To say it has been my worst year for swimming ever is an understatement. First, there was the depression episode that came on in February. By the time my ketamine treatments we approved in April, I was not feeling well at all. As I fought my way out of the all-consuming sadness, my narcolepsy was acting up, leaving me exhausted all the time. In addition, I was slammed at work with our busy season. I had neither the energy, motivation, nor stamina to do much of anything outside my job, including my own swimming. I looked forward to my 15th Great Chesapeake Bay 4.4 Mile Swim in June, only to be sidelined to the ER the day before with severe pain, attributed to an ovarian cyst, leaving me incapable of doing the swim the next day. I was absolutely devastated.
I grew less depressed, but the stress and sleep issues persisted. My sleep doctor and I made a few tweaks to my narcolepsy medications; but ultimately, he did not know what was due to depression and what was caused by narcolepsy. My summer open water season was a huge disappointment, as I had little opportunity to swim due to my unrelenting issues. I managed in October to eke out a 2.4 mile swim and was absolutely spent the next day. I was signed up for the five mile in St. Croix—was this really a good idea?
As the weeks progressed, my tiredness continued, and I found myself wondering if I should switch to the two mile race instead. I didn’t WANT to have to do that, but I wrestled with the concept of whether I NEEDED to. I was super nervous about my upcoming swim and the What Ifs began to populate: what if I get injured attempting something I had not recently trained for? What if I get simply too tired to continue swimming? How would I deal with the emotions that would ensue after a failed attempt? I did not make my swim and island vacation as public as I had in the past with friends and family, as I did not want to have to deal with the questions if I did not finish. I barely mentioned the race to those who did not know about it in the first place.
When I got to the island, I dreaded my packet pickup time. What do I do? A little voice inside me fought against all the doubt. Do the five. “Which distance?” the race director asked as I walked up to the table. I took a deep breath. “The five”. My stomach flopped as she handed me the classic yellow cap and wristband that were used each year. There was no turning back now, except to not swim at all.
I managed to sleep well that night, although I was worried as hell that I would not wake up to my 4:30 alarm to eat and have time to relax before meeting the taxis at 6. To my surprise, I woke up five minutes before my alarm went off. Excellent. What a relief. I ate my bread and peanut butter (my usual pre-swim meal) that I brought from home, along with my tea that I had “brewed” the previous evening in my hotel room. I wanted to eat enough, but not too much that I would feel heavy and sick. 5:30 came. I put on my suit, nerves bouncing around throughout my whole body, and looked into the mirror. I smiled at my reflection to ease my terror, which lifted slightly, and I was out the door to meet the taxis.
The first taxi going to the marina pulled up to our meeting point, and I was one of the first ones on. As he entered the taxi, a man behind me proclaimed, “It’s a great day to be alive.” Wow. How incredibly significant for him to say that. Part of depression is your brain lying to you. Merely seven months ago I did not want to live anymore, yet I recovered and here I was, present in mind and body, about to do my favorite activity—swim. “Yes… yes, it is” I replied. And I actually meant it.
We were taxied to the marina and then boarded boats to drop us off at the start on Buck Island. The weather was sunny but quite breezy—luckily, the wind would be at our backs through most of the race, but it still made for a very active boat ride. Right before I jumped into the water to swim to shore, I felt my watch vibrate with a text alert. It was Daddy-o (my father). “Go Susan!!!” I instantly smiled, as Daddy-o is a huge supporter of my swimming, and always has been.
We all stood on the super soft sand watching very active waves sweep across the channel between the island and the St. Croix mainland. Oh my, I thought. I have a lot of ocean experience, and these swells were about the biggest I had ever actively swum in. Another boat pulled up to drop off kayakers. I read the name of the vessel on the side of it and smiled again—the boat’s name was “Daddio”. Tears came to my eyes. Daddy-o and I joke all the time about having telepathy. How incredibly fitting that my Daddy-o was truly there in spirit, as there was a boat [almost] named after him.
The thirty second countdown to the race start was given. I put on a smile and took deep breaths to keep from actively crying, simultaneously admiring the beauty of the ocean, white sand, and trees on the island. And it was time. Do what you know how to do. I started out as far to the left as possible for the channel crossing, as the swells and current were pushing to the right. That was a solid move as it was truly no joke out there.
I told myself to be one with the ocean and not fight against it. When the sand got farther away below me, I searched for my favorite, starfish. Where were they? I fought to stay on my line to the other end of the first portion of the race. Catching a few waves in my mouth, I continuously spat out the water to keep from getting queasy from the salt water. I smiled when I saw my first starfish, relieved that my sea friends were still there to greet me. I could make out their five arms clearly, thirty feet below, and it made me happy. Reminding myself to focus on my line to the far yellow buoy (which was still about 1.5 miles away), I trudged on.
I did not look at my watch at all during the race. I didn’t care how long this swim was going to take me, and I knew not to push too hard during the channel portion, as I would still have three miles to go. Eventually the bottom came closer, and I had the yellow turn buoy in my sight, along with the boat that had water for us. Rounding the buoy was a bit tougher due to the swell and wind that pounded it, but I succeeded and swam to the side of the boat. They threw me a bottle filled with (supposedly) fresh water. Treading carefully, I opened the bottle and took a gulp, not prepared for the contents to be warm and funny tasting. Ugh. I grabbed a gel pack from the hip area of my suit and squeezed the contents into my mouth, washing it down with the icky water. Well, better than drinking the ocean. During this process, I drifted further away from the anchored boat, and wished they had a net on board so I wouldn’t have to toss the bottle back to them. Cursing to myself about the inconvenience, and concerned I was using up valuable energy, I got close enough to toss it. Thank goodness. I focused on my new path forward to my next landmark, the green-roofed house on a cliff.
Ugh again. I was feeling somewhat nauseous from the gross water and my gel, and I cursed at myself (again) for using a packet that was “best by” March of 2022. Shoot. I really didn’t want to throw up my hydration and sustenance and focused on forward progression. Luckily the queasiness faded, and I was incredibly thankful. The swells were coming on a diagonal and the green-roofed house seemed so far away. I told myself to enjoy my swim and use the waves to my advantage as best as I could.
The visibility underwater was not as great as I hoped for. There were plenty of instances where I don’t think I even saw the sand below clearly. I passed over some reef and was thrilled to see some black fish hovering around it. Hi fishies! I gradually passed the house and marveled at the beauty of the waves crashing along the rocks of the cliff. My next focus became a white house with pyramids for its roof. I thought about turtles and the expression “slow and steady wins the race”. I was by no means winning against the other competitors, but I was winning at my own race. I was about halfway to the finish and still feeling strong. I was grateful for my decision to have taken large amounts of electrolyte tablets in the days before and that morning. I can do this.
Passing the pyramid-roofed house, I was pleasantly surprised to see a yellow buoy in the distance, which signaled the final turn into the finish. Wow. I am DOING this. The turn was sharp, and the waves were super choppy heading into the shore. As I looked around for the sugar mill on the hill (which we could aim for to direct us to the finish), I didn’t notice any other guide buoys, or anything about the landscape that was familiar. OH NO. I was already 100 years in from the buoy and now had to fight my way back to the course. ACK. Why was this buoy yellow?? I scolded myself for not attending the in-person pre-race meeting, as I had viewed the Google Earth presentation a couple of times and swam the course many more times over the years.
The waves were huge and unrelenting as I dove my way through them to avoid being clobbered. Worse, I noticed a wide swath of reef below me, and I prayed not to hit it and cause damage to it and myself. I muscled back to the yellow buoy and continued. I could see the palm tree lined hill that signaled the finish on the other side. I was getting quite tired but knew there was a job to be done. Putting my head down I noticed there was still not a lot of visibility. The waves were still pounding but I could see the “real” yellow buoy way off. I needed to go a bit further away from shore to get around it to make the sharp turn into the finish. I dug up some courage from within to keep at it when all I really wanted at the time was to be done swimming.
Rounding my way around the buoy, I wished there was a kayaker stationed there to offer some much-needed encouragement. Oh well. I could see the first of two orange buoys that would lead to the finish but could not tell where the sugar mill was. I also found myself in a washing machine of currents and waves that I fought through. There were 400 yards to go, and I had come so far but I knew that anything could happen at any point. I hoped the electrolytes would hold and I would avoid cramping at the end. I was so spent and ready for some sports drink to get the salty taste out of my mouth. The second buoy came into view, and I swam to its right, staying directly on course. I could faintly hear music and people cheering on the shore. So. Very. Close.
I reached the in-water finish cute and waited for my fingers to brush the sand. I stood carefully, not wanting my legs to cramp as I wobbled up the sandy hill to the beach finish. I smiled, looked at those waiting on the shore, and asked jokingly “Are we there yet?” The race director smiled back and replied it was right up the hill. Gaining a good sense of being upright from my very long horizontal position was hard, but I managed. It was a surreal moment to pass through the frond-decked wood structure that was the official finish. I DID IT. FOR REAL.
I could not stop smiling as I was handed a finisher’s medal with a yellow ribbon to match my swim cap. Friends and other race participants congratulated me on my swim, to which congrats were returned. I stumbled around in disbelief. I had achieved a feat that I thought would not be possible due to my circumstances. But here I was, a finisher. Tears of gratitude filled my eyes, and I was so glad it was over. I was not as sore or tired as I thought I would be the next day, which was an utter relief. The day after that, however, was a struggle to get up and stay awake.
I am grateful for the near miracle that was my swim. How fitting that Thanksgiving was only a week and a half away, allowing me something else to give thanks for. Whether it be muscle memory, sheer grit, or determination that got me through, I stay excited for my next challenge... with a bit more training, of course.
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