Stuff Happens

Thursday 03/18/10

I stood at the edge of the Koret pool, loosened my limbs, and adjusted my goggles. The 25 yards of clear, chlorinated water stretching before me promised to be my home for the next five hours. Behind me stood a yellow plastic sandwich board sporting black, bold, block letters proclaiming “LANE CLOSED.” My feet straddled an array of BPA-free water bottles enriched with 60 grams of maltodextrin powder apiece. They were accompanied by a couple of bottles of plain water. On a chair next to me rested a cotton duck bag bearing the blue Dolphin Club logo and a commemoration of the 1993 Crissy Field swim. A video camera nestled inside the bag for Coach Val to use periodically to record the evolution of my stroke mechanics throughout the five hours. It was 6:15a when I dove into the lane.

On every stroke, I chanted to myself and concentrated on form. “One—smooth recovery. One—lead hand stretching for far wall. One—lead hand passing down the body centerline.” This continued until I reached the starting point, performed an open turn to maintain an aerobic state and then thought, “Two—swimming through the tunnel. Two—toes click to ensure a streamlined body. Two—smooth entry into the water with the new lead hand.” Eventually, this became “Thirty-two—trailing hand almost catches the lead hand. Thirty-two—bubbles from lead hand streaming not too far on side of head. Thirty-two—it’s been a half hour; time to feed.”

I paused at the end of the pool, snatched a maltodextrin feed bottle and forced myself to drink half in less than 30 seconds. Half a bottle provided over 100 calories of complex carbohydrates to fuel the engine. Even so, the literature talks about a bonking effect at the five or six hour mark as the carbohydrate replenishment loses pace to the rate of energy consumption. At this point the body looks for new sources of fuel and begins to cannibalize the muscle tissue. All reports indicate that this is a very painful, discomforting, and demoralizing experience. All reports also indicate that enduring this phenomenon is a critical component to training the mind to complete an English Channel crossing. I was curious to see if five hours were enough to trigger such an episode. I was also curious to see how my body reacted to the forced feedings. Either way, it promised to be interesting.

From time to time, Coach Val showed up at poolside to give me a thumbs-up. His encouragement helped to reinforce my hope that the new stroke he had taught to me was becoming fully ingrained in my psyche. At 8:00a, I could see Coach talking to Patrick McBride and showing him how to use the video recorder. Coach works a split shift and he was leaving. He returns to the pool at 6:00p to supervise the evening Masters workouts. Mr. McBride is a Koret lifeguard and a ten-year member of the South End Rowing Club. We had met one another in the shower some weeks ago. We talked about people we knew in common at the two Bay swimming clubs and compared notes on local swimmers’ exploits. Mr. McBride had volunteered to continue the periodic recordings to document my form for later review.

At the two and a half hour mark, I forced myself to chug another half bottle of feeding liquid and set off again. By now, I’d passed 100 laps and was chanting, “Sixty-one—push the water to the back of the lane. Sixty-one—check the bubbles from the lead hand.” Then, “CLUNK!” The overhead lamps flickered. Then, “CLUNK, CLUNK!” The lamps went out. After a few more strokes, my eyes began to adjust to the ambient light that streamed in from the glassed-in catwalk at ground level far above our heads. I’d never been in the Koret pool past 8:00a, so my initial reaction was that this might be a normal occurrence. Continuing to swim, I could glance up and see swimsuit-clad figures beginning to accumulate at the darkened edges of the pool. Perhaps this was some sort of temporary power outage and the lights would come back on again in a few minutes. I kept swimming. I was determined to reach my five hour goal.

I was swimming next to the bulk-head which provided a walkway across the middle of the pool. Mr. McBride's shadowy figure appeared on the bulk-head above me and I could tell that he was saying something, but I couldn’t make it out with the earplugs blocking the sound. I kept swimming. When I returned to the starting end of the pool, an ominous, dark oblong confronted my outstretched hand and I instinctively recoiled and stopped. Patrick was holding a kickboard down in the water to get my attention. He said, “We’ve lost power. You have to get out of the pool.” I got out.

The power was completely gone. The usually thrumming pool pump was deathly silent. The cacophony of splashing echoes had disappeared and the entire tableau was hushed. The pool surface was mirror-calm and illuminated with ghostly hues from the trickle of surface sunlight. It was a colossal, man-made, underground grotto in a tranquil state that very few people ever experience. In retrospect, it was fantastic. It was a veritable aquatic cathedral. At the time, though, I was bummed.

The pool supervisor announced that power seemed to be off through half the campus. Later, I learned that PG&E had toppled a power pole, depriving several square blocks of electricity. This was not going to be fixed soon. I gently asked Mr. McBride, “What prevents us from swimming in the available light?” He replied, “The pump is out and in the dark, the lifeguards can’t see into the bottom of the pool.” He was right, of course. The deep end of the pool was farthest from the remaining light source and shrouded in dark shadows. A person could easily lie unnoticed at the bottom for a long time. I thought for a moment about asking for an exception, but realized that would be the supervisor’s call and he was slightly frantic with the emergency demands on his time. I also realized that if the roles were reversed, I’d absolutely refuse. So, I headed for the showers.

Fortunately, the water was still hot. The emergency lights provided enough illumination to shower, shave, and dress. On the way out, a troop of firefighters descended the staircase carrying various implements of destruction. Apparently, with the power gone, people were stuck in the elevator and the fire department was coming to the rescue.

Emerging into the sunlight, I was disoriented and dazed. I had had it firmly in my mind to swim until 11:15 and was suddenly cast adrift. Exiting the parking lot, I was unsure what direction to take. After heading east for a couple of blocks, I decided to go to the Dolphin Club. I had conference calls scheduled for the afternoon beginning at 1p, but that would still give me time for a one hour dip in the Cove.

When I reached the beach, Fast Eddie was coming out. He had just finished a two hour Bay swim. Although he was shivering slightly, he stopped to chat. We both agreed that 60 or 62 degrees was no problem, but 54 degrees was on the chilly side. He gathered up his swim material and headed into the South End clubhouse. I waded in from the beach and swam the two-mile “Maylander” course that Ralph Wenzel had taught me. When I came back, Eddie had tied his swimming leash to the South End dock and was stroking in place between the club piers. Apparently, he had warmed up and gone back for more.

The rest of the day, I was discombobulated. I hadn’t completed my five hour swim. On the other hand, I had swum for over three and a half hours. Lindsay and I sipped martinis on the balcony overlooking the back yard that evening. Spring had sprung and the warm evening sun was drenching us. We agreed that the training was still on track. She offered the advice, “Stuff happens. You may as well get used to it, because stuff is likely to happen in the Channel, too.”

Two Hour Bay Swim

Saturday 03/13/10

Fate played a dirty trick this week. When I left for Chicago on Tuesday, the Bay temperature was over 55 degrees Fahrenheit and seemingly headed higher. When Ralph Wenzel and I waded into the water four days later on Saturday, the temperature hadn’t climbed. Instead, it had dropped to 54 degrees. For people who don’t swim in cold water, it’s not easy to understand that 1.5 degrees can make such a big difference. To warm-water swimmers, anything under 70 can seem prohibitively cold. My experience, though, is that the “state of cold” is not linear. The difference between 60 and 62 is hardly noticeable to an acclimated cold-water swimmer. However, the difference between 54 and 55.5 is quite noticeable and hypothermia is a distinct possibility. The impending prospect of a two hour dip made Ralph and I both a little nervous.

In addition, we were swimming in the afternoon and the wind was piping. A Force 5 fresh breeze blasted across the water from the west. It collided head-on with the outgoing ebb current and churned up a steep, high chop. In other words, conditions were excellent for an English Channel training swim.

Doug J operated the Zodiac pilot craft and carried a crew of Darcy W and Lindsay C. By 3pm, we had loaded and launched the boat. Ralph and I waded into the water at the Dolphin Club beach and swam out to the Aquatic Park Cove opening. By the time we approached the Jacuzzi, our pilots had tested the current and found it was still ebbing strongly, so we headed east toward Pier 39. We stayed inside the breakwater which offered some protection from the howling wind and sloppy sea. At the east end of the breakwater, a gargantuan bull sea lion charged directly at Ralph and me and dove a few feet in front of us. At the time, I felt a brush down my left arm and thought it might be Ralph. It wasn’t until afterwards that the crew told us what had happened. They decided that information was best kept compartmentalized at the time. It wouldn’t have mattered. Ralph and I were shutting up and swimming.

As we cruised by Pier 39, I could see a throng of people lining the wooden railing. The sea lions have not returned in their previous numbers, so Ralph and I provided the most entertaining aquatic spectacle available at that moment. People took pictures and gestured and shouted. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Lindsay C said later that it was mostly a mixture of questions about the water temperature and speculation on our sanity. One woman asked the crew to try and get the swimmers to smile for the camera.

At the end of the Pier 39 breakwater, we turned around and headed back west, giving the tourists on Pier 39 another photo opportunity. The waves were irregular and choppy and the afternoon boat traffic flung forceful wakes across our path. Thanks to Coach Val, my stroke felt smooth and strong, though, and we sliced through the turbulent and turbid saltwater at a decent pace.

We once again swam inside the Hyde Street breakwater to get a little respite from the waves. We threaded our way through the gap at the Jacuzzi, out the opening, and kept going west to Gas House Cove where we turned around and headed back to the barn. Oddly, we began making very, very slow progress. The pier at Fort Mason seemed to creep by. The tide chart said that the flood was scheduled to kick in at Golden Gate 4:11p. Here it was 5:00p and the ebbing current still flowed at about a knot right into our teeth. This presented a decision to either keep slogging for another thirty minutes to finish at the beach or determine that we’d accomplished our objective and climb into the Zod. As we treaded water and discussed it, the current pushed us farther west, even against the roaring wind.

Ralph was game for continuing, but I was planning to swim 5 hours in the pool the next Thursday and opted for declaring victory and withdrawing. Ralph accepted my proposal with his usual gentlemanly grace and slid smoothly over the side into the boat.

The shower and sauna offered a delightful reward for our efforts. We were both exhilirated from our adventure and looked forward to the next Bay training milestone—a three hour swim.

What Do You Think About?

Sunday 03/07/10

I’ve asked many Channel swimmers what they think about on their long training swims. Not one has given an answer that I can succinctly summarize. Maybe that’s because they think about a lot of things.

Before starting this project, the longest time I’d swum in the water was about three and a half hours. Pat M and I swam from Sausalito to San Francisco one summer a few years ago. Had we made our intended landing point, it would have taken closer to two and a half hours, but we misjudged the tide and started late. Much like missing Cap Gris Nez on a Channel swim, swimmers who miss Aquatic Park on a flood tide must chase a receding San Francisco shoreline as the current carries them east.

Since we started in the pitch black at five a.m., the first thing I thought about was getting in the water without serious injury. The traditional launch for this swim is at the sea lion sculpture on the Sausalito waterfront. The statue sits near water level and is constantly washed with surge. This makes the pedestal, the walkway, and the surrounding rip rap as slick as snot. We cleared this hurdle with only minor mishap.

The second thing I thought about was how silky the water felt. We seemed to slip through it with less friction than the water in cove. Then, I thought about keeping a steady pace with Pat. We had practiced together many times in Aquatic Park, including a couple of two hour swims. We were pretty evenly matched, but I wanted to make sure I kept up. Then, I started thinking about how long it would be before we could see the Golden Gate Bridge. By then it was time for a feeding—a partial packet of GU; a slug of water; and back to stroking.

After the second feeding, I really don’t remember thinking of much at all other than getting across the Bay. When the current pushed us east to Alcatraz Island, Laura B announced that we’d “treat it like a Channel swim.” From then on we’d try to get to San Francisco, regardless of location of landing. At this point, I remember being determined not to climb back into the boat until we were across. Other than that, it was just a series of, “Ding! Feed time,” followed by slurp, slug, and go. In fact, that is one of the regular pieces of advice appearing on the channel_swimmers Google chat site. “Just swim from feed to feed until you finish.”

What I find now that I’ve dramatically increased my weekly swim mileage is that I mostly think about my stroke. That would have been hard to imagine before the instruction from Coach Val. For hours, I now concentrate on stroke mechanics. I think about each hand entering the water directly above my head. I think about a strong, positive “catch” of the water with my hand. I think about a bent arm pull directly past my face and down the centerline of my body. I think about a smooth, powerful glide. I think about a relaxed recovery. I think about my toes ticking each other to indicate that my legs are not flying apart. I think about swimming through a narrow tunnel. I think about pushing water as far behind my toes as possible. There’s a lot involved in the swimming stroke. Who wudda thunk it?

Occasionally, I’ll practice breathing on the left side and then my thinking gets over-thought. My brain goes into over-drive. My stroke no longer feels natural. Left-side breathing is something I’ll have to keep thinking about.

In the Aquatic Park Cove, I spend time thinking about avoiding collisions with people and things. When it's dark, buoys and flotsam demand keen attention. With the water getting warmer, swimmers who use wetsuits are coming out in greater numbers earlier than normal for the season. They often swim in rather large groups and create a swim obstacle course. With the currents shoving and pushing in different directions, sighting a course is something to regularly think about. Swimming under the “round house,” I think about staying equidistant between the concrete support columns. I think about avoiding the nasty, broken wooden pier post at the periphery. It pokes its jagged barnacle-encrusted head above the water at the lower tides and forces a swimmer to carefully navigate. At times like this, my stroke suffers.

On the longer Bay swims, though, the pilot does the thinking about course and collision avoidance. Then, I think almost exclusively about stroke and swimming from feed to feed. It’s hard to believe, but true.

Paul Boyton

Sunday 2/28/10

“The great waters roll from beyond the Isles of the Dead to thunder and shatter against the rocks at the west of Britain. The sea heaves there, as if the ocean gods flexed their muscles, and the white birds cry endlessly, and the wind rattles the spray against the cliffs.” This is how Bernard Cornwell describes the wild ocean on the western side of England. This is the sea into which Paul Boyton leapt in 1874 to demonstrate the original “life-saving dress.”

As a teenager, Mr. Boyton possessed a reckless and peripatetic streak. At fifteen, he spent less than a year in the Union Navy fighting the Confederates. He served briefly on a collecting voyage to the West Indies before the boat sank. He joined Benito Juarez’s Mexican Navy to fight the French. Then he joined the French Army to fight the Kingdom of Prussia. He served six months as a diver for a submarine company in New York until he took passage to South Africa to hunt for diamonds. On his return to America, an unscrupulous captain attempted to shanghai him. He escaped by swimming in the middle of the night over a mile to shore in the port of Malaga and hiding in the hills.

When he finally returned to Philadelphia at twenty-four years old, the president of the Camden & Atlantic railroad Company hired Mr. Boyton to take charge of the lifesaving service in Atlantic City. His duties included supervising the lifeguards at the seaside resort. In light of these aquatic management responsibilities, he received the honorific of “Captain.” A strong swimmer, he harbored a passion for lifesaving dating to his youth when he saved a child pinned beneath a log by the strong Alleghany River currents. During Captain Boyton’s tenure, the incidence of drowning deaths dropped from twenty per year to none. When he left the Atlantic City position, he had saved seventy-one lives.

His responsibilities included maintaining the various lifesaving apparatus which he spent hours perfecting. In this process he discovered the newly invented survival suit of C. S. Merriman, a discovery that was to alter the course of his life. The survival suit consisted of pants and tunic made from highly vulcanized rubber. With rubber gaskets at the waist and head, it was waterproof in much the way dry suits are today. The suit contained five inflatable air chambers to assist in flotation. The wearer of the suit propelled himself feet first with a double-bladed paddle such as kayakers now use. A small sail attached to the foot could harness a convenient wind for additional propulsion.

Mr. Merriman was the quintessential Victorian inventor who was horrified by the number of deaths resulting from pleasure boat shipwrecks. He and Captain Boyton collaborated to promote the adoption of the survival suit and save lives. Of course, their efforts far pre-dated the emergence of radio and television advertisements. The most effective route to a mass audience in those days was the newspapers. In this pursuit, Captain Boyton conducted a series of demonstrations around New York. Paddling around, shooting off flares and smoking the occasional cigar, he found the public reception rather tepid. The remedy was some heroic and sensational stunt that the news-hungry papers could not ignore.

He announced his intention to sail two hundred miles to sea in the Atlantic Ocean and paddle back in the survival suit. People jeered in disbelief. Another obstacle was that even before the age of rampant lawsuits, no sailing captain would agree to knowingly transport him to his liquid launch site. Undaunted, he snuck aboard the steamer ship Queen and stowed away until he guessed it was 250 miles off shore. In the middle of the night, he donned his suit in the shelter of a life boat. He was equipped with a rubber bag containing food and water. He strapped a double-bladed axe to his leg in order to defend against sharks and sword fish. Before he could leap overboard, a deckhand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and growled, “Where are you going?” Mr. Boyton reportedly replied, “I’m going ashore.”

The captain of the Queen confiscated the survival suit. He was not impressed with Mr. Boyton’s argument that, having no ticket, he must be ejected from the vessel. Instead, the captain offered comfortable quarters and settled in for a long chat. Mr. Boyton charmed the captain with stories of his many adventures. The captain also embraced the clearly sincere desire to promote a device intended to save the lives of sea-faring men. For the duration of the crossing, they spent time in the chart room poring over possible locations for Captain Boyton to enter the sea and paddle to shore.

The other ship’s officers protested in vain. The passengers, on the other hand, were enthusiastically curious. They lined the rail as the survival suit-clad figure lowered into the water about two and a half miles off the Irish coast. The Queen sailed on and left Captain Boyton to deal with a growing gale and bucking seas. He narrowly survived being smashed against the massive cliffs in the vicinity of Cape Clear. Swept into a narrow ravine, he climbed to the top of the plateau and eventually stumbled to the seaside village of Baltimore in the midst of the crashing gale.

His appearance first prompted fear due to his outlandish costume. The next reaction was shock and concern for what must have happened to the other passengers. Finally, as the tale unfolded, the villagers embraced the heroism of his feat. They sent him off to Skibbereen in a horse-drawn jaunting car with a loud huzza.

Captain Boyton made the most of the public relations opportunity. As soon as possible, he sent telegrams to the Queen and the New York Herald announcing his accomplishment. By the time he reached Cork, he was famous. He spent the rest of the year capitalizing on this fame. He held exhibitions where he would paddle around for an hour, smoking cigars, lighting signal flares, and knocking the tops off bottles with a Bowie knife. He was making money and popularizing what was becoming known as the “Boyton Suit.” But his sights were now set on gaining the attention of Europe. For this, he planned to cross the English Channel.

In the second week of April, 1875, Paul Boyton and his entourage (including C. S. Merriman) checked into a Dover hotel. At three o’clock on the morning of April 10, he set out on his journey to the cheers of the Dover crowd. After a promising start, the weather turned nasty. Reporting from the pilot tug boat, Mr. McGarahan of the New York Herald wrote, “It was a strangely fascinating spectacle to watch him in his hand-to-hand struggle with the ocean. The waves seemed to become living things animated by a terrible hatred for the strange being battling with them. Sometimes they seemed to withdraw for a moment, as if by concert, and then rush down on him from all sides, roaring like wild beasts.” Fifteen hours after he had started, Captain Boyton acceded to the pleas of his brother and the tug boat pilot and gave up the attempt.

Despite the failure, the publicity was favorable and Mr. Boyton earned additional riches performing exhibitions in France. By the end of May, he was ready to try again going the other way. Once again, he started at three o’clock in the morning near Cap Gris Nez in France. This time, he had a much more peaceful crossing and landed on a rocky strip of beach at Fan Bay in England. The Queen of England and the Prince of Wales sent telegrams of congratulations. He traveled throughout England and his appearance fee soared to fifty guineas a day.

Six months later, Matthew Webb dramatically eclipsed Mr. Boyd’s accomplishment. Captain Webb swam across the English Channel in a simple swim suit and without swim aids. In The Crossing, Kathy Watson writes, “Boyton’s exploits were history, the previous hero of the Channel cut down to size, written off as a pushy little New World adventurer with a funny rubber suit and too high an opinion of himself.”

A fierce debate continues today regarding the use of rubber suits for swimming in cold water. Channel_Swimmers@googlegroups.com has some very entertaining threads on this topic. Few people question, however, that the pinnacle of swimming achievement remains the English Channel. And few people dispute that the acme of accomplishment is to make the crossing with one standard swim costume, one standard swim cap, and a pair of goggles.

Is It Hard to Write this Stuff?

Sunday 02/21/10

In the beginning, I had no difficulty at all capturing my thoughts about this project. In fact, at first, I had a hard time keeping pace with the unfolding events related to making a commitment to try and conquer one of the world’s most challenging pinnacles of athletic achievement. With all due respect to Moses, Mohammed, and Joseph Smith, it flowed from the keyboard like I was taking dictation from God. Actually, I am paraphrasing a line from Anne Lamott’s book, “Bird by Bird.” In it, she refers to a writer for whom this effortless creativity abounds. Ms. Lamott warns, however, “This is a very hostile and aggressive position. One might hope for bad things to rain down on a person like this.”

Among the options for publishing this blog, I promised Google that these entries would be devoid of adult content. When writing about the South Enders, it’s almost impossible to avoid adult themes, but I don’t think that counts. Words generally accepted as profane probably do cross the line, though, so I’ll refer to one of my favorite chapters in “Bird by Bird” with the adulterated title: “[Really Crummy] First Drafts.”

In this chapter she plumbs a subject to which she will repeatedly return. Ms. Lamott says that it is a misconception to believe that successful writers “take in a few deep breaths, push back their sleeves, roll their necks a few times to get all the cricks out, and dive in, typing fully formed passages as fast as a court reporter.” Being successful in the trade herself, she naturally knows “some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts.” Then she admits one exception, “but we do not like her very much. We do not think that she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can even stand her.” When she mentioned this to a friend of hers who happened to be a priest, he replied, “You can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”

I have the memory (perhaps recovered) that Isaac Asimov once commented that great prose was generated, “not in the writing, but in the rewriting.” This thought is echoed in Ms. Lamott’s book and most other treatises on the writing process and profession. When it comes to rewriting, I’m forced to admit that “I resemble that remark.” This is not to say that the prose is great, but that what finally reaches the blogosphere is a substantially improved product due to incessant rewriting. Getting those initial words down on the screen has become a somewhat steady struggle and I must go over and over the original raw material as if carding exceptionally coarse wool by hand.

A wonderful aspect of the blog form of publishing is that rewriting is genuinely organic. A host of (sometimes anonymous) readers provide free copy editing and fact checking. How many steps is it actually from the Dolphin Club deck to the men’s locker room? How long was Mike R. actually in the water for that New Year’s Day Alcatraz swim in 49 degree water? Isn’t your grammar a bit unparallel in this passage? Are you truly determined to use that unwieldy word? Probably just as valuable is the ability to reread old entries during a lunch break from work and easily administer a little word chiropractics: tweak a phrase, add alliteration, or axe superfluous text.

Charles Dickens must have had a pre-internet experience of this sort. By publishing his stories in serial format, he could benefit from public reaction to each episode. He could shape subsequent installments with the derived insight. It’s quite possible that when he assembled these entries into a complete book, he took the opportunity to give everything another once-over.

Generating the raw wool—brittle, dry, and wiry as it might be—is definitely the hard part. On this, Anne Lamott should have the final words. “You turn on your computer and bring up the right file…. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the [screen] again. Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard … you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Also, severe hypochondria…. Yet somehow in the face of all this, you clear a space for the writing voice, hacking away at the others with machetes and you begin to compose sentences…. It is a matter of persistence and faith and hard work. So you might as well just go ahead and get started.”

Hmmmm. Sounds just like training for swimming the English Channel.

Four Hour Swim

Thursday 02/11/10

Coach Val closed a lane at Koret pool for Peter Perez and me today. It was the occasion of our four-hour swim. Peter’s window starts a month before mine, but for now our training schedules coincide. We piled our various nutrition concoctions at poolside and hit the water at 6:10a.

Having a training companion was a real treat. Peter and I are pretty well matched in speed. We were able to settle into a steady pattern and gauge our speed against one another. Coach Val recorded split times on the half hour and validated that the pace was consistent.

Just as importantly, Coach was very happy with my stroke. He pronounced it, “very stable.” Compared to my original boogie-woogie stroke, it was also a much slower rotation rate. Lindsay laughed when she saw the video and said, “It looks like you’re going sooooo slow!” But in fact, the new stroke has shaved about 12 seconds off each hundred yards—about a 10% improvement in actual speed. Three and a half hours into the swim, a young man dropped into the lane next to me. His rotation rate was about twice mine and his speed was about half my speed. He would wait at the end of the lane for me to arrive and then race me back across, experimenting with increasing head starts. I could see the wonder and frustration in his countenance. Peter noticed the young man’s fascination with us as well. I was reminded of what a pitiable swimmer I was when I joined the Dolphin Club. I owe a big debt of gratitude to Coach Val.

This swim was also a chance to work on nutrition. Research has convinced me to make maltodextrin powder the foundation of my feeding. Different people have different preferences and the raw science of endurance nutrition seems to be subject to distortion in the service of a particular sport or a paid product endorsement. However, picking through the various information available, I’ve drawn a few preliminary conclusions.

The main conclusion is find what works for you and stick with it. Everyone seems to agree on this. Captain Webb made the crossing on bread, barley soup, and beer. Some swimmers have made the crossing on Gatorade. One reportedly succeeded on chocolate. The six inches between the ears are arguably the most important distance relative to a successful 21 mile crossing. Having confidence in your feeding choice is a key to working on the six inches.

My choice for primary feeding source is a maltodextrin powder. For one thing, it is almost flavorless and can be mixed with water or some other flavored liquid. For another thing, it is a straight carbohydrate feed and the literature indicates that carbohydrates provide fuel more quickly than fat and over a longer period of time than sugar. For another thing, during the course of a twelve or fifteen hour swim, the additives in some feeds can far exceed the maximum daily allowance. I’d prefer to add these separately as needed.

This swim boosted my confidence quite a bit. Next week, I’ll swim from AT&T Park back to the clubs’ beach with the Southend Sunrisers. That swim will give me two hours in the open water. The six inches between my ears should benefit from that as well.

Another Slice of Heaven

Sunday 02/07/10

Starting just east of Aquatic Park, the piers of San Francisco radiate out of the city front like irregular sprockets. The point of reference for all pier numbers is the Ferry Building. First opened in 1898, the Ferry Building and Plaza mark the picturesque terminus of Market Street. In the early 1900’s, it was the second busiest transit terminal in the world. It continues to offer ferry docking and still serves as the starting point for numbering other San Francisco piers. Going north from the Ferry Plaza the piers bear odd numbers. Going south, the piers carry even numbers.

Odd-numbered Pier 7 juts into the Bay three blocks north of the Ferry Building. After the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989, the pier was condemned. Multiple city, state, and national authorities pooled together almost $7,000,000 in funding to create a truly beautiful public access pier with wrought iron railings, timber decking, and ornamental lighting. It is a favorite starting point for Sunriser swims. The ground track from Pier 7 to Aquatic Park is roughly two and a half miles, making it a longish swim in 53 degree water and suitable for winter training for the English Channel. The Sunrisers had planned a Pier 7 for Friday the 5th, and I was eager to go along.

Determined to arrive early enough to help prepare and launch the pilot craft, I crossed the dark beach between the Dolphin and South End clubs at six a.m. The tide was just beginning to ebb from a height of 6.1 feet and the beach was awash. Reaching the South End dock with sea-slick flip-flops, I gingerly climbed up the inky, slippery steps to confront a lightless, barren tableau. The last time I was here, light poured out of the big, open bay door to illuminate a pre-dawn scene of bustle and purpose. Now, it was just a cold, damp expanse of gloomy concrete with one or two cove swimmers milling about. I wandered around the warren-like building searching for a familiar face. Befitting the club-within-a club nature of the Sunrisers, I met nobody knowledgeable of the Sunriser schedule or the potential for a Pier 7 swim. I was disappointed. The thought of once again crisscrossing the cove several times was not very appealing.

On my last circuit through the various club nooks and crannies, I came across Joe Butler in the men’s locker room. He said, “Yep. Today’s Pier 7, another trip to heaven. Go sign up and I’ll meet you downstairs.” Hot dang! We were in business! An attack of olds-timers had caused me to forget the Sunriser’s weekday schedule. 6:30 a.m. is check-in. 7 a.m. is jump time. I’d just been a half hour early.

When I got downstairs, the bustle had still failed to materialize. Only one other swimmer had checked in. We introduced ourselves and chatted a bit while we waited. I saw that a Zodiac was stowed in the inflatable boat rack in a quick-launch fashion with the outboard already attached. When Mr. Butler came, I asked if he wanted me to retrieve a fuel tank from the outside storage locker. He gave me the combination and we two swimmers went to fumble with the lightless lock. Next time, I’ll have to remember to bring reading glasses.

By the time we secured the fuel tank, Mr. Butler had wheeled the Zodiac out of the boat barn. He then sent us for the radios. Without glasses, we again fumbled with the lock on the radio shack, but did return with two working radios—one for boat-to-boat communication and one to speak with the Vessel Traffic Service. By the time we got back, Mr. Butler had wheeled the Zod down the ramp and had it in the water with the engine idling. He secured the radios, asked me to untie the leader and we were off. The sun was still below the horizon and we kept a sharp lookout for swimmers in the black water.

Just as we turned the corner at Pier 45, the eastern sky was starting to glow, splashing the lengths of stratocumulus clouds with blue and orange tinges. The water was almost glassy calm and heaved slowly in a ponderous swell that made it feel like the Bay was breathing deeply in a heavy slumber.

As we passed the odd-numbered piers, Mr. B pointed out the normally active ones, teaching us the potential piloting hazards of various tugs, cruise ships, and work ferries as they might leave or enter their homes. He never once expressed the slightest disappointment at the prospect of piloting only two swimmers. We were all three enjoying the wilderness experience in an urban setting and the beauty of the breaking dawn.

We glided to a stop south of Pier 7 just before 7 a.m. and paused to check the strength of the ebb tide. It was clearly strong and building. This was going to be a good ride. Mr. Butler contacted VTS and gave our location and intention. VTS responded with an admonition about shipping traffic. Mr. B assured them that the two swimmers would stay together and pilot coverage would be close. They responded positively and we two swimmers rolled backward off the pontoons and splashed into the water. Once again, the icy shock of the dark water provided an adrenaline bump that lasted well after we began stroking for mid-channel to catch more current.

About the time that we reached Pier 27, the supply ship for Alcatraz, the Solitary, was heading out on its daily 7a run. This ferry has the exclusive contract for bringing water, food, and equipment to the island. It also carries back waste and discards. By radio, the pilot told Mr. B that it intended to stick to its normal course and the swimmers would have to let it pass. As a result, we were well north of the city front by the time we were able to turn west. At this point, though, the more prudent course was to head due south back to land. As it was, we wound up sprinting perpendicularly to the massive ebb current to regain the city front before being swept past the Aquatic Park opening. We safely joined the fisherman's wharf breakwater partway down its length and zoomed into the opening accompanied by other South Enders who had been swimming laps outside the cement wall.

We helped pull the zodiac onto its trolley and trundle it into the preparation area where Mr. Butler shooed the swimmers into the saunas. All of us wore huge grins in commemoration of the spectacular and rare occurrence of flat water and blue skies. Another Pier 7. Another slice of heaven.