Author: Lauren Byron

One of the greatest joys in my life is learning something new. From an early age I was fascinated by knowledge, especially the knowledge that came from books. My grandparents had a set of encyclopedias in their house and I would spend hours turning the pages and looking at the photographs even when I didn’t know what the words meant. As a young girl, the library was a favorite place and I would cloister myself in my room reading about the adventures of Alec and his black stallion. As long as it could capture my imagination, I would read it. That love of learning new things continues to this day. It might be a fact about an important historical figure or how to prune an overgrown tomato garden. The subject doesn’t matter as long as I find the topic interesting. In the last few months I’ve read books about John Kennedy, about what it’s like to be a bird (which is pretty freaking amazing) and about Native American history. I’ve read about training a dog and about the civil war in El Salvador. Reading in itself is a great gift and easily my favorite way to spend a day, but it also gifted me with the knowledge that reading is only the beginning of learning. True learning comes from reflecting on what you’ve read and eventually it taught me how to reflect on my experiences as well.

The thing that I love most about marathon swimming is its ability to teach you something every time you jump in the water. And whether you want it or not, it is usually a lesson hard learned. Among other things, it can teach us about perseverance and resilience, about success and failure and about friendship and community. Through swimming, I’ve learned a great deal about body awareness and how the relationship between the physical and mental aspects of sport is complex and variable. I’ve learned how my body reacts when I’m swimming on less than ideal sleep or didn’t eat enough the previous days. Through trial and painstaking error I’ve mostly solved how to dig myself out of a mental black hole. I try to view each swim as a learning opportunity especially when things don’t go as planned. Being in the water for hours on end has given me the chance to explore my own character strengths and weaknesses and I’ve come to enjoy reflecting on how a swim shapes me outside of the water as well.

Most swimmers have a favorite body of water or place to swim. These places usually evoke something in me akin to the feeling of being in love. It is intangible and ethereal, defying description in mere words. And much like being in love, it can be complicated and daunting but also provide a tremendous amount of joy and delight. My gateway to marathon swimming took place 10 years ago in the Hudson River. It was a current assisted 10k from the Upper West Side to Inwood Canoe Club. The swim was dubbed the Little Red Lighthouse swim because it passes by a small lighthouse on the New York side of the George Washington Bridge. I knew nothing about the the history of the landmark at that time but later discovered the lighthouse was originally called the North Hook Beacon at Sandy Hook where it was originally built and existed until 1917. Four years later it was reconstructed at its current site and remains there to this day. My memories from that day are remarkably clear. I vividly recall that I was petrified to jump into the Hudson River. At the same time I knew it would be a super cool experience and a great adventure. So, on that late September day, I jumped off a dock into the Hudson River and a great love was born.

I remember feeling like I was flying up that waterway on the incoming tide, exhilarated by the experience, but also completely awed by the immensity of its expanse. I easily recollect how insignificant I felt in the grips of the current and also how elated I felt finishing. The Hudson and I were off to a smashing start. Little did I know that a few years later I would have a wildly different encounter further north in those waters. I experienced my first Did Not Finish (DNF) at the hands of that mighty current. The swim took place near Poughkeepsie between two bridges, hence its name, and although it is shorter in length it remains one of the more challenging courses I’ve done. On that day I was pulled from the water so close to the Mid-Hudson Bridge because I missed the cutoff for finishing. I swam in place for almost an hour and could have spent the better part of the day fighting that current to no avail. As I flipped on my back and drifted down to the dock, I knew that I had given it my best shot and would come back next year a little wiser about swimming against a current. So, I kept showing up at these swims and my love for this mercurial river continued to grow.

Over the next few years I had several successful swims in her waters, including an electric swim down the Hudson during a Manhattan circumnavigation that I will remember to my dying day. In retrospect, I probably grew a little complacent with my love. And then a few years later, it was time for another lesson. Another DNF. It was a picture perfect day but I had struggled with feeling cold during the previous day’s swim and simply gave up. I regretted that decision immediately and promised myself that I would never quit simply because I felt uncomfortable. A few days later I swam a much more difficult part of the Hudson on a less than perfect day and battled through the discomfort to finish. During that swim I talked a lot to the river. I begged her to let me finish. I swore that I wouldn’t take her for granted. And she acquiesced to my pleas. Since then I’ve done several longer and more difficult swims. I thought my days of not finishing a swim were behind me. Haha!

In June I had planned to spend a week swimming down the Hudson River. It was cancelled like virtually everything else. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t get a chance to spend at least one day this summer enveloped in her majestic waters. I had done two significant swims in July that included the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and I thought it would be well chosen that my final swim of the season included both the Hudson River and this bridge. I made mistakes from the beginning. I didn’t realize how difficult or long this swim would be until I started chatting with Alex about strategy. I was shocked to learn that I would be swimming against the current for several hours. I didn’t relish the thought of knuckle dragging against the rocks for hours but I figured I could do it again. I didn’t bring enough warm feeds and tried something new. I changed the interval of my feeds hoping that would keep me warmer. Again, my complacency with this river got the better of me.

I have to go back several months in order to answer the question of what REALLY went wrong with this swim. I’ll spare you the gory details but sometime around May I started experiencing panic attacks. If you never had one they are scary and disorienting. I’d feel like my sense of spacial organization was completely warped and that I was going to pass out. Not fun at all. But in this age of modern pharmaceuticals there is a pill or pills for everything. I’ve never taken a medication continuously at any point in my life. I preferred to use things like diet and exercise to manage stress and anxiety. But my usual fallbacks weren’t working so I said yes to the medications. No one tells you that these pills come with a laundry list of side effects. Apart from the ones too embarrassing to share, my main complaints were that they made me nauseous and dizzy. My anxiety improved so I thought the trade off was worth it. Until I had another panic attack. By this point I knew the precursors and what was happening but this one hit me like a freight train. Afterwards my body shook for a long time. I was angry at what I perceived as a betrayal by my mind and afraid that these attacks would never go away no matter how many pills I consumed.

I have to say I didn’t go into Stage 7 in the best mental or physical shape. It’s taken me a few days to admit that myself. I had been struggling at work and took a leave of absence. Stress was making me physically ill in addition to the side effects of the medications I was taking. I had been slowly improving though and thought I could deal with doing a long, physically demanding swim. I was wrong. Almost four hours into the swim my body made the decision that this was over for me. I had been battling nausea for most of the morning but there was no way I was going to quit because I felt a little sick. I knew I could work through it. I had been doing it for weeks. I asked the river to help me and I talked to her for a long time. I felt her hesitation as the wind started to pick up. And then I felt the beginnings of a panic attack. I swam over to the kayak and wrapped my hand around a rope, petrified I was going to black out and drown. Sitting on the boat afterwards I knew I had made the right decision to get out. I had put a lot of pressure on myself to have a successful swim and it blew up in face. My body and my mind decided that I had done enough. Surprisingly, I’m okay with that. I spent four hours swimming in my favorite place. I learned to never underestimate the challenge of doing a long swim. Most importantly though, I realized that my expectations were overshadowing the simple pleasure of swimming.

I took a day to wallow in self-pity and the next day, with the help of my loving pod of swim friends, I got back in the water. I thought about that day 10 years ago on the dock in the Hudson River and how glad I was to overcome my fear. I tried to channel that courage as I stepped into the water unsure of what to expect. For some irrational reason, part of me wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to swim again. I told myself I was in a body of water that I knew and I tried to embrace the experience. And the next day I did the same thing. And the next the same. My confidence came back. I forgave myself being such perfectionist and for taking myself a little too seriously, both things I struggle with on a daily basis. Next week I’ll jump into the Hudson again with another loving friend by my side for a fast 10k. I’ll thank the river for giving me the chance to have fun in her world and for teaching me that I need to be a little more gentle and forgiving of myself. It’s great to have goals and want to achieve big things. I know now there is a time and place for that and I look forward to completing that swim sometime in the future. But right now, it feels really good to simply be able to swim.

When I do a long swim there are lots of ways that I keep my mind occupied. Most of the time, I’m just concentrating on my stroke, focusing on rotation, the catch and the feel of my hand as it pulls the water. Maybe I’ll count strokes or see how far I can lengthen out my body as I become more tired. Sometimes I think about the people that inspire me or those in my life that I love and give me support. Like the family and friends from every corner who watch the progress of a swim and cheer me on from home. I think about my Mom who died a long time ago and how much I wish she could be here to see me swim. I wonder about the history of the water that I’m moving through and the women and men that navigated this fluid space lifetimes ago. And, like many other swimmers, I sing songs to myself to pass the time. The other day while swimming a verse from the Simon & Garfunkel song, “The Only Living Boy in New York”, kept popping into my head. Strangely fitting that as I was stroking my way to Manhattan this song should be the one the DJ in my brain decided to keep repeating.

“I get the news I need on the weather report
I can gather all the news I need on the weather report
Hey, I’ve got nothing to do today but smile
Do-n-doh-d-doh-n-doh and here I am
The only living boy in New York

Half of the time we’re gone
But we don’t know where,
And we don’t know where…”

I felt like there were so many months recently when smiling felt like a herculean effort. My prevailing state of mind was dominated by anxiety and a lot of anger. I was devastated when the pools closed in March and all my planned swims for the spring and summer were cancelled. As the days without water continued, I mourned the loss of my swim fitness that I worked so hard to build over the winter months. It physically hurt to not have anything to look forward to on the calendar. For over a decade, I’ve had a big goal each year. At one time it was my first 5k run. Last summer I swam the 25 mile length of Lake Memphremagog. This year I planned on doing two big multi-day swims, SCAR and all of 8 Bridges. But most crushingly of all, I lost my outlet and escape just when I needed it most. When I’m swimming I can find some head space in the rhythm of the strokes. It is my ritual and routine and losing it felt like I had lost a part of myself. Simply put, I was an emotional mess.

Those early months during the pandemic seem surreal to me even now. I would turn on the news and hear our leaders urging us to stay home. People were being asked not to go out except for emergencies and essential supplies. The images of deserted city streets was haunting. New York and New Jersey were seeing their curves rise at an alarming rate. Schools closed and businesses shut their doors. I watched as the normally busting hospital where I worked was transformed into an eerily quiet and empty space in order to care for those patients that were beginning to trickle through the door. Screening tents were erected in parking lots, entire inpatient units were being closed and reconfigured and normal services were shutting down. New recommendations were being made every day. Guidelines for patient care would change multiple times, sometimes in the same day. It was confusing and scary and I cried on the way home from work for almost a month.

I knew that I had to do something to put an end to this cycle of anxiety and fear. So, I stopped watching the news so much. None of it was good anyway and it was making me crazy. I would read a story about an overwhelmed hospital in New York and my heart would break for the patients and the people who were trying their best to care for them. My being ached for the families that couldn’t say good-bye to their loved ones in person. I was disappointed in the lack of leadership in this country and angry that we didn’t have the necessary equipment to adequately protect ourselves at work.

When it all got to be too much, I’d turn the channel to the weather report. If I woke up and it was sunny, I knew I’d have an okay day because I could get outside to move around. I started running again after many years off. I went for long walks in the park with my dog. When even that shut down, we moved to the beach. I found ways to keep myself occupied inside when it was dreary and raining. I’d do yoga classes online. I read good books and cooked. I picked up a guitar and started teaching myself to play. And gradually, I started to feel less panicked when I had to go to work. It wasn’t easy. I was scared to walk through the door. I would lay in bed at night thinking that I would get sick from a workplace exposure. We were all fearful for ourselves, for our families and friends and for each other. No one really knew what was going on and the environment was filled with uncertainty and tension.

It was many, many weeks before I started swimming again. The water was cold and I wore a wetsuit but I was out there in the open water and I smiled. A little at first and then a lot more. I met a group of intrepid athletes and we explored all the waters surrounding our peninsula. We swam in rivers and bays and creeks and eventually the ocean again. I took off the wetsuit (hallelujah!). I got back my feel for the water and my mind turned to figuring out a way to do a meaningful swim during this strange and eventful summer. As our national tragedy continued to unfold, I wasn’t sure it would be possible or frankly, appropriate, to do a long swim. Yet, I couldn’t help but dream about doing something to make this dark year a little brighter. The obvious choice was the Ederle swim. In 1925, Ederle broke the men’s record for the swim from the Battery to Sandy Hook in New York Bay. According to the New York Times article on the swim, she was also the first “swimmer of her sex” to complete this course. Ederle was a pioneer for women in swimming and I admired her deeply for her guts and perseverance.

When Rondi at NYOW gave me the option to swim the reverse route, I jumped at the chance. Because I knew it would be harder. Because I wanted to swim from my home state across those waters to where I went to school and learned how to be a nurse. Because I wanted to say “fuck it” to all the fear I had felt since March. And because I knew it would be a heck of a swim if I made it. Stepping off that beach in Sandy Hook was cathartic. I thought about Ederle, who swam in these waters since she was a child and eventually became the first woman across the English Channel. Her love for the water and her spirit for life were with me as I took my first few strokes. The day was sunny and forecasted to be very hot. There was a stiff wind blowing out of the west. The water was sublime and, even though I was undertrained, I had confidence that we would achieve our goal.

The crossing to the Verrazzano Bridge was a crawl against strong cross winds and a nearly non-existent current assist. I stopped a lot. I lost my rhythm. I did a lot of cursing. It occurred to me that we wouldn’t make it to the Battery before the tide turned. Based on Rondi’s timeline, I knew we were behind schedule. As usual, Alex kept me moving forward. He told me to quit stopping and start swimming. I could hear Sharon cheering from the boat. I was so happy she was able to be our official observer and her energy and positivity boosted my spirits. Sean and Tom guided us across shipping lanes and kept a watchful eye between us and the giant container ships that seemed to pass a little too closely for my comfort. Andy was somewhere on the other side of the kayak swimming with me stroke for stroke. I was right where I needed to be. I thought about Ederle making her way against the current and decided I wasn’t going to give up. I put my head down and really started to swim. My rhythm came back as I relaxed my body and settled my mind. I started to smile. A little at first and then a lot more.

As we passed under the bridge and made our way into New York Harbor, I mostly focused on swimming. But I also thought about how these times have changed us all in so many ways. These past months have shown me the very worst but also the very best in people. I’ve seen ordinary people turn into heroes and have witnessed first hand the generosity and love of my community. I rediscovered activities that make me happy. My life became more balanced and less one dimensional. I’ve learned that much like a swim, there is only so much of life that we can control. Maybe the conditions are less than ideal or we weren’t able to train as much as we wanted. Sometimes you just have to let it go and move forward anyway. I realized that it’s okay to put aside the burdens of the world for a day and do a thing that makes your soul catch fire while you have the chance. I felt more free than I had in a long time. As we approached Governors Island I let out a little yelp and saw Alex grin. And I sang to myself, “I’ve got nothing to do today but smile…”

I wish this was a different post than the one I am writing now. It isn’t the one that I contemplated after completing my stages of 8 Bridges. I thought I would be writing about my difficulties being cold during Stage 1. The water was in the upper 60s and I didn’t think it would be an issue, but I hadn’t done much training in open water this spring. I learned from that mistake. Or about my DNF at Stage 2. The feeling of being cold the day before really got into my head and I could not find the mental strength to fight that day. I was convinced that I would never make the finish, so I basically demanded to get out. I wanted to be anywhere else but in the water that day. It was something that I had never felt during a swim and it scared me. Which isn’t exactly the best set up for the most difficult stage, which was a few days away. With a DNF in the front of my mind, I entered the water for Stage 5. I spent over nine hours battling mental demons and mother nature and have never been as happy to finish a swim in my life. I could have filled a blog with each of these experiences. Instead, I’ve spent the past few days thinking about the people that I’ve met through swimming, the reasons why I swim and the fragility of our human existence.

When I heard the news that a swimmer was lost during Stage 6 I was in disbelief. I thought it just couldn’t be possible…not with the amount of people watching each person and the constant radio contact between them. I know from Stage 1 that when there is even the slightest inkling that a swimmer might be in trouble, extra precautions are taken. After telling Alex that I was cold, but making the decision to keep going, I felt like a baby bird with all my guardians hovering closely. I even joked to Alex afterward that it was bit much to see them constantly circling me or riding nearby. He said it was for my safety. And that feeling of being protected never left me over the next few days on the water. I have never felt safer during a swim than I have at a NYOW event. As swimmers, we prepare ourselves physically for these events. The team at NYOW is renowned for their emphasis on safety. But there is only so much we can do to keep ourselves and each other safe, especially in an environment like the open water. It is fluid and unpredictable, a great big unknown, which is part of the reason why many of us are drawn to it daily.

In the back of our minds, we all know that what we do isn’t entirely “safe”. It took losing a swimmer to bring that home to me. People often ask me why I do these swims. I never really reflected on it much until now. I didn’t know Charles personally, but I did meet him briefly before Stage 5. As I applied sunblock to his back before the start, he casually mentioned that he was a doctor in Chapel Hill. Reading about him after his death made me sad that I never got to know this incredibly humble and wonderful person better. He was the kind of person I admire. He was someone that dedicated his life to helping others. There are not many people in this world that can go to work knowing they are going to do something good for another person. But for all the rewards of that chosen life, it is a hard job. As a nurse in a neonatal intensive care unit, I know that firsthand. It is exhausting to give of yourself day after day. It is even harder to see your patients die. But the sacrifices and heartbreak are worth it, even on the most difficult days.

So, to cope with it all, I turn to the water. It helps me stay sane when I want to scream about the unfairness of life. It calms me when I leave work after trying to resuscitate a baby with my team. It gives me strength when I hear parents given the devastating news that their child has died. It might not be without risks, but it is my safe place and I would be a lesser person without its solace. So, I’ll keep doing what I’m doing knowing the risks are there. Life is so fleeting. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. But I am here today and there is a place I can go to help me feel more alive when all I want to do is shut down and go numb. And I’ll think of Charlie when I swim, knowing that he sought relief in the water, that he was the kind of person I could only hope to emulate in my professional life and that he will be greatly missed by many, not only in the marathon swimming community, but all over the world. We each swim for a different reason. Sometimes, those reasons are the things that keep us going each day. Without it, my life might be safer, but it sure wouldn’t be as rewarding or nearly as much fun. I’ll take my adventures in the unknown, with the opportunities it affords to see and experience the beauty of this world and the gift of meeting the most caring, innovative and kind people along the way…