Going the distance: A 32-mile relay swim across Lake Pend Oreille | Ammi Midstokke
I have a memory from many years ago, standing on a stone beach under a full moon, stripping off every layer of clothing, leaving my skivvies in a pile, and plunging into the dark waters of the lake. It is a primal, natural feeling, though then accompanied with the vulnerability of my nakedness and the brashness of adolescence.
Water moves over the body as though the body is being welcomed home with an unconditional acceptance. It seeps into all spaces otherwise secret or shamed or shunned, a tender enveloping accompanied by a nudge of buoyancy.
This is what people are thinking of when they tell you about swimming.
Though I was swimming in the night and trying to will myself into the semblance of such an experience, mine was decidedly different last week.
For starters, I was in a wetsuit designed for a man who had been living on John Lennon’s one-bean diet. After I had exhausted myself pulling neoprene up my legs, the top half of my thighs and my gelatinous rear end spilled over the edges like a soft-serve cone in a hot parking lot. At least I had an audience. They were afraid to use their own limbs to cram me into the suit, lest they surrender a hand in the effort, so they watched and offered the helpful advice of tailors too kind to tell a customer to size up.
It was nearly midnight, our boat somewhere off the shore of Granite Point on Lake Pend Oreille, and the crew was telling me it was my turn to swim soon. I took a few bites of chicken soup from a thermos and someone tucked my back-fat into my armpit and zipped up my suit. On the black surface of the lake, two white lights cast shimmering lace across the water in our direction – one perched above a kayak, the other bobbing right and left on the back of Lindsey Zembower’s head. Behind her, a small, lit buoy jostled about.
We had started our swim at 6 p.m., with Lindsey sprinting off a dock at Buttonhook Bay and cannonballing into the south tip of the lake. Our plan was to swim the length of the lake, from its southernmost point to the Sandpoint City Beach.
We called it “Paddle to Pride,” a watery kick-off to Sandpoint’s annual Pride festival. To support this endeavor, we had a boat crew of four, a videographer to document our insanity, tears and insatiable appetites, and various shore crew for our landing. Our boat had five to seven people on it, depending on how smooth the transition between swimmers and kayakers went.
Lindsey swam for the first two hours, then we switched. It was all part of my scared-of-the-dark plan: Swim as the sun sets, so I slowly acclimate myself to what it feels like in a deep, dark lake at night. That was hours ago, and now the Milky Way lit the cosmos but not the water, and I had to plunge back in. This is definitely when aquatic cryptids are their most ravenous, their appetites stimulated by twinkling lights and the sound of bubbles.
When we switched swimmers, we switched kayakers. They deftly climbed into and out of the kayak from our rocking boat. (With only one incident of unplanned swimming, this activity was probably the most challenging of the adventure.) Our skipper pointed the boat toward one or another distant light, and mostly they were in the direction we wanted to go. Our crew captain reminded us to eat, get warm, keep time, and ensured the kayaker and swimmer stayed visible.
Like childbirth, no one ever tells you the gruesome parts of open water swimming. The story is romanticized and delivered on a tray of promised magic: starlight, still waters, solitude, the expansive universe and towering slopes of the Green Monarchs. No one tells you how much you are going to pee in your pants – a necessity of the committed cold water crawler.
Some of it was true, though. The wind died down at night, and I rolled onto my back to watch the stars. There was solitude in the swimming, and the comfort of my kayaking companion. Every 20 minutes or so, I’d pause to eat a snack or drink, or chat. Mostly, I was cold and could not pause for long. When I emerged from my two hours, I stood in the boat incapacitated by shivering until a tiny heater and thick parka warmed me.
I swam into the sunrise that morning, the sky turning hues of lavender and crimson, the sun hiding behind the Cabinet Mountains, then a low wall of clouds. When it emerged, fierce and bright in my tired eyes, it woke the morning wind. It came in a great invisible gust, followed by unrelenting waves. I swam up and down them, sputtering and choking, until our crew captain pulled kayaker and swimmer from the water, unsure of who might drown first.
We motored around the nearby point, where white caps and swell were replaced with inconsistent chop, the latter being even more difficult to swim in. Every small wave is just waiting for you to open your mouth and suck in.
As the hours wore on, our little boat and crew moved past lakeside communities. Someone came out on their dock to cheer. A crew of fresh kayakers were brought out to replace our tired ones, and they came with pastries. With Lindsey’s dad at the helm, and my own in a kayak, our endeavor took on the sweetness of a father-daughter adventure. Onward we swam, past trees and fish and rocky shorelines, past obscene mansions (shades drawn until the two-week annual visit), and funky cabins. The day and water warmed. We were ahead of schedule.
When we passed the north shore of Bottle Bay, we motored into the marina to get burgers and fries, just because we could. I drank some burnt coffee and nibbled, nauseated from swimming in the unruly seas. Around the table we sat, this motley crew of willing friends and family, laughing through our fatigue, trying to do math, relieved it was all going so well.
I’d spent months fearing this challenge, and countless hours in a pool. Lindsey is a practiced swimmer, a force in the water, whereas I am timid, slow, and perpetually chilled. In the weeks leading up to the swim, I couldn’t sleep. When I did, I dreamed of swimming. It was never the swimming that mattered. It was the cause, and all the people supporting it.
Not everyone feels safe going outside. Not everyone has access. Marginalized populations are less represented in the outdoors. My father, who is hearing impaired, must contend with unexpected challenges. My gay friends get harassed. My Black friends get stared at. My immigrant friends are nowhere to be found.
Nature and its medicine belong to everyone. We must keep sending the message that all are welcome. We must keep nature accessible to all bodies and demographics: wide paths, adaptive equipment, thorough information and mapping, education, safe spaces and groups. Only by the majority of us appreciating and using the outdoors can we collaborate to conserve and preserve it.
After nearly 24 hours, we approached the Sandpoint City Beach, where a cheering crowd called us home, and a giant rainbow flag floated behind us by a team of paddlers. This, too, was wonderful welcoming.
And while I don’t have plans to become a distance swimmer, I do foresee a future of moonlit skinny dipping for years to come.
Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com.