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First published October 20, 2015
I've been asked this all my life. Was it the trauma of my younger days that drove me? I will not give credit to molesters, as if to say they in the end help us become more powerful individuals. I am confident I was this fierce person long before those events. At two, three, four, I believe I heard some version of "Reveille" in my spirit, at the crack of dawn, and went to bed exhausted at the end of each day, having put out so much that there wasn't a fingernail more to give.
I was born Diana Winslow Sneed. What? Can you imagine? Aris may have been a rogue, a liar, and a deviant. But at the very least I got from him the very cool name Nyad. (Today I'm listed in all those books where people live out the meaning of their names, a phenomenon referred to by the term "aptonym.")
Nyad � naiad, nymph of the sea, girl or woman champion swimmer � may not have been my birth name after all, but it had been my name all my life. And it was the perfect name.
"The start will be a plunge off the boulders that line the mouth of famous Marina Hemingway, where Ernest Hemingway himself fished, drank, and told bon vivant tales, where the Kennedy clan and Sinatra’s Rat Pack and Mafia dons partied many nights away on luxury yachts before the Revolution of 1959. The place shimmers with textured fables, which is of course a big part of the allure of this crossing. The natural rock wall, first buttressed to protect this island country from pirates and invasion, has by now kept Cubans in as much as it has kept others out."
"This passage, considering the powerful Gulf Stream, with its attendant eddies and countercurrents, the particular dangerous animals lurking beneath, is unlike any other hundred-mile ocean crossing on Earth. Were you to spread out the nautical charts of all the globe’s equatorial waters, those warm enough for a swim of this length, you simply couldn’t find a more challenging hundred miles for a swimmer. This stretch, Cuba to Florida, is where Mother Nature rages. We all, the Cubans and our Team alike, grasp the gravitas of the occasion. History extends across the sea before us."
"On paper, I figured fifty-five to sixty hours. The first question everybody asks is: When do you sleep? You have to sleep, right? Wrong. The rules of the sport are such that you may not receive any aid at any time, in either moving forward or in staying afloat. Now, you can stop anytime you want, to receive nourishment from your Handlers, to stretch out your back, which becomes stiff from constantly arching and flexing in the freestyle stroke position, to switch out your goggles, to vomit from saltwater intake, to poop and pee, even to float on your back and trip out at the dazzling universe above, which seems to expand before your hallucinating eyes. But I find that you need to take care of business. You’re not really resting and regenerating while treading water. All you’re doing is using valuable calories and precious time, calories and time you’ll never get back, that you will need in later, desperate hours. Pressing forward is an imperative.
Back then, a sleep-study lab in New Jersey asked to do some research on me. They were interested in brain function levels when the will pushes the body to stay awake to continue rigorous physical activity. The first thing I learned is that you cannot store sleep. I was considering trying to sleep some very long hours before the swim, maybe a week of twelve-hour sleeps, to create a bank to call on when asking my body to perform for fifty-five or sixty hours.
There is no such thing as a bank of sleep. They had me float in one of their sensory-deprivation tanks for twenty-four hours, to see how the brain would begin to behave after being awake that long. But we found out that floating, even though you’re awake a full twenty-four hours, does not replicate the brain fatigue that occurs when you’re pushing nonstop in the ocean. And the factor that supersedes brain fatigue is the extreme stages of sensory deprivation that a swimmer working hard in the open sea for more than two days experiences like no other athlete. The folks at the lab were astonished to find a person who found floating in their tank for twenty-four hours a delightful way to pass the time.
They discovered that my left brain and right brain were actually fully functioning, together, while I was out there in the ocean for long hours. I told them I had the sensation that I was asleep and dreaming but also awake and observing my dreams. They confirmed scientifically that this was the case..."
"...Your ears—sealed by a tight cap, to keep your head as warm as possible—are rendered virtually deaf. Your eyes—the goggles fogged, the head turning some sixty times per minute, unable to focus on anything but a flash image of the escort boat—do not function well after the first twelve or so hours.
To maintain focus and some modicum of reality out there, I developed a playlist in the 1970s, which didn’t change all that much in my sixties. The great tunes of my hippie generation. Dylan, Joplin, Neil Young, the Beatles. It takes a certain mind-set to withstand the monotony and the isolation of singing the Beatles� “Ticket to Ride� 210 times, starting note to finishing note. That’s 210 times, hearing nothing, seeing nothing from the outside world. In my head, singing “Ticket to Ride� to myself. At the last note of the 210th version, I will hit seven hours on the nose. And I never lose count. It takes a certain mind-set..."
"When Steve Jobs died, Bonnie and I watched the 60 Minutes episode dedicated to him. Somebody said, in effect, “Steve just didn’t think rules pertained to him. He saw himself operating under some other standards.� His colleagues were continually flabbergasted when Jobs would demand that certain programming or new design platforms be completed on some wildly unrealistic timetable, yet they seemed to somehow produce what he envisioned, on his irrational deadlines. When Bonnie and I heard the bit about Jobs being oblivious to laws, she slowly turned toward me and stared. It’s true. Starting with the rules laid down in my house when I was a child, I have never much respected society’s expected standards. A woman asked me after a speech during the Cuba prep how I could train at this level, with the normal aches and pains that come at my age. I answered, “Don’t put your assumptions of what one is supposed to feel at my age on me. I defy those suppositions of limitations. If you feel aches and pains, say so. But I don’t, and I refuse to follow your or anybody else’s controlling and denigrating parameters of mediocrity.� Antiestablishment to the quick, and not always gently so, I admit—perhaps not even sensibly so. If I come to a red light at four a.m., have stopped and looked carefully in all directions, I can’t find the logic of sitting there for a couple of minutes, waiting for the light to turn green. I proceed. When some television executive tells me the story I’m working on has to have a linear structure and start at the beginning, I revolt and take my case to the highest command, arguing that to embark on this particular story in the middle and work the early part in later hits the sublime emotion of it. Ask Shakespeare about in medias res. And when people from right and left and everywhere in between declared Cuba impossible, I ignored them and turned to my own analysis and instincts for the answer that rang true for me."