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Swimming to Antarctica: Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer


Swimming to Antarctica: Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer Cover




"Please. Please. Please, Coach, let us out of the pool, we're freezing," pleaded three purple-lipped eight-year-olds in lane two.

Coach Muritt scowled at my teammates clinging to the swimming pool wall. Usually this was all he had to do to motivate them, and they'd continue swimming. But this day was different. Ominous black clouds were crouched on the horizon, and the wind was gusting from all different directions. Even though it was a mid-July morning in Manchester, New Hampshire, it felt like it would snow.

Cupping his large hands against his red face, and covering the wine-colored birthmark on his left cheek, Coach Muritt bellowed, "Get off the wall! Swim!"

"We're too cold," the boys protested.

Coach Muritt did not like to be challenged by anyone, let alone three eight-year-old boys. Irritated, he shouted again at the swimmers to get moving, and when they didn't respond, he jogged across the deck with his fist clenched, his thick shoulders hunched against the wind and his short-chopped brown hair standing on end. Anger flashed in his icy blue eyes, and I thought, I'd better swim or I'll get in trouble too, but I wanted to see what was going to happen to the boys.

Coach Muritt shook his head and shouted, "Swim and you'll get warm!"

But the boys weren't budging. They were shaking, their teeth chattering.

"Come on, swim. If you swim, you'll warm up," Coach Muritt coaxed them. He looked up at the sky, then checked his watch, as if trying to decide what to do. In other lanes, swimmers were doing the breaststroke underwater, trying to keep their arms warm. More teammates were stopping at the wall and complaining that they were cold. Laddie and Brooks McQuade, brothers who were always getting into trouble, were breaking rank, climbing out of the pool and doing cannonballs from the deck. Other young boys and girls were joining them.

"Hey, stop it! Someone's going to get hurt-get your butts back in the water!" Coach Muritt yelled. He knew he was losing control, that he had pushed the team as far as we could go, so he waved us in. When all seventy-five of us reached the wall, he motioned for us to move toward a central lane and then he shouted, "Okay, listen up. Listen up. I'll make a deal with you. If I let you get out now, you will all change into something warm and we'll meet in the boys' locker room. Then we will do two hours of calisthenics."

Cheering wildly, my teammates leaped out of the pool, scurried across the deck, grabbed towels slung over the chain-link fence surrounding the pool, and squeezed against one another as they tried to be first through the locker room doors.

Getting out of the water was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. I hated doing calisthenics with the team. Usually we did them five days a week for an hour, after our two-hour swimming workout. A typical workout included five hundred sit-ups, two hundred push-ups, five hundred leg extensions, five hundred half sit-ups, two hundred leg lifts on our backs, and two hundred leg lifts on our stomachs. As we did the exercises, Coach Muritt counted and we had to keep pace with him. Between each set of fifty repetitions, he gave us a one-minute break, but if anyone fell off pace or did the exercises incorrectly, he made us start the set all over again. He wanted to make us tough, teach us discipline and team unity. And I didn't mind that. I liked to work hard, and I liked the challenge of staying on pace, but I detested having to start an exercise all over again because someone else was slacking off or fooling around. Brooks and Laddie McQuade were notorious for that. They were always trying to see how much they could get away with before they got caught. For them, it was a big game. Older boys on the team yelled at them and tossed kickboards at them, but they didn't care; they liked the attention they were getting from the team and the coach. I didn't want to play their game, and I didn't want to do two long hours of calisthenics with them, so I shouted, "Coach Muritt, can I stay in the pool and swim?"

He was wiping his eyes and nose with a handkerchief, and asked incredulously, "Jeez, aren't you freezing?"

"If I keep swimming, I'm okay," I said, and smiled, trying my very best to convince him. I was a chubby nine-year-old, and I was a slow swimmer, so I rarely got a chance to stop and take a rest. But because I just kept going, I managed to constantly create body heat, and that way I stayed warm when all the other swimmers were freezing.

"Is there anyone else who wants to stay in the water?"

"We do," said three of his Harvard swimmers in lane one.

During the college season, Muritt coached the Harvard University Swim Team. He was considered to be one of the best coaches in all of New England; at least a dozen of his college swimmers had qualified for the U.S. Nationals. In the summer, most of his college swimmers worked out with our age groupers on the Manchester Swim Team, and they inspired us by their example. Somehow my parents knew from the start that to become your best, you needed to train with the best. And that's why I think they put my older brother, David, me, and my two younger sisters, Laura and Ruth, into Coach Muritt's swimming program.

Coach Muritt studied the sky, and we followed his gaze. "I still don't like the looks of those clouds," he said pensively.

"Coach, we'll get out immediately if it starts to thunder. I promise," I said, and held my breath, hoping he wouldn't make me do calisthenics.

He considered for a moment, but he was distracted by uproarious laughter, high-pitched hoots, and shouts coming from the locker room.

"Please, Coach Muritt, please can we stay in?" I said.

"Okay, but I'll have to take the pace clock or it's going to blow over-you'll have to swim at your own pace for the next couple of hours."

"Thank you, Coach," I said, and clapped my hands; I was doubly thrilled. I had escaped calisthenics and now I was going to be able to swim for three hours straight. I loved swimming and I loved swimming at my own pace, alone in my own lane, with no one kicking water in my face, and no one behind tapping my toes, telling me I had to swim faster. It was a feeling of buoyant freedom. But swimming into a storm was even better; waves were rushing around me, and lifting me, and tossing me from side to side. The wind was howling, slamming against the chain-link fence so strongly that it sounded like the clanging of a warning bell. I felt the vibrations rattle right through my body, and I wondered if the wind would tear the fence from its hinges. Turning on my side to breathe, I checked the sky. It looked like a tornado was approaching, only without the funnel cloud. I wondered for a second if I should climb out of the water. But I pushed that thought away; I didn't want to get out. I was immersed in unbridled energy and supernatural beauty, and I wanted to see what would happen next.

My world was reduced to the blur of my arms stroking as a cold, driving rain began. The raindrops that hit my lips tasted sweet and cold, and I enjoyed the sensations of every new moment. The pool was no longer a flat, boring rectangle of blue; it was now a place of constant change, a place that I had to continually adjust to as I swam or I'd get big gulps of water instead of air. That day, I realized that nature was strong, beautiful, dramatic, and wonderful, and being out in the water during that storm made me feel somehow a part of it, somehow connected to it.

When the hail began, the connection diminished considerably. I scrambled for the gutters while the college swimmers leaped out of the water and ran as fast as they could into the locker room. One looked back at me and shouted, "Aren't you getting out?"

"No, I don't want to," I said, crawling into the gutter by the stairs. The hail came down so fast and hard that all I heard was the rush and pinging of the stones as they hit the deck and pool. Thankful for the white bathing cap and goggles protecting my head and eyes, I covered my cheeks with my hands. Hailstones the size of frozen peas blasted my hands, neck, and shoulders, and I winced and cringed and tried to squeeze into a tighter ball, hoping that it would be over soon.

When the hail finally changed to a heavy rain, I crawled out of the gutter and started swimming again. As I pulled my arms through the water, I felt as if I were swimming through a giant bowl of icy tapioca. The hailstones floated to the water's surface and rolled around my body as I swam through them. I realized that by putting myself in a situation different from everyone else's, I had experienced something different, beautiful, and amazing.

In the parking lot outside, I saw Mrs. Milligan sitting in her car with her headlights aimed at me. Mrs. Milligan was Joyce's mother, and Joyce was the fastest and nicest girl on the team. Joyce had qualified for nationals a couple of times, and I wanted to be just like her. Once I'd asked her why she was so fast. She'd said that she did what Coach Muritt asked of her. It was such a simple statement, but one that was a revelation for me. If I did what Joyce did, then maybe I could also make it to nationals. I wondered how long Mrs. Milligan had been watching me. When I saw my teammates poking their heads out of the locker room, I knew the workout was over, so I climbed out of the pool.

Copyright and#169; 2004 by Lynne Cox

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval

system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work

should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department,

Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

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Average customer rating based on 3 comments:

Bonnie Marie, January 1, 2013 (view all comments by Bonnie Marie)
This is the true story of a long-distance swimmer who repeatedly attempted swims that were deemed impossible. At a young age she swam from Catalina Island to the California mainland, the English Channel, the dirty Nile river, and continued to swim many difficult, if not impossible, swims around the world - setting records as she went. This book is at times a nail-biter and always inspiring. It's certainly worth checking out!
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sea glass , January 1, 2013 (view all comments by sea glass )
Inspirational and empowering!
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luv2read, September 29, 2007 (view all comments by luv2read)
This is an excellent book! I don't think you have to be a water baby to enjoy these tales of soggy adventure. I love that this woman has accomplished amazing physical feats and is nowhere near a size 2! She has used her talents to open doors and build bridges across cultures and politics. She is a wonderful example and embassador to be sure! Well-written too!
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Product Details

Cox, Lynne
Harvest Books
Moderow, Debbie Clarke
Personal Memoirs
Sports - General
United states
Swimmers -- United States.
Cox, Lynne,
Iditarod;dog sledding;husky;Alaska;dog race;Anchorage;Nome;winter;extreme sports
Edition Description:
Harvest Book
Publication Date:
Grade Level:
from 9 to 12
31 photos, map
8.25 x 5.5 in 1 lb
Age Level:
from 14

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Related Subjects

Biography » General
Biography » Sports
Sports and Outdoors » Sports and Fitness » Water Sports » General
Sports and Outdoors » Sports and Fitness » Water Sports » Swimming

Swimming to Antarctica: Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$6.50 In Stock
Product details 272 pages Harvest Books - English 9780156031301 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

The first to swim the Strait of Magellan, the Bering Strait, and the Cape of Good Hope, Lynne Cox, from the age of fourteen, began forcing the world's best long-distance swimmers to reconsider what might be possible in the water. Dive in and brace yourself for a thrilling athletic adventure.

"Review" by , "Even though readers know she survived to tell the tale, it's a thrilling, awesome and well-written story."
"Review" by , "An awesome study in immersion from long-distance swimmer Cox....An otherworldly existence brought hugely to life."
"Review" by , "Her wide-eyed idealism may seem a little corny at first, but by the end we're rooting for her, wondering if brave and mostly solitary acts...don't bring us together after all."
"Review" by , "[Cox has] done things the rest of us only imagine — and she's written a book that helps us to imagine them with clarity and wonder."
"Review" by , "More than the story of the greatest open-water swimmer, Swimming to Antarctica is a portrait of rare and relentless drive....Gripping."
"Review" by , "A tale of remarkable physical prowess and heart."
"Review" by , "Even a cursory read leaves one shivering for a warm towel."
"Review" by , "A triumph of a positive outlook, hefty preparation, and raw courage."
"Synopsis" by , Newly Illustrated with Photos and Maps Throughout. Here is the joyful, inspirational memoir of swimmer Lynne Cox. By age sixteen, she had broken all records for English Channel swims, so she set her goals even higher: She became the first to swim the Strait of Magellan, narrowly escaped a shark attack off the Cape of Good Hope, and was cheered across the twenty-mile Cook Strait of New Zealand by dolphins. Her daring eventually led her to the thirty-eight-degree waters of the Bering Strait, which she crossed in her usual outfit — just a swimsuit, cap, and goggles. She has even swum a mile in the iceberg-choked waters of the Antarctic. With a poet's eye for detail, Cox shares the beauty of her time in the water in this new classic of sports memoir.
"Synopsis" by , A captivating memoir of one womanandrsquo;s attempt to complete Alaskaandrsquo;s legendary race, the Iditarod, led by her team of huskies with whom she forms a fascinating and inextricable bond and gains unique insights into canine behavior



"Synopsis" by ,
Lynne Cox, adventurer and swimmer, author of Swimming to Antarctica (and#8220;grippingand#8221; and#8212;Sports Illustrated) and Grayson (and#8220;wondrous, and unforgettableand#8221; and#8212;Carl Hiaasen), gives us in South with the Sun a full-scale account of the explorerand#8217;s life and expeditions.
"Synopsis" by ,
andldquo;This book is as autobiographical as it is biographical . . . a book that juxtaposes two adventurers, one with her own challenges still unfolding and the other with his position fixed in history . . . a book worthy of the centenary celebration of Amundsenandrsquo;s trek to the South Pole.andrdquo;andmdash;San Francisco Chronicle

Today the North and South Poles are home to research stations and film crews, but just a century ago they were forbidding lands seldom seen by human eyes. Those who journeyed there were the last true explorers, and one of the most successful ever was Roald Amundsen. Known as andldquo;the last of the Vikings,andrdquo; the Norwegian-born Amundsen began his career of adventure at age fifteen and by forty had become the first man to successfully navigate the Northwest Passage, and to reach both the North and South Poles.

As a girl, Lynne Cox read of Amundsenandrsquo;s exploits, which inspired her to follow her own adventurous dreams of open-water swimming. Here, she gives an account of Amundsenandrsquo;s life and expeditions while detailing her own experiences swimming (without a wetsuit) in the same polar regions he first explored. At once a biography, history, and memoir, South with the Sun holds something for any lover of adventure.

andldquo;Not to miss . . . It's fascinating to read about the Norwegian hardman through the eyes of Cox.andrdquo;andmdash;Outside

"Synopsis" by ,
A captivating memoir of one womanandrsquo;s attempt to finish the Iditarod, led by her team of spunky huskies with whom she shares a fascinating and inextricable bond

At age forty-seven, a mother of two, Debbie Moderow was not your average musher in the Iditarod, but thatandrsquo;s where she found herself when, less thanand#160;200 miles from the finish line, her dogs decided they didnandrsquo;t want to run anymore. After all her preparation, after all the careful management of her team, and after their running so well for over a week, the huskies balked. But the sting of not completing the race after coming so far was nothing compared to the disappointment Moderow felt in having lost touch with her dogs.and#160;

Fast into the Night is the gripping story of Moderowandrsquo;s journeys along the Iditarod trail with her team of spunky huskies: Taiga and Su, Piney and Creek, Nacho and Zeppy, Juliet and the headstrong leader, Kanga. The first failed attempt crushed Moderowandrsquo;s confidence, but after reconnecting with her dogs she returned and ventured again to Nome, pushing through injuries,and#160; hallucinations, epic storms, flipped sleds, and clashing personalities, both human and canine. And she prevailed.and#160;
Part adventure, part love story, part inquiry into the mystery of the connection between humans and dogs, Fast into the Night is an exquisitely written memoir of a woman, her dogs, and what can happen when someone puts herself in that place between daring and doubtandmdash;and soldiers on.

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