I was standing at the edge of history three weeks ago, ready to plunge into the frozen waters of a lake beneath Nigards Glacier in Norway in a bid to set a new world record for the longest swim in ice water. A long white tongue of ice stretched down a narrow valley and stopped abruptly in front of the half-frozen lake. It was without a doubt one of the most beautiful places on earth.
My team had spent two days cutting a 700m-long channel across the lake, just wide enough to get a support boat to a small, turquoise piece of water at the foot of the glacier. I was wearing only a Speedo, a swimming cap and goggles in accordance with English Channel Swimming Association rules. And this time, there were no polar bears, leopard seals, crocodiles or great white sharks to worry about. Nevertheless, I was afraid.
Hypothermia could just as easily have destroyed my chances of success. A cardiac surgeon and English Channel swimmer once warned me that it was impossible to swim for any length of time in water that is 0℃. "A normal person will be disabled within seconds," he said, "and dead within two or three minutes."
But my view is that nothing is impossible. On my side was the fact that whenever I see cold water, my body instinctively raises its core temperature from 36.6℃ to 38.3℃. That may sound insignificant, but in thermo-regulation terms, it is critical. Before I get into icy water, my body is a furnace. It has confounded scientists and earned me the nickname the Ice Bear.
The man with overall command of the swim was Major General Tim Toyne Sewell, the former commandant of the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, England. He completed the final safety checks.
My safety would be in the hands of Jonathan Dugas, an American sports scientist. Over the past two years, along with Tim Noakes of the University of Cape Town, Dugas conducted the most comprehensive scientific tests ever on humans' ability to withstand extreme cold.
Dugas tied a monitor around my chest and attached an antenna to my back so he could record my core body temperature and heart rate, essential data to complete the swim safely.
When it was time to jump in, I could not afford the luxury of testing the water. It would only open the door of doubt. My mind coach, Martin Jenkins, stepped forward and said: "Lewis, you are the best cold-water swimmer in the world. You have pioneered more swims than anyone else in history. You are the only person to have swum in all five oceans of the world. And you are the only person to have swum in both the Arctic and the Antarctic. Remember that! Ready, go!"
I rushed forward and dived straight in. First I gasped, and then gulps of icy water rushed down my throat, mouthful after mouthful, the result of unavoidable massive hyperventilation. I forced myself to breathe slowly and calmly, trying not to lose concentration for one second. My skin felt like it was on fire, and my head was pounding.
I had to swim six widths of the lake to break the world record. There was ice to the left of me and ice to the right of me. After the first width, I was already thinking that this was a very bad idea. Each stroke was an effort. After a few minutes, the real pain set in, deep inside my core. It was almost unbearable.
Driving me forward were scores of children waving Norwegian flags and screaming, "Heia Lewis! Heia!" (Go Lewis! Go!) It was very different from my recent swim in Antarctica, where the only spectators were curious penguins.
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