July 2022. I drop a massive rock on my foot and break a toe. The doctor says recovery will take eight weeks: no running, hiking, biking, yoga, or tennis. As a manic person who mitigates stress via exercise, I’m furious with myself for sabotaging the summer. And the boulder blunder isn’t my first careless self-inflicted injury. Last year, I smashed my head on a low ceiling, causing a concussion and chronic migraines.
Despondent and desperate, I start swimming. At age 46, for the first time in my life, I swim laps. Sort of. I swim one lap. Then stop, gasping. Then swim another lap. Two months later, my toe has healed and I’m obsessed with swimming.
Fast forward to May 2024: I just signed up to swim across the Hudson River in July. I’m excited, but also anxious. Swimming in open water seems scary.
The Hudson is deep, dark, and dirty. You can’t stand. You can’t see the bottom. The water is polluted. There is no chlorine. There are strong currents and no lap lanes or black lines painted on the bottom to guide your way. It’s just you and the elements.
Also: I’m haunted by the memory of a canoe trip in rural Minnesota with a friend and his five-year-old daughter . One minute, we were happily paddling down the river. The next minute, I bumped a branch with my paddle; our canoe tipped and flipped and we plunged into the icy water.
I surfaced, sputtering, and saw my friend, but no sign of the girl. He dove for her but couldn’t find her in the murky water. I shucked off my boots, but weighed down by my flannel shirt and jeans I was too scared to help search. He dove again. And again. Nothing.
We stared at each other, silently speaking the unspeakable.
Then we heard a tiny voice, echoing. Somehow, she had surfaced under the upturned canoe. Maybe she was treading water or hanging onto the boat. But she was alive.
After righting the canoe, clambering aboard, and paddling to shore, we sprinted through the woods, shivering in soggy clothes. My friend filled the bath with hot water. We all got in the tub in our underwear to warm our freezing bodies. Soon, my friend’s speech slurred. His eyelids fluttered. Panicked, I called 911. After what felt like an hour, an ambulance finally arrived and took us to the local hospital.
We survived. But our friendship never recovered.
It’s now the beginning of May. The Hudson river swim is at the end of July.
For the next 12 weeks, I’ll be training—physically, mentally, and emotionally—to swim across the Hudson.
Along the way, I’ll be writing publicy about the process and sharing insights.
And it’s not only about me.
I’ll also be interviewing swimmers to deepen and diversify the discussion. So if you swim—or know someone who swims—drop me a line. I’d love to hear your story.
I don’t know what the next three months will bring. I don’t know what challenges I’ll face during that time—in or out of the water. And I don’t know what I’ll learn.
But I do know that if you want to learn and grow, you need to strip down and be vulnerable, risk embarassment and failure, and take the plunge.
Great summer project! Your story also resurfaced a personal memory I'd forgotten. I swam a lot as a kid. My family took camping trips every summer to 8th lake in the Adirondacks. When I was about 10, I became determined to swim the entire length of the lake. At first my parent dismissed the idea. They finally agreed to let me do it, but insisted they follow me with a row boat. Probably a good idea! I remember feeling exhausted but accomplished when all was said and done.
Love this! I thought of a time I volunteered to help with equine therapy for young adults with developmental disabilities. The lesson had ended, and the twenty-year-old, willowy girl I was helping led her very big horse to his stall. He cut a corner and stepped on her toe (in a soft rubber boot) and froze, while she shrieked. I forced him off her foot, but the damage had been done (her toe would heal, but I wasn’t sure about her confidence with a horse), and I couldn’t stop trembling. Honestly, I don’t know if I ever went back. So, I don’t swim, but I admire your courage in crossing the river - literal and metaphorical.