B2B Swimming from Bridge to Bridge.

July 1st.  7AM.  Eau Gallie boat ramp. 

I take one last look around at the above-surface-level view of the Indian River Lagoon. 

About 4 miles to the south, the Melbourne Causeway looks exactly the same as it always looks from here.  Small and far away.

Popeye, my kayak-sherpa for the day, has already launched.  He waits, floating out beyond the boat ramp ready to drop in beside me once I settle into a pace.

The river, beyond the initial ruffling of 50 swimmers jumping in off two docks, is a glassy calm.  My turn comes.  I step up to the end of the dock.  Whoa, I can see bottom.  I hesitate.

A woman right behind me looks over my shoulder, "How deep is it?"

"I don't know," I say.  "But the guy ahead of me just jumped right in."

"I wouldn't do something just because a guy did it," she says.

Hmm, she has a point.  I look around at her.  She also has fins.  She is obviously smarter than me.  So I sit down and jump shallow.  The water looks about four feet.

I go straight down, over my head, and never even touch.  Every pebble is clear on the bottom.  Wow.  This is going to be one glorious day.

With ear plugs in, goggles on, and the bright yellow cap from last year's Richmond XTerra, it's all sort of isolating.

My head is wrapped up in a world all it's own, while my arms and legs settle just fine into doing their thing, without any particular direction from me.

Even Popeye, never more than a few yards away, floats on a different plane.  He breathes when he wants, hears what is said, and sees where he's going.  He's up there, being a regular human.  I am down here, one with the glassy surface of this endless water.

So what do you think about, alone in your head, on a 3 hour swim? Your kick?  Carving the perfect S stroke?   Catching up to that woman with the fins?  

Or maybe something more like, "Oh god, when is this going to be over?"

Nah.  Not really.

Thoughts float by at the same leisurely pace as my swim.

I think of...
Pancakes.  
Scrounging the dresser drawer last night for a swim cap and finding the one from Richmond. 
Scrub Jay.
Trilady.
How we used to give each other mature and friendly advice.
Like "Go soak your head."   
Was it really fifteen years ago, the first time I ever heard of the bridge to bridge swim... 
Is that a jellyfish?
Digging the kayaks out from under 4 feet of dune sunflower growth yesterday - wow that stuff grows fast.  
Am I conceited to assume I can do this when I haven't swam in over a year? 
Am I last? 
Yes.  Yes, I am. 
Oh well.
Pancakes. 
Are they really waiting for everyone at the first sandbar? 
Oh no, I hope not. 
Is Popeye bored? 
Is he mad? 
Why does he keep zig zagging across my line? 
Pancakes. 
Pancakes with syrup.

Back when I lived aboard our first quirky sloop, Corsair, there were plenty of times when I would ask myself, "What am I doing here?"  Mostly in rough seas, with no sleep, while strapped into a safety harness.

On this beautiful Sunday morning, with nothing but the slow lapping of river water sliding by for company, "What am I doing here?" takes on a different tone, more mellow.

I am taking it easy, which is my favorite way to swim.  Better to be cautious and last, than first to the mile mark and bonked.  I haven't trained in forever, and I have never done this distance.

I think of the last time I swam.  Not counting the warm mucky pond crossings of the Tribal Challenge last summer, the last time I really swam was the Richmond XTerra, over a year ago.  Across the James River and back.  As the crow flies, .9 miles.  But then, there's always a little bonus mileage when there's current.

Rocks, banged up knees, curses.  Waves of swimmers, fetching up to wait their turn through passageways of just-deep-enough-to-swim water, backflowing between submerged rocks.  Kayakers screaming at people, whatever it is that kayakers scream.  Tight inside my ear plugs, I have no idea, just follow whenever the gesturing gets really frantic.

There is no taking it easy in Richmond. You have to dig.   Hard.  Scrub Jay is out in it somewhere, and Popeye too, but there is no keeping track of anyone else.  Except maybe the guy with the wide, lashing kick, zig-zagging alongside. 

Last year's swim at Richmond was not the longest, but it was certainly the hardest swim I've ever done.

Now, rocking along in the morning sunshine, I forget I am underwater and smile at how easy I have it.  Salt water flows through my teeth like a baby bull shark.

Which makes me remember to look around for baby bull sharks.

Except for the kayak slapping quietly alongside, I am alone.

We reach the first sandbar.  1.25 miles.  In an embarrassing 50 something minutes.  I remember not to berate myself.  I am not the slightest bit tired.  But that could change.  There's a long way to go.

We stop.  I catch up on my Gatorade intake, eat half a banana.  Popeye jumps out of the boat to cool off. 

I experience just a tiny glimmer of jealousy as I stand up in waist deep water and see the main pack of swimmers churning at least a quarter mile ahead.  I am antsy to get started in after them, but reign it in.  I can wait a few minutes.  It's not a race, I tell myself, for the tenth (or twentieth) time.  I hold the kayak while Popeye gets situated.  We strike out for the second point, which is just under 2 miles away.  My Timex shows 1:03.

Clunk.  I swim into the back of the kayak.  I pull up, surprised.  The sudden stop shoots a cramp from my little toe all the way up through my hamstring.  Hey!

Two hours down.  Two thirds of the way to the 2nd point.  Closer now to the shoreline, I feel a hint of current tugging at me.  Travel over the sandy bottom is slower now, not so easy.

Popeye cuts across my course again.  "You're swimming for Front Street," he says in exasperation.  OK, I am a little off course.

But then I also remember he never had a chance to look at the chart.  He is trying to steer me into the long dock on the point, which from this distance, looks just like the pier at the finish.

I call for a stop and hang on to the back of the kayak where my camelbak is stowed, taking a drink.  So I can't see his expression when I say, "That's not the pier, it's just the second point.  We have to go out around it."  The pier, our destination, is completely out of sight, almost another mile beyond the dock he's been aiming for.

Strangely, the idea doesn't bother me at all, except that in another hour this most pleasant of all swims will be over.  My only concern is that I am testing Popeye's patience.  I am a bit afraid he will say never-again to sherpa duty, and I am already looking forward to next year.

True, I banked a bit of karma driving across the state, handing off food and bottles while he rode the Cross Florida in April.  But he did do me the courtesy of being among the first to finish the 167 miles.  A courtesy I was not returning today.

So, what am I doing here?  Why tackle a distance I've never done with absolute zero training? 

Because I am curious. 

I am not a hundred percent sure I can do this, but I don't think it's impossible. 

The distance intimidates me just enough to drop speed completely out of the equation.  Today, I am putting my faith in a different drug.  LSD.

Long slow distance.  

Just find a pace you can live with and keep going til you get there.  

And if it happens that some pina coladas are left when you do get there, so much the better.

Five strokes, look.  Five strokes, look.  We are suddenly close enough to distinguish cars moving up the bridge, people strolling on the pier.

A few strokes later, I lift my head again and make out the ladder that Rob Downey put down early this morning for everyone to use.  It seems silly to climb all the way up on the pier and wiggle through the railing, but the reason comes clear when the water shoals up suddenly, and it's too shallow to swim any farther.

Popeye says see ya, and paddles on under the pier toward a sandy strip between the rocks, while I climb the ladder.  Wedging myself between the rails at the top shoots a cramp up one leg.  But clumping down the dock, on feet suddenly heavy again after nearly three hours of float time, shakes it out again. 

A few folks, early for church maybe, lean on the rail, chatting.  No one pays the slightest bit of attention to me.  

I turn back for a last look toward the point.  The dock that looks like a pier is completely out of sight. 

Nearly four miles to the north is the Eau Gallie Causeway.   It looks the way it always looks from here.  Small and far away.

I thump barefoot down the long wooden pier, and go looking for Popeye.  The little green park is bustling.  Paddlers pull up their kayaks, loading them on roof racks and pickup trucks.  Swimmers gather to chat.

I do not jump or shout, but inside I allow myself a little jolt of elation.  I may be dead last, but it has gone completely undetected. 

OK, maybe I was a little too cautious.  The "what if" question will be with me, at least until next year.  But for now I have managed to slide right back in among the real swimmers.  I could not have imagined a better finish. 

Until suddenly, somewhere close by, a blender whines, still whirling up pina coladas.