18. Crew: Josh and Nicole. Freestyle strokes: 6,400.
The Lamprey Eel is an invasive species in Lake Champlain. Lampreys entered the Lake by swimming up the Champlain Canal which connects the southern end of Lake Champlain to the Hudson River (where Lampreys also do not belong).
Without any natural predators, the Lampreys have multiplied into a serpentine army of hundreds of thousands. They agressively charge and latch onto everything that swims in an attempt to suck out the blood and nutrients they need to survive and grow. Pull them off and they charge right back at you and chomp back on. Choices? Kill 'em and grill 'em, or, throw them as far as you can and then swim like hell.
Yes, it messes with your head.
Double click the photos below to enlarge:
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| Lamprey Eel catches a ride on my leg... |
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| ...and another on my chest. Yes, I look a little spooked. |
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September 21, 2004. Peace Bell Ceremony (concurrent with UN HQ in NYC) in Alburg Springs, VT.
Our team, led by Nicole, organizes a Peace/Clean Water event at the Canadian border on Lake Champlain. See our "Media Info" page for details.
September 22, 2004. To Alburg, VT. Swim Day #19. Miles: 7. Strokes: 8,112. Crew: Josh, Nicole & Basil.
More Lampreys attacked me. After the second assault, I bagged it for the day. The stress is causing calf cramps. This is worse than the snake nightmares I had as a kid.
September 23, 2004. Men's Journal has elected me to their 2004 Adventure Hall of Fame. So today, three stylists and three photographers had their way with me at North Beach in Burlington.
Want to see the damage? Check out the December 2004 issue.
September 24, 2004. Crew change. Today is a sad day. Nicole and Josh both said goodbye to the swim and headed on to their next projects. I'll miss them both. Especially Nicole, though, whose brilliance and tireless commitment has illuminated all my swims to date.
Good luck my friends!
September 25, 2004. Swim Day #20. Alburg, VT to Marina Les Alizes in Quebec, Canada. Miles: 7. Crew: Michael LiCalsi.
Only one Lamprey closed its jaws on me today. And that was on the U.S. side of the border. In Canada, no trouble from the aquatic life. Hmmmm.
September 26, 2004. Swim day #21. Marina Les Alizes to Sabrevoie. Miles: 10. Crew: Billy, Evan, and Tom from Camp Abnaki.
Had a great presentation to a quilting convention at Camp Abnaki, and have been absolutely floored by how helpful the Camp staff has been on the water and on the road. They amount to a gold medal support crew (something I never thought I'd have again after Josh and Nicole headed home). The Abnaki folks will go to any length to see me finish this swim, it seems. Their camp motto is "Help the other fellow" and they sure dolive up to it.
September 27, 2004. Today is my wedding anniversary--six years with Heather.
I may be stupid, but I am not dumb enough to swim today.
September 28, 2004. Swim Day #22. Last day! To St. Jean-Sur-Richelieu. Miles: 6.5. Strokes: 6021. Crew: Billy, Evan, and Tom from Camp Abnaki.
I finished up in St. Jean-Sur-Richelieu, just shy of the rapids on the Richelieu River. No one can say I didn't swim past the end of this Lake!
Heather, Rowan, and Celilo all came to the finish. I cried a little as I got within a few strokes of the dock. Ro gave me a hug when I got out.
I am looking forward to a break. I won't miss the Lampreys but I will miss everyone who helped me find my way these 129 miles down Lake Champlain. Thank you!
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When my one year-old daughter, Celilo, bends to slurp water from my palm at the bathroom sink, I get a shiver. This is my daughter. She is thirsty, and she is drinking from my own hand, slurping the sustenance she needs off my skin, out of the cradle of my palm. Does it get more basic than that? A toddler drinking water from her father’s palm?
And where is this water from? Lake Champlain. It could be that I have swum through the very molecules that she swallows right now. I have sweated, and bled into that lake. And the water she drinks today will find its way back to that lake.
I need my daughter to have clean water to drink. Her water comes from Lake Champlain and her waste eventually ends up back in there too.
Is this working? I am not sure it is, or what to do about it. But a connection has been made here. After 129 miles of swimming, I get it. The water in Celilo’s body, my body--in the gatorade I mixed this morning--is from this lake. We are one, the Lake and I. We are connected.
Like it or not, my family and I are bound to this piece of water.
I wouldn't want it any other way.
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