Sometimes, just sometimes, when you spend enough time in the deep end learning something new, in lieu of a silver platter gifted with a bounty of all and any important tips to help ease the learning curve, eventually you learn the tricks of the trade.

Everyone has to pee. Some people need to pee during their workouts. Easy to do while in a gym - just head to the nearest restroom. In the open water? No problem. Pee as you go. The dolphins won’t mind a bit.

Now what if that workout is a long 2.5hour session in a public pool? Do you fight the urge? Do you “relieve” yourself mid-stroke Ryan Lochte-style? Or, do you make a quick exit out of the pool and use the restroom?

I choose the latter.  Besides, as a former ballerina, I’m always striving for the most graceful exit from the pool.

Mid-workout on Saturday with my Masters swim team, desperately needing to pee, I discretely make my way out of the pool and walk to the restroom. Inside the stall I struggle to remove my wet swimsuit from my equally wet and chlorinated body. Business is done relatively swiftly. Once again I struggle to put my swimsuit on. Straps are twisted, new tan lines inadvertently exposed, fabric clumping and sticking where it shouldn’t.  I like to say “its all about the outfit,” but now its an annoying mess. I check myself in the mirror and in walks a fellow swimmer. “What are you doing?” she asks. “You don’t take your swim suit off when you pee, do you?” Busted. “What do you do,” I ask? “Oh, I just pull it to one side.” The proverbial penny just dropped. Big time. Hello, game changer.

But wait, I can’t be the only one who does not know this. The door opens and another woman walks in. Time to test the theory. “Hey – do you take your swim suit off to pee?” “No, I just pull it to one side.” Back in my lane my head is spinning. A quick poll of women in my vicinity only continues to negate my hypothesis.  On the deck after workout I expand my sample size. Still coming up with nothing but pitied disbelief – “I can’t believe you didn’t know that, Kim.”

In the few years that I have been swimming in a pool, no one thought to tell me this. No memo, quick text, nudge or general heads up.  I can only wonder. What else am I doing that is completely wrong and yet obvious? This is the plight of those imposters new to the sport and the hazards of jumping in the deep end where you may not belong. You may stand out, but perhaps for reasons you don’t always realize…

"Only 1.5 km to go!!!" yelled our crew through the wind. "You need to swim hard as you can. Now!" Concerned the wind was picking up and an increasing current was pushing us away from shore, I needed to hurry up. Joe was comfortably ahead. But the shoreline seemed to take forever to come closer into view. Seemingly elusive, it appeared much further away than 1.5 km. But I wasn't supposed to know this. 

That's because I broke an earlier promise to myself: do not look at the shore. In past swims, I have developed a less than favorable habit of stopping and looking ahead. I zero in and meticulously attempt to calculate the distance to the finish. Except I'm always wrong with my calculations; the view from the waterline is far less accurate than from a boat above the water. 

Still, I watch with great intent as the veil of fuzzy blue gradually lifts, revealing colorful and more precise details of life on land. Office buildings and houses come into view as do the cars on roads. A major problem with such rapt “land gazing” is that swimming progress is hampered by this mindless stopping and starting. Often times, a current is pushing me further away. And in some swims, depleted and desperate to finally reach land, this experience has been exasperating. And so, my new open water swimming mantra for 2013 is: SWIM UNTIL YOU RUN OUT OF WATER. 

However, after the excitement of our dolphin spectacular, I was left tremendously cheerful and even more thrilled that I was indeed swimming from Europe to Africa. I couldn't wait to finally touch land. And, so, like a little kid craftily lifting up the corners of the wrap of a Christmas gift in an effort to determine the contents, I took a quick glance at the shore. I tried my best to count to 100 strokes before looking at the shore, but failed. Instead, I fixated on the land. Without realizing at the time, I sneaked enough glances that I ended up with severe chaffing on the back of my neck. Every time I lifted my head out of the water, my exposed hair that was collecting salt under my swim cap at the nape of my neck rubbed against the skin on my neck. The extreme salinity of the water meant major chaffing. 

A couple of waves break over me engulfing me with familiar white wash. I steady my stroke, but my body isn't entirely cooperating; tired from lack of sleep and jet lag, coupled with my sprained ankle, are slowing me down. I felt like a fish caught in a massive net dragging me in the opposite direction. Sensing that perhaps I was having issues, my crew began clapping to encourage me through this last section. I could see the container ship cranes and…

Within minutes it seemed, massive rocks were within reach. Joe was politely waiting for me so that we could touch land together. As I finally close in on the rocky shore next to Joe, a swell pushes us in and we synchronously touch land to complete our swim. 

4 hours 39 minutes earlier my hands had left the rocky shore of Spain. Now my hands were touching the slippery and jagged shore of Morocco. 

A lone fisherman waves with excitement. Elated and in amazement, I wave back, grinning ear to ear. Nice to meet you Africa, we just swam to you.

I have been very fortunate to have had some truly special encounters with a variety of marine creatures, most often dolphins. 

To be able to experience them in their natural habitat with a shared curiosity for each other is incredibly awe-inspiring. Dolphins swam with me for about 40 minutes during my Cook Strait swim last year. Swimming so close I could almost touch them, I will never forget how unique that was for me. In November during my Molokai Channel swim, I was delightfully greeted during the late evening hours by a couple of dolphins, lit up by bioluminescence and glowing ethereally under the moonlit sky. I swear I made eye-contact with one of those dolphins. It's difficult to adequately describe how these close encounters have impacted me.

The fact that they swam next to me without fear was the most magical part of these experiences. Perhaps bewildered with my actual intent, they watched me with the same amazement. All I want to do is relive those moments, and while the odds are definitely in my favor to do so, it is not guaranteed.

And so from the moment I jumped into the pristine waters of this massive aquatic wonderland, I pulled the handle of my very own Las Vegas slot machine. After taking a breath  I gazed into the deep blue nothingness, eager to see dolphins line up on the pay line, I pulled the handle repeatedly. Over and over again. As the reels spun around, I waited, patiently, for that moment. 

Now over halfway through our swim, with only pictures of the occasional jellyfish appearing on the pay line,  I was beginning to believe in the old adage, "the house always wins." Regretfully I was preparing to return home without my payout.

Though dizzy from watching the reels spin so intensely, I pulled the handle hard. My focus intensified and the slot machine began to work it's magic.  Around and around the reels spun. The first reel stopped: dolphin. Then the second reel stopped. Dolphin! The last reel seemed to purposely spin in slow-motion. A jellyfish? A seabird? It was hard to tell. I heard a satisfying high-pitched squeak echo through the water. And then, all of a sudden the reel stopped, a line of dolphins greeted me. "DOLPHINS!!!" I yelled to the support boat. A pod of about 6 dolphins appeared to be drafting behind us. And, as I have done with each of my dolphin payouts, in the hope of communicating in some way, I squealed with delight. Dark blue shadows of dolphin silhouettes darted 20 feet below me. 

Despite the challenging tempo of the first few hours of our swim, I eventually find myself settling into a meditative state enabling me to become extraordinarily in tune with, and aware of, my aquatic surroundings. Carbohydrate feedings every 30-40 minutes seem to speed by. Graciously assisted by our Spanish crew, drinks are thrown to us from the zodiac as we tread water. My usual and ebullient chatter during these 30 second respites is purposely kept to a minimum.  In a trance like state, I take a few gulps, express my thanks to the crew, and resume swimming. 

Every sense is heightened dramatically. Sounds… smell… everything. It's a wonderland. 

Back in my rhythm, I listen intently to the water swishing past my ears, muffled slightly by my earplugs. A meditative "whoosh" then gurgle that seem exactly the same with each stroke. As I breathe to my left I glance at Joe motoring along. I guess that's how an aquatic astronaut must look as he is suspended in space. The water is so incredibly clear and a relaxed calm swathes my mind. 

Gazing into the depths below, rays of sunlight reflect back from the 3000-foot depths below. The light shines so acutely through the clean salty water making the bubbles from my hands sparkle. I marvel at how more beautiful the light has become as the now risen sun glistens from above. My hands move melodically through the water yet I can't help but notice familiar – yet small – gelatinous globules bumping my skin. Handful-sized jellyfish. Some jellyfish painful, others are mostly a sensory delight. 

The salt begins to irritate my throat and sting my nostrils. Mouthwash is a simple, yet effective remedy, but I choose calories over rinsing my mouth out during the feedings. As my neck begins to chaff, I regret not paying more attention applying Vasoline to my body before the swim began. The salt is so course and dense that as I turn my head to breathe, creases of skin rub against each other like sandpaper. Resigned to the fact that there is nothing I can do to stop the chaffing, I wonder how bad these "strangulation" marks will look. I figure at least a good conversation starter. Poor Joe.

Cargo ships pass by ever so close; a few hundred yards away like ghosts they make no sound as they approach quickly and then vanish.

Gazing at the vast expanse of water that surrounds me, I feel like I am peering into a gigantic flat screen TV, waiting patiently for some marine creature to make an entrance. My mind turns to Morgan. She should be here with us. Perhaps the resident orcas will make an entrance.  I scan the waters in front of me, listening carefully.

When all of a sudden I hear a symphony of squeaks echoing through the water…

Arriving in Tarifa, Spain in the afternoon before our swim, there was little time to worry myself with the usual cacophony of nervous thoughts punctuated with self-doubt and concern. No time to follow my methodical routine of carb-loading and hydrating. No time to harass Joe with silly questions like “do you think I’ve eaten enough carbs?” No time to even dip my toe in the water and get a feel for the temperature. Ah, nothing quite like ripping the Band-Aid off…

Standing at the bow of the support boat, though a crisp 48 degrees, I couldn’t help but notice there was barely a breath of wind.  The conditions were indeed perfect. “Ladies first” joked Joe directing me to jump off the boat knowing I wouldn’t jump first. “Not this time,” I replied with a grin. Joe obliged. As his head emerged from the inky pre-dawn water, I watched intently for an indication as to how the water felt. But my body was ready - in auto-pilot – and, before I knew it, I was pressing my goggles to my face as I plunged into the water. Surprisingly, it felt good. Cool, but totally manageable.

Without wasting any time, we stroked gingerly across the shallow water exposing massive partially submerged rocks towards the shore about 15 feet away. Careful not to scrape our legs on the jagged edges of the rocks, and mindful of the gentle swell, we placed our hands on the rocks to officially signal the beginning of our swim.

“Are you ready to do this?” smiled Joe. Amped up and heart beating I replied a confident “Yes!” “Let’s do this.” At approximately 7:20am, with the sun beginning to rise in the East, our hands left Europe and we began our tandem swim to Africa. Our support boat moved ahead and the smaller zodiac boat aligned next to us, gently motoring forward.

Last night Rafael had warned us that we would need to swim as fast as possible for the first 2 hours in order to make it halfway across the Strait. The timing of our swim this early in the morning was planned to take advantage of minimal wind and also a few hours later an easterly current was expected to rev up pushing us towards the shore of Morocco. If we didn’t make it far enough across the Strait by the time the current strengthened, we would risk being slingshot out into the Mediterranean Sea, missing land altogether and unable to complete our swim. 

Joe set the pace and I swam as fast as I possibly could - almost synchronously – as together we pushed our hands through the salty water and gasped for air every three strokes.

As I breathed to my left I marveled at the glorious sunrise gracing us with its presence; a golden glow pierced through the horizon and radiated a comforting sense of warmth and goodness through my mind. This was a magical sign.

However, my heart raced and my breathing labored, as I wasn’t entirely confident I could maintain this pace for much more than 10 minutes. Somehow I settled into a purposeful rhythm and enjoyed feeling my body moving at this quite respectable clip into the Strait. 

Every few minutes or so, with a hint of disbelief, my mind turned to the realization of what my body was actually doing: swimming to Africa!

A 10-11 mile swim made challenging due to heavy boat traffic, unpredictability of the strong water currents and high winds. The Strait's depth ranges between 985 feet and 3000 feet. Yesterday Rafael warned us that the water temperature was unseasonably cooler, 59-60 degrees. “Wildlife” encounters may include pilot whales, orcas, dolphins and the occasional shark.

Throughout the night I found myself waking up and obsessively checking the time. Probably not my most rested night, but I couldn’t help it: nervous excitement had set in. At 5:30am the first of three alarms went off. It was time to get ready.

We prepared our carbohydrate feeds for which we would need every 30 minutes during the course of the swim.  Limited with our food choices this early in the morning, I forced myself to eat two cheese sandwiches, and drank water to remain as hydrated as possible. Swimsuit on. Check. Extra goggles. Check. As we walked out of the hotel, the morning air felt brisk and I was glad to have brought along my warm Dolphin Club swim jacket.

Driving through the darkness on a two lane road towards Tarifa, my heart began to race.  We turned the radio on looking for distraction as we raced across the empty streets towards the Port of Tarifa. 

Rafael was there to welcome us and introduce us to the crew. There was no dallying.  He said we would be jumping in the water in about ten minutes. We motored in the dark a short distance, winding out of the marina, past the statue of a patron saint towards the lighthouse. It was cold in the morning air as we applied Vaseline where we expected to chaff and one more layer of sunblock. I nervously fussed with my new pair of goggles and, at the very last minute, decided to stick with my tried and true pair. The boat stopped just off the lighthouse. “Time to jump,” said our captain in a thick Spanish accent.  

Unlike my Molokai swim with 20 knot winds, a swim across the Strait of Gibraltar is not advisable over 8 knots. 

At 3:45 am Monday morning, April 29th, my alarm went off and it was time to head to the airport. There we took three flights from San Francisco to Miami, Miami to Madrid and finally Madrid to Malaga.  It was impossible to sleep on the flights and my ankle was throbbing. After getting our luggage and a mix-up with the rental car, we were finally on the road to Tarifa. Arriving 30 hours after our departure and barely able to keep our eyes open we met with the swim coordinator, Rafael.

“I’m thinking tomorrow,” explained Rafael as this was likely to be the only day to swim for the next seven days. We would need to be at the Port of Tarifa to meet the boat in 11 hours. I looked over at Joe and I thought he was going to fall asleep standing up.  Of all the scenarios I had imagined this certainly didn’t enter my mind and was hardly optimal.

Despite the jet lag and the weariness, a wave of excitement rushed over me. As we stopped to get ice for my ankle on the way to check into our hotel, I felt strangely energized.  We were going to do this! I think I slept 4 hours that night…

My swims have been extremely gratifying because they allow me to push my mind and my body beyond places I never dreamed were possible. With each swim I learn a great deal about myself. They are personal odysseys of playing with the unknown in a habitat in which I am not naturally evolved to exist. 

These swims give me a great sense of personal satisfaction. However, I believe these could be even more gratifying if there was a way I could make them about more than just my own personal journey.  To this end, I’ve been searching for a charity to support for my solo swims.  Something that is both personal and relevant to my experience but also that hopefully resonates broadly.

I was extremely lucky to have had a pod of dolphins escort me during my Cook Strait swim. Great white sharks are a known entity within these waters and 1 in 6 swimmers are said to have an encounter. So I can’t help believe that these dolphins were swimming with me as guardians ensuring a safe passage across the Strait. Those dolphins were so close to me, I could almost touch them.

During my Molokai Channel swim from Molokai to Oahu in Hawaii, a treacherous stretch of water inhabited by tiger sharks, I was also lucky to have a dolphin escort. I remember hearing squeaks and then seemingly out of nowhere through the dark abyss appeared a dolphin lit with a bioluminescent glow. I swear we made eye contact.

I am profoundly affected by these encounters in the wild and I feel deeply compelled to give back. And I may now just have that opportunity.  Many such cetaceans are subject to what I believe is inhumane captivity for profit and entertainment.  Yesterday Sea World went public on the New York Stock Exchange.

I ask other swimmers to reflect on their time enclosed in lifeless pools and wonder if they would wish that on animals created for the open seas.  I remember early last year when I began training in a pool for the first time. With my Cook Strait swim a mere 2 months away, my two mentors helped me put together an “accelerated” training plan. This included mind-numbing 4 hour and 5 hour swims in a pool.  I cried during a couple of those swims. Here I was, captive, for hours, swimming back and forth in a box filled with heavily chlorinated water. I remember at the time thinking that this must be how it feels to be a captive dolphin. My heart sank.

Today I’m extremely proud to share that I will be supporting Dr. Ingrid Visser in an effort to raise awareness and funds for a captive orca named Morgan.

Dr. Visser and others are working tirelessly to have Morgan released and have demonstrated that she was illegally kept out of the wild and are actively seeking aid.  I urge you to view the video below and, if possible, provide any support you can to assist in saving this majestic creature. Orcas can live to 80 years in the wild. In captivity the average life is 9 years.  At the very least, please help me increase awareness of this poor creature’s plight.

In support of the Free Morgan Foundation,

Kimberley

Free Morgan Foundation - Morgans story from Fair Projects on Vimeo.

On Friday afternoon, reacting to the car honk of an impatient motorist, I ran hurriedly across a parking lot only to trip and roll my left ankle over a speed bump. Arms stretched out in front of me, sunglasses and car keys flung a few feet away, I lay face-planted on the asphalt, coffee cup still in hand. I thought speed bumps were supposed to slow motorists, not pedestrians. I may or may not have muttered some expletives. It didn’t matter. All of a sudden my left ankle throbbed with excruciating pain. Oh good god. My ankle. I think it’s BROKEN. Tears stream down my cheeks. What about my SWIM?!

Frantically I rummage around on the ground collecting my belongings. Picking myself up I realize I can’t bear weight on my ankle. So, I do what anyone else would do in a situation like this: I single hop on my right leg (the “bad leg” with significant peroneal nerve damage) down a staircase and 100 yards to my car. I don’t precisely recall the drive to Golden Gate Urgent Care. An unusual lull in activity here meant the doctor could see me straight away.

Formalities ensue: my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse are checked. The doctor examines my ankle and tells me the only way we can determine the severity of my injury is with an x-ray. Tears again stream down my face. What if my ankle is broken?! After describing my pain, the nurse hands me some ibuprofen and Vicodin for the pain. Here we go again I tell myself.  The next thing I know I’m wheeled into the radiology room. Lying on the cold sterile table, at the instruction of the technician, I angle my left leg for imaging. As the x-ray is carefully aligned over my ankle, the bright pink crosshairs beam across my skin. In disbelief and fear, I cry again. “I have an open water swim event coming up!!” I share with the technician. “Oh dear, like an Alcatraz swim or something?” “Please relax and keep as still as possible while I take the images...”

And in that moment of intense pain and fear that my ankle could be broken ahead of my next big swim, I had a strange Vicodin-fueled moment of “connecting the dots.”

A pattern. A string of dramatic events leading up to a swim event that may include, and is not limited to, acts of God (lightning, weather bombs and monster swells), near amputation of a finger, severe vomiting and now an ankle injury.

The latter is thankfully diagnosed as a bad sprain and I’m instructed to rest, ice and elevate for the next few days.

I’m discovering that the one constant in this sport is that nothing ever goes entirely as planned. And for me that simply adds to the excitement of playing with the unknown.

That being said, perhaps my stall has something to do with each time I swim having to go inside my head, alone and isolated with my thoughts in a box filled with water. Devoid of the distractions of sound, movement, color and smell.  I am forced to reckon with the contents of my brain.

As I move through the water, I become aware of how my body feels. The warm chlorinated water feels hot against my face and I can’t help but worry about my cold water acclimation. I do this every day. Ask Joe. I hear the muffled gurgle of the water through my earplugs. I settled in.

With flip turns now fully incorporated (albeit still a work in progress) into my pool repertoire, I relish those remaining few seconds in a lap as I glide seemingly effortlessly towards the wall before turning my body over itself and pushing off the wall for yet another lap. I feel like a trained seal, except with each successful turn of my body my reward is not a smelly fish but a tasty morsel of success. It’s exhilarating. The more I practice, the more I enjoy what was once the bane of my pool swimming experience.

Whenever I swim for long periods in a pool I carefully count each and every lap. I’m a little stringent about this counting process. If my mind wanders off track and I forget which lap I’m on, I revert back to the previous known lap. It keeps me honest I guess.

Today, as I swim, a comforting inner peace blankets my mind as I drift melodically back and forth between the current lap number and a random thought. Each time my face gazes down on the long black line on the bottom of the pool, I count the lap number, as a Buddhist counts beads during prayer. Then, as my head turns to take a breath, I allow a new thought to manifest for the briefest of moments before it disappears into the depths of the pool. With my head once again gazing at the black line below, I refocus my attention on the mantra.

As my mantra intensifies, so does the metronomic rhythm in my head. Shifting back and forth between thought and lap number, the meditation evolves.

Today I found that sweet spot. That moment of Zen where the jarring noise of the outside world is muffled – ever so gently - by the quiet water.

One of the interesting parts of coming to swimming late in life is learning all the basic skills that life-long swimmers take for granted. Last year I learned how to bi-lateral breathe. It took a trip to the emergency room with salt-water aspiration syndrome to knock the sense into me that this was the problem. And it needed to be addressed.

As I had no plans on making any double channel crossings, I resisted learning how to make proper flip turns. Much of this was related to performance anxiety.  It was embarrassing – I’m a total imposter in this sport but I felt as though I should be able to hide it better. Still, performance anxiety won. Also it did have its benefits. In those moments of picking my head up, touching the wall and pivoting my body to change direction, I got to enjoy the sunrise over my morning workout and the sunset in the evenings.

However, after some very long distance days back to back of stopping at every lap and holding on the wall after each length, my lack of technique caught up with me again. One morning only a fraction of the way into my workout my left shoulder surprised me with excruciating pain. I tried to think of what might have caused this. My interpretive butterfly the day before? Too much yardage? Then I realized when I stop to turn I hold the wall with my left arm and that motion was what was causing me the pain. Performance anxiety or not, turns needed to happen.

Last Saturday I turned up to practice and told my coach I was determined to be a sissy no longer and figure out how to do a proper flip turn. He said “I never called you a sissy before, but I will call you one now.” “Sissy.” My first attempts were not inspired. Coaching, despite a heroic effort, was not yielding much in terms of results. Watching my frustration, a fellow swimmer made a simple suggestion involving pull-buoys – which worked like a charm. 

While I'm enjoying the incremental recovery of my shoulder and, at the same time, feeling the burn of the extra work involved in swimming with turns, I can’t help but think about the bigger picture.

It's never too late to start trying something, even if you feel a bit silly.

Most of all, there's nothing as satisfying in life as the feeling of making progress, even in the smallest of areas.  Like flip turns.

Dropping myself in the deep end, often where I have no place being, is how I like to challenge myself.  Comparing/contrasting with others is not the goal. Rather, the completion of the event, and the affirmation that what seems impossible is actually possible is what I am after for myself. 

Perhaps my biggest asset here is inexperience/ignorance because when you haven't tried something, you don’t know how tough it will be. Think of all the things you wouldn’t do if you knew how difficult they were.

But when you try something in life that you don’t know how it will turn out there are all kinds of benefits.  It is precisely when you’re outside your comfort zone that you learn the most about yourself and when you truly grow as an individual.

This has been my personal experience overcoming a leg injury from which I was not supposed to fully recover (let alone run an ultra marathon), swim long distances in the ocean, and, most recently, speak in front of business school students.

This weekend I swam 20,000 yards - almost 12 miles – in a pool. Why on earth would I do that? Many long distance swimmers who I respect have told me this is an integral part of training and I have found that on several of my swims as I get towards the end, my endurance has not been as strong as I had hoped.  My will has gotten me through past my swims, but for the next round, I would like to have something more on which to rely.

So, with carefully noted training program in hand, and after a few weeks of strength work, I embarked on my most ambitious training session to date. Or as my friend the “Polar Bear” might say, “time to harden the fun up and drink some wet cement.” I abide (although I am not a dude).

I won’t lie. The yardage was tedious. However, there was also an immense satisfaction of completing my two longest training days so far. There’s a quiet in my mind. Physically present, but not at all mentally present. I like this drifting.

Some scientific studies claim that increasing physical activities can increase brain function. Clearly they are not studying those swimming 20,000 yards in a weekend, in a pool.  On the positive side, I can’t remember the last time I was naturally this mellow. And hungry.

Needless to say the last few days with continued training have been glorious: the mendacity of daily life has become especially calming. I feel like a stunned mullet and have been busted for having a case of the stares more than once.  Luckily for many, I have also become less talkative.

This was part of the journey I was not expecting. Pain and exhaustion, yes (thank you sir, may I have another!).  But the out of body experience of watching the world go by and trying my very best to feign presence has been quite the surprise.

When I received the invitation on behalf of Citizen Schools to speak at Aspire Lionel Wilson College Preparatory Academy in Oakland, I eagerly accepted.  Speaking in front of groups is a passion of mine. I also loved the idea of trying to provide the type of mentoring for which I have always been grateful.  I feel I benefited greatly from programs at my girls school in New Zealand that encouraged girls to follow their dreams.

As I prepared my speech, I tried to channel the type of message that was meaningful to me when I was that age. I looked forward to trying to take on a role that was special to me.  Yet when it was all finished, what the girls gave me was an amazing gift far beyond anything I expected.

Citizen Schools is a non-profit after school program providing additional education for middle school boys and girls in challenged communities. More than 90% of the children attending this school are on free/reduced lunch, and 97% are Hispanic. I was scheduled to address a classroom of 13 year old girls about leadership. A few weeks prior to my talk, the lead instructor asked each of the girls in this class if any of them viewed themselves as leaders. Not one of them said yes.

Driving from San Francisco deep into Oakland, one notices the differences immediately. Road quality deteriorates, the industrial envelopes the residential as the basic infrastructure that many take for granted is pretty dilapidated.  Still neatly laid out houses, some beautifully constructed of brick and wood stand their ground, often sealed with metal bars amid abandoned industrial lots.

Upon entering the school, I was immediately struck by the décor. While the building was modest in a working class neighborhood banners hung from the ceiling for different universities and lively teachers and counselors were everywhere thanking me for coming and engaging with students.

In the classroom, I could not help but notice on the wall in large lettering a writing assignment. The assignment was an analysis of an argument. This argument said that given the difficulty of growing up in Oakland, how could anyone hope to get ahead and accomplish anything?  Support was there for these kids, but clearly not the sugar-coating.

As I prepared my slides for the presentation the girls were corralled into their seats. Many looked nervous and seemed terribly shy. Yet as I began to tell my story, something amazing happened. They began to deeply engage in what I was saying. Clearly these girls had never had any open water experiences. They were from very different worlds than the farm I grew up on in New Zealand. They had never been told they may never walk normally again. Still, they created this connection and were taking my experiences and making them their own.

They brought electricity to the room that I have rarely seen. They speculated on what it would be like to swim in the cold, whether or not they would like to see wildlife. Girls waved their arms in the air and talked about what they would like to become when they were older. After my talk they were given an assignment to sketch out of movie of their lives and aspirations. Many who were initially quiet eagerly raised their hands and came to the front of the class to share their future accomplishments.

I felt invigorated and energized. Who would not enjoy seeing their passion and interest stimulate others? I had come to tell my story of swimming and overcoming challenge. However, I was the one who walked away with the inspiration. And for this I thank these girls for giving back.  

Packed within the screenplay of each of my swims lays a bounty of life lessons.

They are poignant reminders and “learnings.” Most of which are applicable to my life on land. One particularly relevant reminder revolves around risk-taking.

Jumping in the deep unknown ocean in the middle of the night to swim is without question, risky. The depths of the ocean are largely uncharted and inhabited with some very terrifying creatures.

Why, then, does it make more sense to me to jump from the safety and security of a boat and into that inky, dark, unknown and scary ocean than it does to make a jump from one safe, relatively secure situation on land to another, unknown situation?

The latter is, to my knowledge, completely devoid of Great White sharks, Tiger sharks, Portuguese Man-O-War, Siphonohore, jellyfish and lord knows whatever else. The risk of death is minimal. It is, by definition, far less scary.

As I look back on our ambitious relay swim down the coast of California last September, jumping in the ocean and swimming in hour-long rotations around the clock, approximately 10 miles west of land, out in the Pacific Ocean, my mind boggles. 

Leading up to that crucial moment when I was standing on the edge of the boat, grasping the handrail, I was incredibly nervous. I was afraid. Correction, I was terrified. I remember crying quietly to Joe in the minutes prior to my shift. I’ll never forget him whispering in my ear “It’s not brave if you’re not scared.”

Yet despite these emotions, despite this fear, not once did the thought of not jumping in the water, not fulfilling my obligation to the team to swim my share cross my mind. Amped on adrenalin, full of nerves, excitement, and fear, I jumped off the boat and into the unknown dark abyss of the open ocean; a decision - a commitment - decided by each of us long before the boat had even left the shore. Not one of us waivered.

To my mind, THIS is the ultimate leap of faith. To break through a deceivingly impermeable barrier of fear - repeatedly. 

How did I do that?

I think the essence comes down to environment. When you are on a boat and there to swim, you are untethered from the constraints of everyday life. You have come with a purpose, which makes it easier to face down those anxieties.

But back in the mendacity of daily life there is no singular purpose but an all-consuming swath of details that bear down upon, blurring the black and white into gray and diverting from the jump/not jump decisions. 

Open water swimming is not about bravery. It's about simplicity and faith in oneself, and therein lies its true beauty.

Today, as I train for and plan new swim challenges, I can’t help but be reminded of one very important fact: none of these swims are ever truly solo events. As I swim across the wild, open, and untamed deep blue stage, behind the scenes are the boat pilots, crew and kayakers who quietly shepherd me across.

And, under this vast unknown stage lies my base. Solid, predictable and unwavering. This is my support network of old friends, new friends, coaches, mentors and family.

Without these people, none of this would be possible. And I am immensely grateful. Yet I don’t think I can ever adequately express my deep appreciation and gratitude to those who give me their time and expertise. These are my dream makers.

And, as if that’s not enough, rounding out this equation of goodness there lays a single common denominator: Joe.

Stalwart when I need it most. Rational when I’m not (which can be often). Steadfast, and reliable, dishing out just the right balance of tough love and compassion, at exactly the right moment.

Reflecting on my open-water swimming adventures over the past year I shake my head with disbelief. And then… I smile.

I was never supposed to be a swimmer. Late to the sport in 2009, my goal was simply to move freely without limping. I wanted to be like everyone else. And, luckily, in the water nobody could tell I had a limp. Dipping my toe in the pool for the first time since physical education at elementary school, I chose my goal.

I decided to swim from one end of the pool to the other.

One length. One goal. 

Soon, that teeny tiny goal grew. I remember telling myself I couldn’t get out of the water until I swum 80 lengths. An arbitrary number, my goal was taking on a life of its own.

I didn’t realize at the time, but upon taking the challenge a few months later – a dare to swim in the San Francisco Bay without a wetsuit – I discovered that I was capable of much more.

I tasked myself with completing a 1 mile circumnavigation of Aquatic Park in San Francisco.

It was a slippery slope, though, because once again, that goal grew.

I wanted to swim from Alcatraz.

On June 12th 2010 - my 33rd birthday - together with a group of very special Dolphin Club friends who encouraged and guided me to shore, I completed that goal. My very first Alcatraz swim.

But somewhere along the way the thought of goals turned to dreams. Dreams so big, I feared I could not achieve them.

Yet, I discovered that these dreams and my curiosity to see how far I could go despite the risk of failure, were a driving force within me.  My inner monologue transformed from “What if I couldn’t do it?” to “What if I really could do it?”

I wanted to find out.

Cook Strait, Lake Tahoe, Molokai Channel. I wanted to dip my toe in the water, just as I had dipped my toe in the pool back in 2009, and challenge myself to see what I was made of.

And, with each of these open water challenges, this curiosity for the unknown increasingly fueled my desire for adventure. I would do my very best to train and prepare, but, as my Mum says “come what may.”

This unknown only heightened my attraction to adventure. To dare so great you experience something you can’t possibly conceive of in an ordinary day: to feel so tremendously and wholly alive.

I had a million reasons why I shouldn’t have attempted any of those swims, not the least of which was my lack of experience. For some, such as the Cook Strait I had no real organized swim experience and had never attempted anything nearly as bold.  In fact, today as I write this, I have only been getting in the water for 3 years, and have only been training with an organized swim program for just over a year. 

But I also had just as many reasons why I should have attempted those swims.

And now, because of this, I have even more reasons why I will attempt my upcoming swims.

Hello 2013. Let’s do this.

“Back for more abuse, I see?” quips a fellow Dolphin Club member. Ginning ear to ear he has a satisfied look of accomplishment. He’s positively glowing.

It’s a brisk January morning in San Francisco, and I’ve just completed a training session in a pool. Bundled up in a down jacket, my soaking wet hair tucked up under a woolen hat, I meander towards the club. Plumes of warm air release into the atmosphere as I breathe. “Yes, Sir!” I reply enthusiastically.

The Bay Area is experiencing an unseasonably cold weather pattern, and this morning the air temperature is a chilly 40 degrees. I walk up the steps to the club, and open the door.

Dated and certainly not fancy, it’s a historic 2-story swim club that also houses an impressive collection of early 20th century wooden rowboats on the ground floor.

As I walk through the entrance, on my right is a gigantic display of collective determination: the annual Polar Bear challenge is well under way.

The goal is to swim a total of 40 miles between the winter months (December 20 – March 20) when the water temperature is sub-55 degrees. Miles are meticulously recorded by swimmers using a distance indicator called “squares.” Each square represents ¼ mile. 4 squares = 1 mile. The wall displays this dizzying array of color-coded badges of honor. Each member diligently records the distance swum each day on this board as they color in each square. One of my friends, Pete Perez has knocked out well over 100 miles already, with 2 more months left in the challenge. I’m in utter awe.

Upstairs Joe and I stop to say hi to the club commodore, 85 year old Lou Marcelli.

It is here that our daily pantomime begins to play out. “LOU!!!!!!!” I yell. “Where have been, Twinkle Toes? “Hurry up and swim.” He replies. “Do you want to swim with me today, Lou?” “Nope – it’s my day off.” Expertly positioned next to the heater in an old cane rocking chair, Lou stares towards the window and the panorama of Aquatic Park.  I stand next to him and gaze out at the water. Other members filter in and out. We chat about the direction of the water current, the water temperature, any relevant pinniped sightings as well as anything SF Giants or 49ers related. “How about those 49ers Lou?” It’s my favorite part of the day and fits perfectly with my well-known penchant for dawdling.

My swim buddy Silva strolls casually into the room and joins the conversation. “You’re right on time!” I say. An almost religious and routine 15 minutes late. So predictable it’s comical. We call it Silva Time.

Careful to stay on some sort of schedule, I stand up and say – “let’s go.” I make my way to the women’s locker room. I retrieve my toiletries and towel from my locker for my post-swim shower. I change into a swimsuit, grab my cap, goggles and earplugs and walk out of the locker room with my flip flops on. You’d think it was summer. Except its not…

As I wait for Silva and Joe to emerge from the men’s locker room, I watch bright pink bodies trudge up the staircase from the beach. Frozen, some are smiling. Others have a pained look on their faces as if they have just escaped a torture chamber.

“Welcome to the Dolphin Club” I declare holding the door open for them. “49.5 degrees at the flag!” declares one swimmer. Oh god.

Shamed into action by watching octogenarians emerge victoriously from the water, the three of us decide to rip the Band-Aid off. It’s time to swim. Walking outside down the stairs to the beach, my skin is already covered in goose bumps and the scars on my leg are purple. I kick off my flip-flops and follow Joe and Silva to the beach nested between 2 docks. The stall continues. Standing in our swimsuits on the cold sand, we watch with envy as other swimmers emerge at the completion of their ice bath. We stand and chat some more.

Everyone knows we stall. Every single day.

If you didn’t know either one of us, you would assume it was our first time. In fact we’re often asked that. I dip my toes in. Oh dear. It’s cold. I continue walking in the water up to my knees. Silva and I stand still and stop. Joe stands back on the beach patiently waiting for the silliness to end. More conversation ensues.

Next I move up to my waist. Fellow swimmers chuckle as they watch with disbelief as we prolong the inevitable, and instead march directly towards the water’s edge and dive in. No hesitation. No dawdling. Not even a word.

This is where things become less precise. Silva and I wait for the serendipitous opportunity to stop, bottom half numb and inquire with some emerging swimmer as to the water’s conditions. Joe, meanwhile, who wears flip-flops year round, is up to his ankles. At some point either propelled by my need to be in the office or encouraged by a sudden move of Silva, we make the plunge up to our necks. This signals to Joe that the swim may actually be commencing and he bounds up behind us.

I can’t mention details of our swim together. Most of the time it includes privileged attorney-client matters.

Pink and purple from the cold, we eventually walk our numb bodies up the staircase into the club to shower. We can’t help but laugh and giggle like mischievous school kids. Buzzing on the endorphins and sense of accomplishment for having succeeded in asking our bodies to do that which common sense says “hell no.”

And it is precisely this insanity check - this essence - that draws us back here tomorrow. Same time. Same place.

I remember the first time I swam in the San Francisco Bay. After almost 2 years of full-time physical therapy and unable to walk without a limp, I was literally gimpy. I felt as if I were stuck in thick mud.  It made my urge to move and be free overpowering. I desperately wanted to run carefree across a meadow with my hair billowing at the sides, arms stretched out – like a scene from the Sound of Music. Instead I was hobbling though sterile corridors of medical buildings from specialist to specialist, wondering if I would ever feel normal again.

Everything changed on November 22nd 2009. After a few months of rehab in a pool and wearing just a swimsuit, cap and goggles, I dove head first in chilly 54 degree water. As I came up to the surface for air I struggled to catch my breath. The shock of the cold water on my body felt as though someone was standing on my chest, constricting my breathing.

But I didn’t panic. I wasn’t scared. I had recently been through far worse. As I began to move my arms and legs and swim away from shore I felt incredibly revitalized. I smiled - ear to ear. It was exhilarating. And so, like a ship on its maiden voyage into the ocean after years of land-locked construction, I left my berth, sans broken Champagne bottle.

Since that day, multiple open water adventures later, I have re-ignited my soul – an adventurous and carefree spirit – that had been snuffed out in the aftermath of my injury.

Perhaps the biggest surprise is what each of these swims reveals. None of these are simple endurance athletic events. They are far more than swimming from point A to point B. They are personal journeys into the unknowable. The satellite map tracking identifies the area covered but does not begin to scratch the surface of the experience.

To be able to look at a map of the globe and point to a stretch of water and say, “I swam that” is an accomplishment. What is between those points is far more poignant.

(Molokai Channel:  Molokai - Oahu, 26 miles. Completed: November 9th 2012).

Holding my arms and steadying me as I tried to stand up were Rachel and Linda. Rachel smiled and crowned me with a maile lei; a very special garland of fragrant green maile leaves. I put my arms around her and cried. We hadn’t seen each other in over 12 years, and there she was, at the finish of my swim. I’m not sure what was more surreal: the swim or seeing my good college friend at the finish. I was so happy.

Next, I put my arms around Linda as she too crowned me with a Hawaiian offering: two beautiful miniature shell necklaces. Again, I cried.

Feeling uneasy and extremely shaky on my feet, I sat down on the rocks with Rachel. Joe came over and hugged me. Amongst the crowd were a reporter and cameraman from the local TV news station, Hawaii News Now. As the reporter, Ben Guiterrez, interviewed me for their upcoming 6pm news, my mind drifted. I barely recall the interview. My body was so depleted I wondered when I was going to pass out. I desperately need some calories to perk me up. But my body had yet to indicate what that first meal should be.

The next thing I know, I’m following Linda to her truck. With Joe holding my left arm and a stranger holding my right arm, still covered in lanolin, with my swim cap still on and wearing only my swimsuit and my new Hawaiian necklaces, I walk gingerly towards the truck. I must have looked like quite a sight.

A group of local teenage boys are walking towards us in their swimsuits and towels. With laser focus, I zero in on the containers each of them held in their hands. Clear drink containers with straws stretched out for drinking.  Yet these containers were not empty. They were filled with a gloriously vibrant fuschia red icy liquid. Alarm bells sound in my mind. Pointing to the boys, I tell Joe and the stranger, simply, “I need that.”

I NEED THAT.

The boys likely saw my crazed expression and frightening appearance and backed away cautiously. “You can get these at Taco Bell,” they said, avoiding making eye contact.  Before I knew it we were in the parking lot and Linda was handing Joe and I each a cup of icy Slush Puppie heaven - just what the doctor ordered.