I've never been a particularly good swimmer. In fact, I failed my first swim class. In defense of the good folks at the YWCA, it's hard to teach a five-year old the fundamentals of the front crawl if he is terrified of the water and refuses to come out of the locker room, bellowing, "I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me dry land or give me death!"
My irrational fear very healthy respect for water was the result of spending summers with my very well-meaning grandmother who lived on shore of Lake Superior in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and who, constantly worried that I might venture to the lake alone and drown, told me nightly bed-time stories designed to deter me from wandering into the water unsupervised.
She recounted stories about boys who were swept out to sea, never to be seen again. Stories of boys eaten alive by sharks... in a freshwater inland lake? Stories about boys mauled by bears at the beach. Stories of boys who drowned in their sleep while merely dreaming about swimming. So many stories. So many gruesome deaths.
It took an incredible amount of work on the part of my mother and other family members (shout out Uncle Dave) to help me finally overcome my phobia of water. Eventually I did learn to swim -- nerdily enough, from a book about swimming in the public library.
While I never did swim competitively in high school or college, I did compete participate in a few local triathlons. And somehow I even managed to get a summer job working as a lifeguard (full disclosure: the pool manager was a friend of my mother). That said, my main lifeguarding responsibilities involved blowing a plastic whistle and yelling "no running".
Learning to swim again
Earlier this year I was diagnosed with a severe herniated disc in my spine. Unable to run, ride my bike, or even tie my own shoes, my doctor recommended swimming to help with my recovery. Even though it had been a minute (or more accurately 10,518,984 minutes) since I'd last swam competitively passably, I decided I was going to commit myself to swimming and dive in head first. (Not literally. The pool I swim in is only 3 feet deep. More like gingerly tip-toeing into swimming.)
My first few pool swims were less than inspiring. Although I was flailing my arms as fast as I could, my body was basically staying in place as I splashed water wildly in every direction onto the pool deck. I could sense lifeguards keeping their eyes locked directly on me, ready to leap into action if need be to rescue me from the three-foot water at a moment's notice.
Undeterred, I kept at it, returning every afternoon, slogging out my daily swim. Gradually my times improved as did my technique. Soon, I was no longer the slowest swimmer in the pool. I even began to earn the respect of my fellow lunch-time athletes including the overly-tan wrinkled old guy in the snorkel mask and speedo, and the pregnant woman in the accounting visor and a aqua-jogging belt.
And that's when it occurred to me. Basically I'm Michael Phelps now. I'm a swimming god. I could probably swim the English Channel. I could swim Alcatraz. Wait, holy shit, I live the California. I could literally swim Alcatraz! After all, it's only a short 1.5 mile voyage through through freezing cold, shark-infested, rough water with dangerous currents that can easily pull you out to sea, never to be seen again. Alas, if only the beach was patrolled by marauding bears... my childhood dreams would be complete.
The training montage
And so, my training began. I quickly realized that pool swimming -- while quite enjoyable in the 80-degree calm water with clearly marked lane lines -- was not going to be enough to prepare for me for the reality of an open-water swim where I would need to navigate by sight through rough, choppy, shark-infested icy water. So I came up with a plan... a plan heavily informed by the training montage scene from Rocky IV.
Remember when Rocky moved to Siberia to train for his upcoming fight against Ivan Drago by chopping wood and running through knee-deep snow? If it worked for Rocky... Sadly, I didn't have any luck finding an Airbnb in Siberia. The only listing was for a detached goat shed, but it didn't even have a fitness center or sauna.
So I did the next best thing and took the family on a two-week vacation to the Sierra Nevada mountains of California where each day we hiked up to a different alpine lake. If you've never swam in an icy, snow-fed mountain lake at over 10,000 feet above sea level, the experience is rather exhilarating. Not only is there far less oxygen in the air, but the icy water makes it even more difficult to breath. It's an interesting blend of hypothermia and hypoxia that has to be experienced to fully grasp.
Having survived the icy cold mountain waters and low-oxygen mountain air, surely I was now ready to conquer Alcatraz!
Escape from Alcatraz
"No prisoner ever escaped from Alcatraz..." the event organizer explains as me and seven hundred other would-be-swimmers prepare to jump off our boat beside Alcatraz Island as part of the San Francisco South End Rowing Club's annual Alcatraz Invitational.
"During the 29 year period from 1934 to 1963 when Alcatraz was used as a maximum security prison, there were 14 different escape attempts involving 36 different prisoners, but all everyone was either caught or died during the escape attempt -- except for three men who were never found, but presumed drowned," he further elaborates.
"The general consensus is that they either froze to death, were swept out to sea by the current, or were eaten alive sharks," he concludes.
And with those final comforting words, we brave band of brothers begin jumping off boat into the cold, dark water -- three swimmers at a time, one wave after another. Highly-trained special forces disembarking on a classified pre-dawn raid. Elite warfighters... wait, is that elite warfighter wearing pink arm floaties?
As I jump out off the boat, one hand over my face to keep my swim goggles from being ripped off when enter the water, I am focused and determined with only one thought in my head: "God I need to pee." It's the only thing I've been able to think about during the fifteen minute boat ride to the island from the shore.
Porta-potty math
Race morning. Six am. Arriving at the race venue I perform a quick assessment of the situation, performing complex math calculations in my head as I try to decide which line to get in first: race check in or the bathroom? I quickly estimate the number of people in each line, divide by the number of volunteers and porta poppies, multiply by the ABMT (average bowel movement time), drop the remainder, carry the one...
An hour later I'm still in the porta-potty line grumbling to myself and wishing I'd paid more attention to game theory during business school. Suddenly the race director announces that it's time to board the ferry to the island. Oh well, no problem, I'll just use the bathroom on boat.
Once on the boat, packed tightly together with 600 other swimmers, I realize that not only can't I move an inch, but I have no idea where the bathroom is. Also, I realize that I'm already fully zipped up in my wetsuit and it will probably be a lot easier to just pee in the ocean.
Looking out the windows of the boat I am relieved (no pun intended) to see an army of volunteers in kayaks, paddleboards, and row boats ready to keep us safe. I even see a pair of SFPD officers on Sea-Doo personal watercrafts. "Okay, this is good," I think to myself, "if I drown, at least there will be somebody to tow by lifeless body back to shore!"
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If the waves don't kill you...
As soon as I surface after jumping into the water off the boat, I immediately begin to relieve myself. Ahh, it feels amazing. I wasn't sure I was going to make it! However, it hadn't occurred to me that what all the onlookers and volunteers see is a listless body bobbing among the waves. "Code 9! We've got a floater. Code 9!" I hear the police shouting excitedly into their radios. "Air evacuation! We need air support now!
In a panic I quickly resume swimming, trying to finish peeing while swimming well enough to convince my would-be rescuers that I'm not actually drowning. I'm not sure how convinced they were however, as I can't help but notice one particular kayak following me for the rest of the swim, never straying more than 10 feet away at anytime. "Oh cool, I've got my very own VIP escort!" I muse.
I trained my ass off for this event, even joining a local swim club for their Saturday morning ocean swim every weekend. I was confident that I was well prepared. However, while the water occasionally gets a bit choppy where I swim in Santa Cruz, the waves were was nothing compared to the giant crashing waves here at Alcatraz.
"Fuck me, I might actually die," it suddenly dawns on me. "I may die. Not figuratively. Literally!" The crashing waves are so large I can't see the shore and I have no idea where I'm actually swimming. "I hope I don't end up in the Aleutian Islands or Alaska!"
Upstream without a paddle
After over thirty minutes or so of getting violently tossed around, the waves finally die down. "Oh thank God," I exclaim, not realizing that reason the waves have suddenly disappeared is because I am now swimming across a strong current -- essentially a "river" of water within the Bay, caused by a tidal flood current as ocean water flows into the San Francisco Bay from the Pacific.
Still, I much prefer fighting the current to fighting the waves. At least now I can see where I'm going! "Is that a Viking boat," I exclaim as I catch a glimpse of a what appears to be long wooden boat with a curved prow resembling a dragon's neck off to my starboard side. However, it's hard to tell for certain through the thick layer of fog and condensation that has formed inside my goggles.
At this point a shark could swim directly in front of me and I'd probably have no idea. Occasionally I feel something brush against my leg, but when I turn my head and look back I don't see any other swimmers in my immediate vicinity. It's probably just a fish, I try to reassure myself.
Finally the shore comes into view. I'm now in the protected cove of the aquatic park, shielded from the ocean waves and currents by the rock-wall pier. I turn on the speed and sprint the last 500 meters until I can feel the sandy shore beneath me. Exiting the water I cross the finish line in just over 40 minutes, good for 71st place out of 276 people competing in the wetsuit division. Note: amazingly there were 229 brave souls who swam in just bathing suits (or in birthday suits) in the "skins" division!
Conclusion
As I swagger back to my car like a war hero with my shiny finisher's medal dangling around my neck, I feel like a true bad ass. I did it! I escaped from Alcatraz! A flood of emotions washed over me. I smile, thinking back to that little five-year old boy, terrified to come out of the locker room for swim lessons. Look at us now!
It just goes to show that anything is possible if you put your mind to it... and wear crappy goggles that fog up so badly you literally have no idea if you're literally swimming with the sharks. 😂
My lawyers made me insert the following statement:
In reality, swimming from Alcatraz isn't particularly hard or dangerous. Hundreds of people do it every year, as part of various organized swim events. Famously, fitness guru Jack LaLanne swam from Alcatraz to Fisherman's Wharf at age 60... handcuffed... while towing a half-ton boat! Recently a nine-year old boy swam to Alcatraz and back to win a $100 bet with his dad. And while there are sharks in the San Francisco Bay, they are mainly small bottom-feeding sharks, not Great White Sharks. So yeah, it's really not a bid deal dude.
