Holy crap, I’m in. OK, off to work then.
Say kids, do you like swimming 25 miles without a wetsuit through blinding fog in 50-degree, six-foot seas at 2 a.m. with sharks bumping you and 1000-foot oil tankers nearly crushing you as you’re pulled 10 feet underwater by their propwash? If so, well… you’re a fucking idiot.
But a lovable, positive, dedicated fucking idiot, which is what makes Swimming to Antarctica such a compelling read. Lynne Cox is sort of the Rain Man of swimming; a bit dense (both figuratively and, at 36% body fat, literally), a tad naive, disturbingly obsessed, but at the same time, so driven and upbeat that you find yourself drawn into her seemingly dirt-dull life and cheering her on as her exploits gradually get more bizarre and extreme–the title is NOT a metaphor.
There are some weakness. Lynne is obviously athlete first, author second, and the writing occasionally plods on like a high-school term paper. And, coming from a woman in her mid-40s, Lynne’s saccharine, cow-eyed, unicorns-and-rainbows innocence is enough to make the reader pound his world-weary head on his desk: “Why, I just know this swim will start a new era of world peace!” Uh-huh.
But, that aside, the characters, locales and situations are so remarkable you can’t help but be engrossed, and there are dozens of terrific anecdotes, like when after a frigid Russian swim, Lynne requests a babushka, meaning scarf, only to have a Russian official return with the literal grandmother, who produced photos of her grandkids to prove her authenticity.
If nothing else, a great read and amazing example of what you can do if you set your mind to it.