Number one activity I will not repeat in 2008: the Alcatraz Challenge. Following is a recounting of my experience as a competitor in the 2007 race.The pre-dawn drive to the registration area was mellow, as Cyndia’s brother lived close to the Presidio. I felt good—I’d done a lot of running, and I could comfortably swim for two hours in a pool. Moreover, on the shuttle to Fisherman’s Wharf I sat next to a housewife who had completed two Alcatraz swims without a wetsuit. I, too, was determined to escape The Rock as a “naked” swimmer, despite the 55-degree water. (I later found out only 10% of registrants made the crossing without a wetsuit.)
Even during summer, San Francisco is foggy and overcast. Race morning was no exception, so instead of trying to catch views or take pictures as the ferry churned toward Alcatraz, I concentrated on warming my palms in my armpits. Luckily, in no time a crackly loudspeaker clicked on and offered, “Are you ready?!?” The elite swimmers—clear from their perfect hair, musculature, and trim wetsuits—barely cracked a smile.
People jumped off a gangplank, a whoop sometimes preceding the “Go!” of the race organizers. Once I reached the gangplank, I knew I was in for trouble. There were waves. Not tiny, playful waves, but big, churning, irregular swells with whitecaps and angry-looking striations. I noticed people were barely swimming as they jumped in—they were just being swept away from the boat toward the Golden Gate bridge. (It passed through my mind that some swimmers are swept so far that they nearly pass under the bridge before being rescued.)
I lined up with two other wetsuit swimmers, took a deep breath, and jumped. The water was freezing, of course, but more frightening was going so far beneath its dark surface. When I bobbed out of the spume, my goggles were somewhere on my head, but I wasn’t sure where. I fumbled to get them in place and move forward as the swells knocked me around.
I swallowed water once (fine), twice (uncomfortable), and had to start treading water after the third gulp—I’d been in the water about, oh, 2 minutes. I immediately set aside expectations of getting a decent time and told myself, just make it to shore. Ten minutes later I flopped on my back to see how far I’d gone, and that’s when I started to get scared. I’d gone nowhere. Alcatraz was a huge, looming pyramid rising from the gray water, and the ferry was crawling away, having dumped its last swimmers.
My goggles were pushed off again, I sucked down more fetid water, and I couldn’t make headway in the swells. No mention of rescue boats or kayaks was made during the pre-race speech (that I remembered), but I spotted a kayak nearby. I waved as un-frantically as possible; he frowned and gave me a come hither hand motion. I grabbed the line on his bow and said, “I don’t think I can make it.” He said, “Can you swim to that boat?” and pointed toward a small craft about 200 feet away, which was—thank God—plucking other swimmers from the water. I nodded, but had to catch my breath.
Then I heard it, a crotchety, older man’s voice: “What? Who do you think you are? I want you to get on the boat. I don’t care! Get on the boat! GET ON THE BOAT! NOW!!!” Another voice, a woman, replied calmly, “Why? No….no. Look, I came all the way from Texas for this race. I’m fine.” This enraged the boat captain. I couldn’t hear everything, but he started being flat-out abusive, shouting and gesturing wildly for her to get on the boat. She held her ground.
A tap on the head by the kayaker jarred me back to my own miserable situation. I took inventory: no more coughing, the swells seemed more uniform, and now that the pack was long gone, I could actually see the line I should follow (from their froth). In an instant, I decided to go on.
Somehow, I made it to Crissy beach. After I got back to Los Angeles, I received a note from Gary, the race organizer, saying someone had died during the crossing. Not just someone, but a middle-aged woman from Texas. I was stunned, and quickly shot off a note describing what I overheard. He wrote back that it didn’t sound like her, that’s not how she would behave, etc., but I still can’t shake the feeling that I witnessed the verbal beat-down of a woman, later identified as Sally Lowes, who died in the icy water just behind me.
The 2008 event has wisely dropped the “Swim or Die” motto from its t-shirts, and Ms. Lowe’s race number has been retired.
3 comments:
Whoa.
One of my colleagues from work, who has always been in very good condition and successfully completed some Ironman tris, told me that when he did the Alcatraz swim he ended up being so sick he threw up in the ocean.
He thought it was some homemade beef broth that he had consumed before the race, but after reading your account, it sounds like it might have just been the hellish nature of that event rearing its ugly head.
He, too, never went back for seconds.
I'd love to do a full triathlon some day. In fact, I'm going to see a friend compete in the Phoenix Ironman in a few weeks.
At first, I read your comment as saying your friend thought SF Bay tasted like beef broth. Not that far off, come to think of it, but it was more like beef broth + old tractor tires, seal poop, spicy mustard, and hair that's been in the shower drain for far too long.
You are one crazy mother- and I'm NOT talking about Shaft - even he would have worn a wetsuit!
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