Category: 2016 season

I’m always skeptical of first-time events. And the Swim Around Fort De Soto, in St. Petersburg, Florida, was one. But, alas! Nothing to be worried about since it turned out to be a delightful and challenging closing to my 2016 season.

Fort De Soto Park, part of the Pinellas County park system, is located in Tierra Verde, Florida, a twenty-minute drive from St. Petersburg. The park is comprised of five interconnected islands. There’s water everywhere. The sand resembles superfine sugar. I find swimming in the Gulf of Mexico quite enjoyable. In the spring and in the fall, the water is much cooler than in the Atlantic, near home. The water is not as clear in the Gulf, though.

The early November race was advertised as a 10.5K, but the course map showed 10.1K (6.3 mi). The start was located at the Pinellas County boat ramp. Swimmers would head west toward Bunces Pass and into the Gulf of Mexico, then south along the beach, and finally northeast into Tampa Bay to finish at beach shelter #14.

On race morning, the water temperature was 74-75F and the wind was blowing from the northeast. Solo swimmers were scheduled to splash at 0945 to coincide with slack tide. Pilots set out from the boat ramp toward the staging area first and swimmers lined up in numerical order at the dock. I had a low number. This wasn’t a good thing for me because swimmers were supposed to jump from the dock and I’m not one to jump. I hate not knowing what I’m jumping into. What if I get impaled by a sharp object? We waited for the last pilot to get the pedals in his kayak to work. Once he was off, the command to get in the water was given and some ladies jumped without a problem. I squatted on the dock and jumped into shallow water, survived, and swam out of the way. All the swimmers in the water, the gun went off.

Swimmers did exactly what they were told not to do, which was to swim in the channel. I hadn’t seen any boats about to take off, so I hoped police would keep a handle on any boaters. I followed like a fish in a school of fish (safety in numbers). My pilot found me before I found her. We headed out west towards Bunces Pass, which was 1.5 miles away from the start. The water was very shallow and sea grass covered the bottom. I kept getting crowded by a Mr. Speedo and his pilot. Finally, I was able to swim around the pilot. On the north bank of Bunces Pass hundreds of white pelicans milled about. I had seen them from the boat ramp in the early morning with my binoculars, but wasn’t sure they were actually pelicans because they looked pink in the morning light. I thought they might be roseate spoonbills, but they were too short. It was very satisfying to actually swim by them and identify them properly as white pelicans. That was my Audubon moment of the swim.

I cleared the pass and turned south into the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. I had the wind on my back, so swimming was a little like body surfing. I knew that after the next turn, at the point where Fort De Soto stands, it would be a harder swim, so I concentrated on being as efficient as possible and not burning out all of my energy before I really needed it. We passed by the North Beach, which has a giant sand bar alongside it. All of a sudden, Mr. Speedo is crowding me again. I was trying to move into deeper water closer to shore, but he had another man on his left, so the three of us just kept swimming abreast for a long time. I thought of race horses at Pimlico, which exacerbated by annoyance. It took what seemed an interminable amount of time to clear the sandbar. It might have been a mile long. Our way point was an antenna tower that rises from the bottom of the gulf, just in front of the Gulf Pier. At around mile 3.25, our layline took us away from shore. I was elated. No more sandbar! I love, love, love to swim in deep ocean water. A few times the safety officer came by in a jet ski to see if we were alright. He was wearing a yellow balaclava, so I couldn’t see the expression on his face. We passed the antenna tower and now faced the Gulf Pier. Swimmers and crews were to cross under the pier at a section marked by two blue flags. A police officer made sure fishermen did not cast their rods in that section. I stopped swimming to wave hello to the police officer. I smiled at him. I think he was surprised, because he returned the smile, amused. My heartbeat quickened in anticipation of swimming under the pier. I positioned myself right between the pilings to avoid nasty eddies. I learned that from Chesapeake. Eddies can suck one’s body toward the piling in an instant and the growth on the piling surfaces will rip one’s skin to shreds.

The conditions changed abruptly after rounding the point. The wind must’ve been coming from the east northeast, because we were headed right into it. The water was all peaks and troughs. Two kayaks had capsized. My pilot kept getting held up, so for a while I was faster than her. At first I was getting slapped by the waves and thought that if I had to swim nearly 2 miles in that fashion I would get exhausted very quickly, so I changed my stroke a bit. I kept my head very low and the entry point of my hand as close to my head as I could, so that my arms were extending underwater a little more than usual, and then I would make the pull really long. That worked well, because I started passing people! My pilot later told me that I passed two men (one of them Mr. Speedo), two women, and a relay team. I had a bit of miscommunication with my pilot; she was far behind me and I just kept on swimming. She finally caught up with me and had me move closer to shore. She said she had been yelling to me, but with the water slapping and the wind howling I couldn’t hear anything at all.

Past the Bay Pier, the wind abated and now I had a clear view of the Skyway Bridge. I only had a mile to go. My pilot and I agreed the whole swim had gone so fast! The bay leg of the course was littered with giant patches of seaweed. The first one, I tried to avoid. The remaining ones, I didn’t bother. If they got to be too cumbersome to swim through, I did a little breaststroke, which is always amusing. In the way of interesting things, I only saw a lobster pot during that leg, because my arm brushed its buoy. I was happy when I saw the giant American flag at the entrance of Fort De Soto Park. It looked beautiful against the clear and bright sky. I had a third of a mile to go. The last definable section of a course always seems to stretch out. I rounded the red buoy and turned toward the red and white flags at the beach. It makes me sad to stop after swimming for so many hours. Marathon swimmers are so fortunate to be able to swim for miles at a time! I feel like for a few hours I can actually be a mermaid, but just before I put my feet on the bottom so I may stand up, I feel that little pang of sadness at having to turn into a terrestrial being until I get back in the water again. I got on my feet, glanced behind me to make sure no one was going to outrun me, and seeing no one close, I sauntered toward the beach. Why run? It’s not like I want to get out of the water. With the beep of the timing mat, my season was over.

I was very happy with my swim. The last leg, on the bay, was quite a challenge. The beauty of it was that I wasn’t sore, or tired. I felt I could’ve kept going. I was very satisfied with the training I’ve done this year, because now a 10K is a very doable distance. Dryland, yoga, and quality yardage administered by my awesome coach are all good stuff. Certainly such great swimming experiences aren’t possible without the assistance of fantastic volunteer pilots and capable and organized race directors. This is a swim I would love to repeat. Taking pictures on the beach (after shaking hands with Mr. Speedo, who graciously acknowledged my passing him), I realized that my next swim is SCAR. There are hundreds of thousands of yards to be swum between Fort De Soto and Saguaro Lake…

 

I’ve been working on building a swimming resume worth of SCAR. After the fabulous Kingdom Swim, I had two more races left in my season: Swim the Suck and Fort De Soto 10.5K. I thought I needed to wedge in another race. I’d been eyeing Swim for the Potomac 10K in Maryland for a while, but had been scared of the undefined cutoff time. According to race reports, the course closing had been arbitrary. In one account, the course closed 75 minutes after the first finisher. Well, what if that person was one of those blazing fast swimmers who can crank out a 10K in a little over two hours? On a good day I would need 3:45, so I was reluctant to travel to Maryland without knowing if I even had a chance of finishing.

For this year’s installment, the event website indicated the course would close in approximately four hours. Encouraged, I signed up. In hindsight, this was a fateful decision since I ended up missing the Suck thanks to Hurricane Matthew. My training after Kingdom had included lots of technique work and plenty of threshold workouts; I was eager to find out if I could keep a pace near threshold throughout a 10K.

The night before the race, I got conjunctivitis. Crisis! I wear contacts for open water swims; without them, I cannot see a thing. I don’t wear prescription goggles because they don’t do anything for my high astigmatism. I figured I’d show up at the race venue and reassess my situation.

The venue for Swim for the Potomac is the National Harbor in Maryland. I arrived early, as I usually do, and took in the nice morning. The air temperature was in the high 60s. The water temperature 77F. Buoys were already out. The course was located in the North Cove, which is bordered by I-95 on the north, National Harbor Boulevard on the east and south, and the ferry pier on the west. Part of the western section of the course faced the Potomac River.

The giant, yellow buoys by I-95 would be easy to sight. I spotted a few smaller yellow and orange buoys on the east and south sides of the course, but none on the west side. I decided to give it a go.

The day prior to the swim, when I was already in Maryland, I received an email advising swimmers to bring bottles that could be tied to a paddleboard. I had brought bottles without loops. Those were in my kitchen in Florida. My lines with the shock cord hooks were home, too. We were given the option to leave the bottles on the dock, whose surface was out of arm’s reach from the water, or put them on a paddleboard near the start line. Thinking my bottles would fall off the paddleboard, I opted for the dock, my first mistake.

The seventeen 10K swimmers would go around the counterclockwise, rectangular course six times. We took off at 7:15 am. The water was pleasant. I would’ve loved it to be colder, but it was within tolerable range. I found I could see the small orange buoys on the short sides of the course. Swimming north, the I-95 buoys were good guides. Swimming south, the buoys were so small, I could only glimpse a flash of orange every so often. Instead, I picked a building to sight, though it wasn’t quite distinguishable from the ones nearby. For the long northbound and southbound legs, I used other swimmers as guides, though soon the distance between us began to stretch. In addition to my speed issues, there were weeds. Large mats of floating vegetation littered the course. The tide would fall until 10:30 am or so, so I expected the mats to be a nuisance for most of the race. I got trapped by them three times and made a mental note of their position, bearing in mind that they would move toward the river with the falling tide. As I finished my first lap, I thought I could continue to swim as long as I had other swimmers in front of me. I also realized my mistake in leaving my bottles on the dock. I had to ask a lady to hand me one, which I took to the nearby paddleboard. Immediately, I realized my second mistake was to ask for only one bottle instead of two. I would deal with that problem later on.

Before starting my second lap, I looked at my watch. I never wear one, but I thought that for a loop course it would be useful to. I was surprised that my first lap had taken 38 minutes. Seemed too slow, even for me. I felt I had been swimming at my target pace. I avoided most of the floating vegetation on my second lap. Lap time was 38 minutes. At least I was holding my pace.

By the third lap, the swimmers in the shorter races had joined in. I didn’t really have any issues with them, other than a girl swimming around me and brushing my head with her foot. She was as surprised as I was. Near I-95, I kicked what felt like a large piece of concrete. I stalled for a couple of seconds while the jolt of pain coursed its way out of my body. A heard a kid behind me swear. I suppose he kicked my piece of concrete, too. I came in at 39 minutes. I was satisfied.

Most of the floating vegetation was gone by the fourth lap. The wind started to pick up a little, but I felt I was maintaining my speed. My time had been 40 minutes. As I finished that lap, I drank the last of my hydration. I would get my second bottle at the start of the sixth lap.

I started my fifth lap thinking I would make the cutoff. There was a light chop. Swimming against it felt nice. After my turn toward the north, I realized there were no swimmers to follow. All good, there was the giant yellow buoy to swim toward. I rounded the north side of the course and headed south toward my target building. About halfway down that leg of the course, I realized the Capital Wheel was in front of me. I popped my head up. I was not supposed to be there! I was terribly off course. The building I was sighting looked just like the building I should’ve been sighting, my third mistake. Luckily, a kayaker paddled on my left. I could barely see the ferry dock. In silent agreement, I followed the kayaker until I spotted the dock and the small buoys. I thanked him. Near the end of the dock, I looked at my watch and my heart skipped a beat. Somehow that whole ordeal had taken 41 minutes and I was running out of time. It would be a miracle if I didn’t get pulled out before the cutoff time. I decided I wouldn’t stop to get my second bottle. There were plenty of bottles left on the paddleboard, so the 10K swimmers must have been right behind me, already on their last lap.

I started my sixth lap thinking I would swim it like a one-miler, and so I did. It hurt. But if I was going to get pulled out, I’d do it in style. After I rounded the I-95 buoys, I swam as hard as I could, this time sighting the correct building. I couldn’t make another mistake. I made it to the ferry dock. There were only two bottles left on the paddleboard. One was mine. I later found out that the other bottle belonged to a swimmer who was cheering for me from the dock. What a sweet thing to do! As I climbed the dock’s ladder, I looked back and realized I was the last to finish: a man on a RIB was towing the large yellow buoys. The swimmer told me he’d only swum five laps. I told him that was more than enough. My last lap was 41 minutes. I thought it would have been faster, but was certainly good enough to sneak under the cutoff time. I was very grateful to the race director, Denis Crean, for allowing me to finish. It was a good race. It would make for an excellent first 10K.

So there it was: my first DFL. I always thought that if I was last I would be horribly disappointed, but I was surprised to find that was not the case. I raced this swim, I didn’t just swim it leisurely, and my last lap was all heart. I was pretty pleased with my training and with the fact that I fought to finish. I felt ready for the Suck, even though unbeknownst to me it was not to be.

The results were posted a few days later. Of seventeen swimmers, thirteen finished. I was happy to be one of the thirteen, even though I was last.

Wrap-up

Reaching a goal can be quite an emotional experience and if I had my choice, I would let someone else take over while I’m processing what just transpired. In addition, after swimming for so many hours, it’s just hard to stop. My body goes haywire. “What? You don’t want me to keep on swimming? But… Then feed me!!!” At times like this, I wish I had a friend with me, like dear Sarah during GCBS last year. But I don’t have that choice, so soldier on I must. It helps to have little goals: #1 eat, #2 say goodbye to my wonderful kayaker, #3 shower, #4 attend award ceremony, #5 rest, #6 eat again.

It took a while to do all those things. I even had to go into town following the awards to run an errand (MISSION CREEP!) before I could sit in the beer tent and put my feet up. Since the ten-miler was also the 9+ Mile USMS Open Water National Championship, awards were given six-deep into each age group. Since no age group had over six participants, everyone who stayed for the awards got USMS hardware to hang on his/her “I-love-me wall” or to make his/her head coach proud. Wahoo!

Hanging out in the beer tent turned out to be one of the most enjoyable things I did on my trip to the Northeast Kingdom. Oh, yes, the beer was great despite the fact that I’m not much of a beer drinker, but the company and the conversation were even better. I was still star-struck by the swimmers I’ve heard of and admire, who turned out to be quite friendly and unassuming. Plus I got to meet many swimmers from the East Coast, who were happy to share swimming stories and plans. What a lovely evening it was! During that time, the last swimmer to finish the Border Buster came in, and all the swimmers in the beer tent walked down to the beach to greet her and cheer. Reminiscing of that moment still gives me goosebumps. What a wonderful sport this is, in which its athletes celebrate each other’s triumphs, no matter how long it takes to reach those goals. Dinner at Prouty Beach was delicious and plentiful and by a surprising turn of events, I was committed to applying for the 2017 installment of SCAR. I capped the evening in Newport, surrounded by swimmers enjoying well-earned ice cream cones.

The following morning, I packed my campsite and started the journey back to South Florida, already awaiting my return next year to the magical Northeast Kingdom of Vermont for the Border Buster.

Lessons learned

Kayak escort – Swimming while escorted by a kayaker represents a whole new level of the sport for me. It incorporates the notion of teamwork. Swimmer swims. Kayaker guides. Swimmer lays out logistics. Kayaker keeps her eyes and ears on safety. It is so much easier to follow one’s kayaker than to attempt to spot a buoy! For my next supported swim, the Suck, I’ll already know what works. I had a fantastic escort who kept me right on those buoys.

Hydration (CarboPro/Gatorade mix) – I brought more than I thought I needed. I nearly drank it all. But then again, I swam longer than I thought I would.

Nutrition (banana/apple baby food in squeezable packets) – I didn’t eat at all. My stomach never felt like it needed food, though I was afraid that if I did eat it, I would get stomach cramps.

Pacing – I was very pleased with my pacing once I settled in. I was also glad that during training days that I was feeling off, I saw the workout through completion. That gave me the confidence that I could finish the swim even though I wasn’t feeling fantastic.

Adequacy of training – A rule of thumb is to swim the distance of one’s race in a week as a minimum. I stuck to that rule, but added long swims of increasing length every other weekend. My mentor had recommended breaking those long swims by stretches of time, twenty to thirty minutes each, with a little rest in between. Three weeks before the race I did my longest pool swim, a 13K, followed two days after by a 10K time trial. I felt my training had been right on point, though when my mentor asked me what I would have done differently, I said I should’ve swum more at a tempo pace. Something to be discussed with my coaches…

TRACK.RS – A new tool offered to marathon swimmers by the Marathon Swimmer Federation. Not only TRACK.RS provides the swimmer with post-race data, such as the actual location and speed vs. time, but it also allows one’s ‘fans’ to follow one’s progress in near real time. Once I returned home, many of my friends commented on how fun it was to check on my progress. I blushed.

Race day

Notwithstanding the nerves of the previous week, I always wake up calm, cool, and collected on race day. Most of the time I stay in that frame of mind. Despite the conscious tapering, hydrating well, and extra rest, I woke up feeling off. It was nothing related to food, or camping, for that matter, since I’m an avid camper. It was just an off day. One must adjust on days like those, whether they happen during training or racing. I just accepted that fact and decided that I would swim very slowly. After all, I’d never swum ten miles before.

Out of my tent’s window, the Border Busters took off at 5:30 am. I was surprised at the racket they made; their strokes sounded like a flock of birds taking off from the surface of a lake. I wished I were starting my race that early, too, but the championship race was not supposed to commence until 8 am. I had plenty of time to eat breakfast, don my tech suit, cover myself in Extra Strength Desitin, and check and re-check my feeds and gear. By the time my kayaker arrived at the beach, there wasn’t much left for us to do other than load the kayak and turn on the GPS transmitter for the tracker.

My kayaker and I had discussed logistics the day before. This was also my first supported swim, so my instructions were based on what my mentor had advised. I asked my kayaker to keep the kayak next to me (as opposed to ahead or behind) and on my left. I breathe on both sides, so picking the left was merely an attempt at staying on course, since I tend to pull to the left.

The kayakers took off ahead of the swimmers, who started at 8 am.

A peaceful feeling overcame me as I waded in the lake waters and dove. I love water. I love swimming. I wasn’t concerned at how long the race would take. I acknowledged my physical discomfort and just took it along with me. For the next few hours, I would be the aquatic creature I’ve always wanted to be. It was comforting to know that I wouldn’t have to touch land for hours.

The kayakers had mustered by the first buoy; I found mine right away. It wasn’t hard! I was already lagging behind the bulk of the field after only one mile. The water was 73F. Pleasant, but I always welcome colder temperatures. The forecast called for a maximum ambient temperature of 74F, clear skies, and a NW wind less than 9 mph. The course was a clockwise loop around the US portion of the lake. For about 2.6 miles, we swam generally north along the west shore of the lake, passing the small Whipple Point light. Time seemed to fly. I was taking feeds every twenty minutes, which is my norm training in the South Florida heat. During that leg of the race, I could’ve changed the interval to thirty minutes, but kept the usual one in favor of staying hydrated and being disciplined. Ten miles is a long way and one doesn’t know what the course might throw at a swimmer later on.

My kayaker and I had decided that before crossing the lake, a 1.7-mi stretch, I would take a feeding to then cross without stopping. We’d learned the day before that there is a current that pushes swimmers north the closer they get to the islands on the east side of the lake. We were advised by the experienced kayaker not to stop for feedings. Crossing the lake was my favorite part of the whole swim. Every time I breathed to my right, the mirrored surface of the lake reflected the cloudless sky. I felt I could’ve swum forever.

Reaching the next buoy near Black Island, my kayaker and I looked behind us. Swimmers and kayakers had been pushed off course. Swimming around Black Island, Cove Island, and Bell Island was a treat. These small rock promontories are covered in trees and the most beautiful houses nestle among them. Lenses of cold water pleasantly surprised me during the 1.2-mi jaunt around the islands. But once we turned south, along the eastern shore of the lake, the water gradually turned warmer. The navigational chart shows those depths to be equivalent to the ones on the western shore of the lake, so I attributed the rise in water temperature to the rise in air temperature. Following the 2.5-mile stretch between Bell Island and Indian Point, emergent vegetation signaled the low depth of the water. It was the only part of the lake where I saw large schools of fish. It was also where I was seized by a sneezing attack. Between sneezing and laughing I’m certain I lost plenty of time. I felt I had kept my speed fairly constant throughout the race, which is what I aim for. I’m a slow swimmer: I don’t delude myself with a top placement, but I take pride in consistent pace.

Past the emergent vegetation, I had another mile to go. By then it was early afternoon and boats were leaving the Newport docks headed north. Their wakes slipped under my kayaker and me. At one point, such a pronounced wave lifted my body that I popped my head up in time to watch the kayak being side swept. When I sighted the Prouty Beach campground, with about half a mile left in my race, I decided to give a ‘sprint’ a go. Why not? I’d been swimming at the same speed for hours and I wanted to finish my first ten-miler with a little unplanned fun, even if I was the only one who knew about it. I was surprised to still have gas in the tank. The water now felt Florida-warm, but even so, I was so happy to be ‘almost there’ that I paid it no mind.

Near the beach, I was afraid of what would happen when I stood up, but I did so without losing my balance. I waded back to shore, where a volunteer told me my time and I promptly forgot it, though I held on to the notion that it was much longer than my goal time. I thanked my kayaker; her navigational skills and on-point assistance made my race experience the best it could’ve been.

Hello, Newport!

As a newbie marathon swimmer, I had planned for the Suck to be my first attempt at the ten-mile distance, but I decided that I wanted to do the Kingdom Swim’s Border Buster, a fifteen-miler, next summer. In order to qualify, I needed to do a non-current assisted swim ten miles or longer. Given the time of the year and my experience, I opted for the ten-miler in the same venue as the Border Buster: Lake Memphremagog in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. I had a little over two months to train for it.

I was not prepared for the beauty of the locale, though a place name with the word ‘kingdom’ should’ve given it away. It was nothing short of magical. Driving on I-91 from Hartford, CT, the landscape took my breath away with the gorgeous mountains, the deep green pines and their sweet smell, the meandering rivers, the granite cliffs. I reached the lake at the end of the day, when the sun was hiding over the tallest mountain peaks, turning the water surface into a silvery mirror. The scenery stole my breath and brought me to tears. I can never help but think how blessed I am to be able to do what I love the most in these gorgeous natural settings.

My journey ended at the campground in Prouty Beach, Newport, which was nearly full. I pitched my tent on a spot overlooking the beach and went for (what else?) a swim. It was dusk and I didn’t want to waste time putting my contacts on. At the closest beach, I waded in and found the water surprisingly warm, in the mid-70s, perhaps. I didn’t stray too far from shore for fear of not seeing anything and for that reason never really got away from the submerged vegetation. My little swim felt fantastic after a whole day of planes (no trains) and automobiles.

The day before the race I woke very early. I had forgotten sunrise is just after 5 am during the New England summer. What else is there to do but to go for a swim? This time I tried the main beach and didn’t find as many snarling plants. Buoys were already out, so I swam to the closest one. One other swimmer shared an otherwise deserted lake.

Around mid-day I went into Newport for sign-in and to board the Northern Star for a cruise around the buoys located within the US portion of the lake. Lake Memphremagog is a glacial lake, so it is long and narrow. Most of it lies within Canada. Luckily, my kayaker was able to join me on the boat. It was quite a useful experience to be able to look at the course together and learn from another experienced kayaker who had joined us.

Later that afternoon, Phil, our race director, gathered the swimmers at the Gateway Center in Newport for a safety briefing. Glancing around the room, I recognized many a swimmer from the marathon swimming world. How exciting to be surrounded by swimmers who’ve accomplished such feats of courage and physical prowess, which in my mind can only be accomplished with hard work, dedication, discipline, perseverance, and yes, heart. At that point, this race started to morph into something I didn’t expect it to be, but couldn’t yet put my finger on it. Swimmers promenaded along the lake shore in good fun. The night ended with a delicious pasta dinner and lively music.

Sometimes it is not about you.

For five years, Operation 300, a non-profit organization that raises funds to provide adventure experiences to the kids of fallen servicemen, has run the Aaron Vaughn Memorial Frogman Swim in Jensen Beach, FL. My first experience with this race was last year doing the 5K. The water was warm and my body still seemed to be suffering from the effects of a heat injury sustained during GCBS two weeks before. It was a slow slog. But what I remember most about the race is not my poor performance, but the emotion of the pre-race activities. It was a solemn moment when the names of all the Treasure Coast servicemen fallen in the War Against Terror were read. These young men gave their life for our country, and now their families carry on without them, wives without husbands, kids without fathers, parents without sons, siblings without siblings. What struck me was the look of pride in the faces of the SEALs who attended. I consider them the bravest men in our land.

I had planned to do the 5K again this year. However, Saturday morning I was not in the mood for a swim in warm water. I checked the nearest NOAA buoy and the water temperature was reading 83F. I had promised myself that after the GCBS heat injury and a DNF in a 5K in 86F water, I would not race in water 80F or above. Driving to the venue, I struggled with the idea of downgrading to a 1K. I’m not a quitter, or at least I don’t consider myself to be one, but starting a race with the possibility of a DNF didn’t seem like a good way to spend the morning. Plus there was the matter of the promise. Do I continue to fail in warm water races, or do I accept reality and stick to my threshold temperature?

I called one of my coaches. He simply said, “Honor your body.” That was all I needed to hear. As soon as I arrived in Jensen Beach, I asked the timer to switch me to the shorter race.

Standing on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay, the day before the Great Chesapeake Bay Swim, I cannot help but think what a blessed woman I am, having the opportunity to attempt another crossing. I came to Annapolis looking for redemption and I got it. This year’s installment of GCBS was quite a different experience from last year’s, all for the better.

The race was scheduled for Sunday, June 12. I had been religiously—obsessively, rather—watching the water temperature a month prior to the race. NOAA makes such obsessiveness possible by making its Chesapeake Bay Interpretive Buoy System available on the web and smartphone app. If one feels compelled to check the Annapolis buoy’s water temperature and other parameters at o’dark hundred, one can do so! The Annapolis buoy had seen a 20F rise in water temperature in less than a month. Living in Florida makes acclimation to cooler waters nearly impossible, so naturally I was concerned at the readings in the 60s. But once the water reached 70F, I was ecstatic. Then it was on to praying the water would stay in the low 70s. Warm water is my Kryptonite. Last year, I misguidedly wore a wetsuit in 76F water and 86F air. I finished my race in an atrocious amount of time and in the good care of Kent County paramedics. This year it was all about swimming smartly and managing temperature and hydration in order to avoid another visit to the ambulance.

Chesapeake Bay water temperature at Annapolis (NOAA data)

On Saturday afternoon, I trekked over to Sandy Point State Park after a lovely late lunch in Saint Michaels with my dear sister. A year ago, I stood on the beach with tears in my eyes, overcome by the emotion of returning to my adoptive home to swim in the bay I love. This year I was excited to come back, certainly more confident in my ability to complete the swim in style. During lunch, I’d found out the wind forecast from a teammate who is a Maryland resident: 20 mph winds and a 2-ft chop. I hadn’t factored winds in my plan. The Swim Miami 10K and the Delray Mile Swim had been choppy, but not so much. We were talking white caps! The last time I swam in such conditions was during the Alligator Lighthouse relay back in September 2015. My coaches, my mentor, and my lane buddies were confident that I could handle it. A little external reassurance is sometimes necessary.

I plunged into the water at Sandy Point. It felt oh so familiar! Green, brackish, and fabulously comfortable temperature-wise. It didn’t take a long swim to realize that I had made a good decision in foregoing the wetsuit. I went back to Baltimore eager to start the race.

The air temperature Sunday morning was in the mid 70s. I left Baltimore early. I would rather wait at the venue than rush to make the start of a race by the skin of my teeth. The view from the Bay Bridge was fantastic. The rippled surface already glinted in the sun, ready for 600+ swimmers. I couldn’t wait to start. I parked at the Park and Ride in Stevensville, early enough to have my pick of parking spots, and boarded the school bus that took the early risers across the Bay Bridge once again and to Sandy Point State Park. I checked in and got my chip and cap and extra number strip and found a shady spot in the woods by the southernmost restrooms. Soon the ground was littered with swimmers. Some chatted avidly while others plugged themselves onto their headphones and tuned the world out. I lay on my back and rested and drank my fluids. It was getting hotter rather quickly. About 45 mins before the safety briefing, I started my warmup/stretching routine. I took ballet in my teens, and still practice some of the stretches I learned back then. I was doing a very nice straddle side stretch when another swimmer, a woman, turned toward me, snapped my picture, and turned away. I was flattered, but I also felt she should’ve asked. If anyone sees a picture of a swimmer on a beach towel posing as a ballet dancer, let me know.

Next I got into my speedsuit. This is not the high-tech kind pool swimmers use, but the TYR economy version. I love it because it is comfortable and offers some protection against jellies, if any were to be found. Finally, I lathered the skin the speedsuit didn’t cover with Desitin. The stuff works, perhaps because it stays on. I have yet to find sunscreen that does. I placed my swim bag in a trash bag marked with my bib number and set it at the staging area for the volunteers to transport to Hemingway’s Marina on Kent Island, the terminus of our swim.

I walked to the safety briefing with the extra number strip tied to my ponytail, and a grocery store bag with a big jug and two silicone collapsible bottles filled with hydration mix, goggles, cap, and ear plugs. I found one lone, scraggly shrub near the race director and wedged myself between the leaves to protect myself from the sun. I didn’t want to overheat because I knew the race director would be talking for over half an hour.

I love the energy at the start of a race. It was a gorgeous day, hot, and the wind was picking up very quickly. White caps already shone in the middle of the bay. A total of 636 souls awaited instructions. Of those, 413 (65%) were men and 223 (35%) women. 112 (27%) men and 55 (25%) women were swimming in skins, which makes 26% of the field. I was one of the skins.

The good news was that the wind was somewhat favorable. It was a northwest wind, so while one could get a little assist toward Kent Island, that same wind would push south, and the tide, at some point, would do the same. The rules state that if swimmers find themselves under one of the Bay Bridge’s spans, they are out of course and pulled out. Last year I was swept under the southern span by the wicked tidal current in the main channel, which is located between suspension towers. I spent a lot of energy trying to regain my course and stay out of the sight of the kayakers, feeling like Frodo and Sam hiding from the Eye of Sauron…

Frodo will get caught by the Eye of Sauron if he doesn’t duck.

I have two qualms about this race. The first one is the sacrilegious mix of skins and wetsuits. AG results make no distinction on who wore what, which I consider unfair to the skins. A separate listing of skins is posted, though.

Anti-DNF silicone collapsible bottle

The second qualm is the hydration support. Last year two boats carried hydration in the form of water and Gatorade. By the time I got to the second boat, the volunteers had run out of Gatorade and were rationing the warm water they had left. This year, when a swimmer asked the race director about hydration, I thought I heard him respond that she needed to drink now, which left me believing that the boats had no hydration at all. I could be wrong. I have to drink, though. Not having enough hydration contributed to my heat injury last year. This year, at the behest of one of my coaches, I took matters into my own hands and filled two collapsible silicone bottles with the stuff I train with and stuck them down the front of my suit. Extra weight, of course, but since I’m not fast and don’t aspire to placing, a little extra weight might keep me away from a DNF, which is more important to me. The only DNF I’ve ever had was because the water temperature was too high and not having enough to drink with me contributed to my overheating.

The start was planned for high tide, 12:30 pm, but because the wind kept picking up, the first wave of swimmers—my wave—took off at around 12:10 pm. The yellow caps—swimmers expected to finish in over 2 ½ hours—seemed to be the bulk of the field. The green caps—swimmers expected to finish in under 2 ½ hours—were to take off 15 minutes later.

GCBS course

Originally, I was standing at the left end of the field, but all of a sudden I no longer liked that spot because it made the leg to the bridge entry point longer. I didn’t like the right end either because that put me too close to the jetty and didn’t want to risk being sandwiched between it and aggressive swimmers. I picked the middle, toward the back. That turned out to be a good decision because I reached the bridge entry point without drama.

When the blast went off, I waded into the water and immediately dove in. Ah! At 72F the water felt refreshing and welcoming! The start of a race affords the opportunity to think about how much more one has left to go, but I always push that thought out of my mind. I like to stay in the moment. What matters to me at any given time is how I feel and what is happening around me. I look to the future as far as the next feed. Having sailed in the local beer can races, I understand how quickly conditions can change on the water. I used to zone out during swims, but I’ve abandoned that practice—as comforting as it feels—for one of awareness, which I find helps me make better decisions.

I entered the bridge a little west of the recommended location. I wanted to avoid contact. The further I got away from shore, the choppier the water became. The oft used ‘washing machine’ term was apt for the conditions. I swam close to the northern span, because at some point both the tide and the wind would be pushing swimmers south. I had seen the first green caps swim by and was enjoying the anticipation of arriving at my favorite location, just out of the western curve, where one can see three straight miles of bridge. It’s a glorious sight! I was minding my form when out of nowhere a wetsuited man smacked me square on my cheek, knocking my goggles down. The rush of adrenaline left me breathless and I had to make a conscious effort to exhale so I could inhale again. To his credit, wetsuit man said ‘Are you okay?’ but I was busy controlling my breathing and only managed an unladylike ‘Damn!’ He swam away. I was able to put my goggles back on without losing my contact lenses and resume swimming. My cheek burned.

I exited the curve near Mile 1 and was rewarded with my favorite sight. But I also got a better look at waves that I estimated to be 2 feet. Instead of a field of yellow caps dotted with some green ones, I saw caps bobbing and disappearing. Whitecaps roiled on the bay. The four suspension towers seemed to be the guardians of the channel that nearly defeated me last year. I took a swig from one of my bottles and pressed on. Still close to the northern span, I swam by the west concrete support and thought about how these monoliths are built, using caissons. Suddenly something pelted my cheek, whose burning had abated but not disappeared, taking me out of my reverie. The wind gusts were so strong that the crests of the waves were turning into spray. I remained calm and ensured my catch and pull were steady. After passing the first set of suspension towers and entering the channel, the waves became bigger. Every once in a while I felt as if my feet were higher than my head. I crossed the channel and passed the second set of towers, just a little before Mile 2. The wicked current wasn’t there. Part of me was disappointed. I wanted to measure myself against the channel, but the channel wasn’t interested.

 

 

Between Mile 2 and Mile 3, I noticed that I was drifting just like a sailboat in a strong current. I realized that the reason the channel hadn’t been the challenge it was last year was because the tide wasn’t moving as fast. However, it was picking up now and I found myself halfway between the two spans. Past Mile 3, the tidal current was in full force. I continued to drift until I was just north of the southern span. However, there were plenty of wetsuited men between the span and me, so their presence helped me gauge my location and adjust my course. Though I could very well feel the effects of the tidal current and the wave component that was pushing south, I was very pleased that I was making progress, perhaps due to the wave component that was pushing east. The numbers on the bents kept increasing at a steady pace. I felt energetic and was in great spirits. I was truly enjoying myself.

At Mile 4, swimmers have to cross under the southern span and turn east along the bridge’s eastern abutment toward Hemingway’s Marina. The area south of the abutment is shallow and warm, so I was not looking forward to swim in it. I was preoccupied at the moment with the crossing under the southern span. Last year and eddy got hold of me and flung my body near a piling, which was a big scare. This time, I positioned myself so that I would swim parallel to the direction of the waves and right in between pilings. I felt like a rock propelled by a slingshot. I crossed fast and didn’t get trapped by the nasty eddies.

While I swam along the abutment, a lady in a wetsuit, who was wading, took a look at me and said ‘Good job!’ I presumed she was referring to braving the race in a swimsuit. That was a nice compliment. Near the finish line, I couldn’t help but think how different this finish would be compared to last year’s. Then I was hot, struggling, and wishing the whole thing would end. This time I was cool, had plenty of energy left, and felt somewhat sad that my experience was coming to a close. I came looking for redemption and I got it. I crossed the finish line 20 minutes earlier than last year, in worse conditions. Proof that warm water is indeed my Kryptonite.

I was pleased when a volunteer handed me a medal. I didn’t get one last year, but I don’t know if it was because there weren’t any or because they had run out. GCBS 2016 was the 25^th installment of the race and the medal reflected so. A nice keepsake.

I chugged two bottles of red Gatorade (which I don’t like) and wolfed down a turkey sandwich. I was still hungry and wanted a big, juicy burger and a beer. I wouldn’t get those until much later. Walking along the line, I heard someone say ‘Come take a shower with a firefighter!’ and everyone laughed. A Kent County firefighter hosed me down. I supposed the invitation was true in a literal sense. I looked around for the Kent County paramedics. They were standing at the ready near their ambulance. I felt a lot of love for them.

After calling close friends to share my good news and posting a quick report on FB, I lined up on the queue to take the bus back to my rental car. I took a good look at Hemingway’s and at the bay and the bridge beyond and hoped that I would be lucky enough to win the entry lottery for a third year in a row. I do love GCBS.

Unlike the year prior, I made many a good decision this year, starting with going skins. After some reflection, perhaps one of the reasons I wore the wetsuit last year was because I wasn’t confident that I could finish the swim without it, a thought that was magnified by the hundreds of swimmers clad in neoprene. But I am tougher than I think. That was a lesson learned. The second one was that I should’ve built more ‘insurance’ against the tidal current. I didn’t fight the drift from just south of the northern span to the center of the spans; perhaps if I had, I wouldn’t have had to do so when I found myself just north of the southern span. I’ll remember that for next time.

Beautiful morning for a swim in Delray Beach! The Delray Ocean Mile has traditionally been held the first weekend of the year, but due to uncooperative weather, it was moved to May. I arrived at Anchor Park before sunrise and the lifeguards were already staffing the registration table. A walk on the beach revealed a little chop. My big toe determined the water was borderline bearable at 78F. Soon the beach was flooded with my fellow Wahoo (Palm Beach Masters) teammates. Our team always supports our city and county ocean lifeguards. This would not be another lonely swim, oh, no!

At the beach, the race director, another fellow Wahoo, gave instructions to the 200 or so swimmers. The course started perpendicular to the beach heading east toward a buoy, turned 90 degrees due north to a buoy with a flag, turned 90 degrees to another buoy 50 yards away, then turned left toward the first buoy, making that diagonal the longest leg, to finally turn right at the first buoy toward the beach.

Race course

The gun went off and the swimmers started en massetoward the first buoy. I hung back. Why get pummeled in that madness? I wasn’t winning any awards, I thought. This was a C race for me: plain old fun. Many swimmers hung on to the first buoy looking scared or out of breath. I calmly navigated around people, turning on my left shoulder and heading north toward the buoy far in the distance. I got quickly into a rhythm since I’d already warmed up a bit with my friend Roy. For these short races I actually need to, since otherwise I’d spend 10 minutes warming up of the 35 or so minutes I should actually be racing.

The water had a bit of chop to go along while swimming north. I couldn’t see the second buoy. All of them were very small, so I figured I didn’t want to spend my energy trying to find it. I followed the field of swimmers ahead of me, staying within the line of lifeguards on surfboards. I wasn’t quite on that second buoy when I finally saw it, which aggravated me a bit. I veered left to turn. The turns at the second and third buoys were uneventful, but as I started the longest leg, I confirmed that it would also be the most challenging. The waves were hitting me almost broadsides. The waves were turning my body to a course too high for the last buoy. I kept trying to right myself, which proved a little frustrating particularly because the field had thinned out and there was no line of lifeguards to follow on that side of the course. I ended the diagonal too early because of that, which caused me to follow a straight course for the last buoy. That was even worse in terms of keeping a straight course. Luckily, I could spot the buoy and Iined it up with a building, which made staying on course easier. I was a bit mortified because I didn’t think I’d handled the diagonal well and thought I’d be embarrassed at being one of the last people not only on my AG, but overall. My teammates would be there to witness my embarrassment, so the thought made me feel worse.

I always feel embarrassed at being a slow swimmer rather than being proud of myself for improving significantly since I started swimming with Masters 3½ years ago. After 5 months, I attempted my first open water race, the swim leg (1.2 miles) of a half-iron aquabike (the first two legs of a triathlon). I continued the aquabike and triathlon swims until last year, when I became more interested in long distance swimming. I attempted my first 5K at 2½ years of experience. Two months after, I successfully attempted my first crossing of the Chesapeake Bay. I completed my first marathon swim after 3½ years of swimming with Masters. I have planned another crossing of the Chesapeake and 3 marathon swims before the end of the year. Yet somehow I feel embarrassed I’m slow.

My friend Roy and I stayed to watch the awards. I wasn’t expecting anything. When I got out of the water, I got a popsicle stick with a 125 written on it. I gave my stick to a lifeguard who asked my age group and name. I couldn’t read the page, because I was wearing my contacts, but I did see lots of checkmarks. 7 to 10, if I remembered correctly. So oh, well, I thought. Not such a good swim.

It was Wahoo domination! The teal green of my team dotted the age groups and in a few cases, it was a sweep. When the announcer, who mispronounced everyone’s names, got to my age group, he read a name but no one came. Then he said it again and Roy gave me a little push saying “That’s you!” I was so stunned I actually walked slowly in case the announcer had made a mistake. I told the announcer the correct pronunciation of my name and he gave me my third place medal. I put it over my head, very happy about my status as a middle of the pack swimmer and the fact that my embarrassment was spared.

Wahoo Nation!

Two years ago I stood on St. Pete Beach waiting for the start of Hurricane Man, a 2.4-mi point-to-point swim. Registration had literally been under water. It was raining buckets and the street was flooded. Volunteers struggled to keep paperwork dry. By the time swimmers were shuttled to the start at the Pinellas County beach access, the rain had stopped, but menacing dark clouds moved swiftly towards shore. There were rumors that the race would be cancelled—first time in the eighteen years the event had been running. Soon lightning started snapping horizontally within the clouds and with their scary drumroll an agonizing RD called the race off. I was shocked. I’d dutifully trained for what would’ve been my longest open water race to date. I thought my training had been for naught (such a noob thought!). The swimmers took off running down the beach toward breakfast and I joined in. Once we arrived at the Hurricane Restaurant, swimmers were treated to the best breakfast buffet ever offered by a race. Still true to this day. The sky tore open and we huddled the best we could under the wrap-around porch to eat the yummy calories we didn’t burn. I met a few swimmers from the Tampa area that soggy morning, among them John, a former age-group star and triathlete.

All breakfast, no swim in 2014.

It took me a while to learn to process what a cancelled race meant. At the time, I was trying to collect little successes in my life. I needed them badly. This race would have been one. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I eventually learned that one mustn’t put all eggs in one basket, so I signed up for the Tropical Splash 5K in October 2014. That race was Hurricane Man déjà vu. Torrential rain and lightning delayed the race to the point that the 5K was cut to a 2.5K. I didn’t get to do my 5K until April 2015. It took me a whole year to get to my starting point. Life takes detours, but we all know about that.

The 2016 installment of Hurricane Man was the complete opposite of my 2014 experience. The day was nothing but glorious! The water temperature was 74F and the air temperature 70F. The wind blew gently. The sun shone. Swimmers smiled.

After registration, I met up with my friend John and we tried to catch up with two years of swimming and triathlon stories. One of the gracious volunteers shuttled us to the race start. The water was beautiful! As I drove into Tampa the afternoon before, whitecaps dotted the bay and the wind was blowing a gale, but the day of the race the ocean was flat and there was only a very gentle swell. John warmed up in the water. When he got out he reported it was chilly at first but then it was perfect. He was shivering a little and got back in. I ended up not getting in the water before the start. The Masters ladies were in the third wave and silly me didn’t want to stand on the shore wet.

The Masters men started after the age groupers. Off John went. I expected him to do well. Two minutes later the ladies started. I was calm, cool, and collected—as I usually am at the start of an open water race—and hung toward the middle of the pack in the back. I’m a slow swimmer, no point in getting flustered by faster people swimming over me. I find starts at swimming races much more civilized than at triathlons, which I’m retired from. Just an observation.

Masters ladies dive in.

After the race, a swimmer described the 10K as Hunger Games-like. I couldn’t have thought of a more apt comparison! Despite the mayhem, I had a great race. This was my first marathon swim. My goal was 3:30 and I finished in 3:15. Even better is the fact that when I came out of the water, I felt I could’ve done another loop comfortably. Miles are smiles! Now I feel I’ve finally overcome a pelvis injury from last fall. I’m a very happy mermaid.

I arrived at the race venue, the Miami Yacht Club, around 0700. A friend, his wife, and the ladies from my swim team who were doing the 10K were also there. We calmed each other’s nerves. I covered my body in Desitin, since a fellow teammate and accomplished distance swimmer had recommended I do so. I took care not to put any around my eyes, where the googles would come in contact with my skin, or my forehead, so that my silicone cap wouldn’t slip. I mixed Desitin and Vaseline and applied that goop to areas that chafe.

The women’s 10K was scheduled to start at 0817, two minutes after the men. The 800-m Special Olympics race starts before the 10K. The 800-m start is usually away from the 10K, 5K, and 1-mi start, but this year, for reasons unbeknownst to me, the start was the same for all groups. The 10K swimmers were about to go and I heard the official say, “Don’t run over the Special Olympic kids.” Did I hear that right, I thought? That was not only poor planning, but also creating an unsafe condition. The 10K swimmers would’ve headed out straight into the path of the returning 800-m field. Reason prevailed and we were ordered to wait until the 800-m race was over. The result of the half-hour delay was that I was expecting to swim the first 5K in peace—because the 5K and 1-mi swimmers didn’t start until 1000—but now, I’d have to swim with the crowd starting mid Loop 3. In the meantime, we watched two dolphins playing right in front of us. Every time they broke the water’s surface, people cheered and clapped. One of my fellow teammates said that it was good luck. She was right!

Loop 1 – The course was a north-south 1-mi loop, squeezed in between a shoreline festooned with docks and a field of moored boats. The women set off a minute after the men, heading south. The water was warm, but still comfortable at 78F. Warm water is my kryptonite, so I hoped the cloud cover would stay throughout the race. Just like last year, the ends of the course were marked with green buoys, large enough for easy spotting. The buoys in between were all red. The wind was blowing from the northeast, so I knew that as soon as I turned around the southernmost buoy, I’d be swimming against the chop, which I like. I’d been swimming all winter in the ocean in a bit rougher water, so I found the chop quite manageable. Swimming north it was evident that the course wasn’t quite a straight line. Turning the northernmost buoy, I briefly stopped to take a swig from the collapsible bottle that I had stuck down my suit. Kryptonite antidote. I stayed away from the line of buoys, making a beeline for the dock where a friend was managing my feeds. My sighting wasn’t fantastic on this loop mostly because I was having a good time swimming and was zoning out. My feed went without a hitch. My friend told me I was doing really good time, but he didn’t tell me how much and I appreciated that. I don’t wear a watch in races. I’d rather go by feel.

Loop 2 – I was more disciplined and started sighting every nine strokes. The wind was gradually picking up, so I didn’t want to go off course because I wasn’t focusing. Up to the point I’d swum 1 ½ loops, I’d been using a two-beat kick. Starting the northward leg of the second loop, I changed to a four-beat kick. I would do this from then on and whenever the water was feeling too choppy or congested with swimmers. Once again, I had a nice go around the loop, this time with the benefit of knowing the course.

Loop 3 – After I turned the southernmost buoy, I noticed an anchored boat had shifted, blocking the view for three quarters of the distance. That made for a confusing bottleneck. Past the boat, the lead 5K swimmers started passing me. The wind had not only pushed the boat, but also the buoys. I stayed close to the buoys, but was getting too annoyed getting bumped by the 5K people. I’ve learned to defend my watery real estate, so I wasn’t run over by anyone. At the northernmost buoy, a breaststroker kicked me in the stomach unintentionally. I stayed far from the stream of green caps on my way to the dock.

Loop 4 – I saw a couple of pink caps swimming left of center and in my path. I yelled at the two women, but I don’t know if they actually changed course. The pink caps were the milers and I didn’t really see many of them, probably because I was hugging the line of boats as I swam north, staying right of the buoys and the crowd. I started dropping my left elbow every once in a while. Not sure why I was doing that, perhaps because the underside of my upper arm was starting to hurt. I had to concentrate to get rid of the creeping bad habit. I felt no pain after correcting my stroke.

Loop 5 – The field started thinning out and I was grateful for it. Now I could go back to swimming close to the buoys. Before the boat that was blocking the view, I found a lady in a green cap who’d stopped to figure out which way to go. I pointed the way to her and gave her directions and kept swimming. At this point I started to think “I got this” and smiled to myself every so often. I was surprised I was feeling so well. I thought about picking up my speed, but always worried about the warm water, I decided to keep doing what I was doing. Once I rounded the northernmost buoy, I swam by the spectator dock and waved. I smiled and people smiled in return.

Loop 6 – My friend handed me my last feed. His wife had just finished the 10K and looked fabulous. They’d wait for me at the finish line. One advantage of being a slow swimmer is that at some point you’ll be left alone. I actually like that. Most of my weekend ocean swims have been by myself at Reed Reef, which is guarded. Most swimmers had finished, but odd things started happening. First, a group of four jet skis crossed the course. They were moving slowly, but I still wondered why such a thing was necessary. Then a guy in a dinghy just paddled along the course. I gave him a nasty look, but I don’t think he noticed nor cared. After that, I swam a little faster, hoping to avoid the interlopers. At my last buoy turn, I thanked the lifeguard posted on a boat and headed for the finish line. Past the spectator dock, I turned toward the yacht club. Finally going with the chop! I was really surprised when I saw the clock marking 3:16. Since the women had left a minutes after the men, that meant that I had finished 15 minutes ahead of my goal of 3:30. I was pretty happy crossing the finish line. What I was most surprised about, was that I was feeling so good, I could’ve gone for another loop!

Wrap up – It was fantastic to be greeted by my friends and the ladies from my swim team at the finish line. I was happy to find out that all of my friends doing the 10K finished. This is my third year doing Swim Miami. I’ve moved up from the mile, to the 5K, to the 10K. I still remember looking at the 10K swimmers with awe my first year. This time I was one of them. I don’t think I’ll come back next year, though. I don’t like swimming so close to a stream of people going in the opposite direction. Last year a guy swimming left of center swiped my goggles off my face. I was lucky not to lose them or my contacts, but was rattled for a while. I had no incidents this year, perhaps because I avoided being close to the crowd, which surely increased the distance I swum. I did hear tales of head-on collisions and one swimmer wore bloody nail scratches on her face.

Overall, I had a great race and felt my training had been spot-on. I beat my goal and finished strong. I’m so thankful for my coaches, who every day challenge me to be a better swimmer, and for my friends, who’ve generously supported me before, during, and after the race with their help, love, and confidence in me.

Things that went well:

• Yoga – It had a great effect on core strength and avoiding fatigue.
• Strength training – Twice a week workouts made for happy shoulders.
• Drills, drills, drills – Maintaining good form during a whole 10k was less of a challenge when muscles memorize it (or in my case, keep bad habits away).
• Sunscreen – Desitin was my friend.
• Temperature management – I DNFd at my previous race due to high water temperature. Knowing this, Coach challenged me to stay well hydrated for a week before the race. I did so for two weeks before the race. I usually wear a speedsuit (with legs ending above the knee), but Coach told me to wear a one-piece. The way she explained it, the gain in speed wouldn’t have mattered if I DNFd again by getting too hot to continue. I would’ve worn a two-piece but then I wouldn’t have been able to carry a collapsible bottle with me. I hydrated well every time I went by the feeding dock and I took a swig of my collapsible bottle every time I passed the northernmost buoy. My feeds were Gatorade mixed with Tailwind.
• Pacing – Swimming in the pool at my target speed has helped me hold my target speed in the open water. Coach knows best.
• Frame of mind – I mentally broke up the race into two 5K swims. To help me get there, I also thought of it as three training sessions in a row. I helped me that I had swum the race’s distance in the pool, so I knew I was capable. One of the reasons I love long-distance swimming is that I stay in the moment. At no point I wished the race was over, I simply managed my mind and body as external or internal input presented itself (once I stopped myself from zoning out!).

What needs improvement:

• Must continue to work on my stroke and avoid zoning out and the creeping in of bad habits (like dropping my left elbow).

Next to come: Hurricane Man (2.4 miles), the Delray mile, and GCBS. My next block of training will target GCBS. My goal is to be better prepared for the wicked current of the shipping channel.