Swimming to Antarctica Read Free

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 rushand 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.
    Mrs. Milligan ran to me; her raincoat was plastered to her body and her short brown hair was standing on end. She was carrying a large towel, and when a gust hit it, the towel spread open like a sail. She wrapped it tightly around me and shouted, “How long have you been swimming in this storm?”
    “The whole time,” I said.
    “Oh, my goodness. Coach Muritt let you swim in this?” she said, guiding me quickly into the girls’ locker room and putting my hands between hers to warm them.
    “He sure did, and I had a lot of fun.” I grinned. It had been one of the most enjoyable workouts of my swimming career.
    Rubbing the towel rapidly on my back, she bent over and said in my ear, with absolute certainty, “Someday, Lynne, you’re going to swim across the English Channel.”
    It kind of took my breath away, but from the moment she said it, I believed that it could happen. After all, Mrs. Milligan was Joyce’s mother, and I knew how her encouragement had helped Joyce become a fast swimmer. Even though I was only nine years old at the time, I somehow knew that one day I would swim the English Channel.
    When I stepped out of the locker room, Coach Muritt turned and looked at me with surprise and said, “Are you just getting out of the pool now?”
    “Yes, thank you, Coach Muritt. I had so much fun. You know what? Mrs. Milligan said that someday I’m going to swim the English Channel.”
    He looked at me for a few moments and said, “Yes, I think you will.”
    I remember telling my mother, as she drove my siblings and me home from workout in her bright red Buick station wagon, “Mom, Mrs. Milligan said that someday I’m going to swim the English Channel.”
    Without giving it much consideration, she said, “Well, if you train hard, I’m sure someday you probably will.”
    I couldn’t wait to get home. I ran upstairs, grabbed our National Geographic atlas, and flipped through it until I found the page that featured England and France. Then I began to wonder, How far across is the English Channel? Where do you start to swim? I studied the map and the idea began to take hold