Authors: Glenn Stout
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Nonfiction, #Retail, #Sports, #Swimming, #Trudy Ederle
As the tug chugged toward Cape Gris-Nez in the early morning light, Trudy sipped a hot drink as reporters, wearing heavy sweaters, tussled on deck for choice space to set up their typewriters, as did the band. The weather, to a novice, seemed near perfect—a hazy sun rose over the highlands along the French shore and revealed the Channel in repose, cast in a rosy, peaceful glow, as if waiting, with no swell in her waters and the lightest breeze blowing from the southeast. To most observers it looked to be a fine summer day. The water was even warmer than usual, an almost balmy sixty-four. Somewhere through the mist was England, just over twenty miles off, and, for Trudy, perhaps, lasting fame.
But to those who knew the Channel, and knew the sea, there were signs of trouble. A crimson streak shone on the horizon, reminding some of the old sailor's adage "Red sky at morning, sailors take warning."
As was customary, Trudy was joined by many of the other swimmers who either planned to swim the Channel themselves or were considering doing so. They had been engaged to help Trudy maintain her pace, and in so doing received valuable training time in mid-Channel, the kind of experience that was certain to help them with their own efforts. Helmi, Lillian Harrison, Jeanne Sion, the English swimmer Vera Tanner, and two male swimmers representing the British and French military, respectively, a Captain Annison and a Lieutenant Destrees, were all on board.
As the tug approached Gris-Nez, Jeanne Sion, who served as something of a surrogate parent for Trudy, accompanied her below decks to the boiler room, where she first donned her one-piece unitard bearing an American flag on the breast, and then, with the help of Sion, Elsie Viets, Vera Tanner, and Wolffe, her goggles were fixed to her face with latex and her body was covered in a quarter inch of lanolin, topped with another quarter inch of Vaseline, and then another quarter inch of Wolffe's own special formulation—primarily lard—and other compounds, leading Trudy, whose hands were covered and couldn't touch anything, to pronounce with a grimace, "I hate this sticky stuff." If she performed as she expected, she would never have to wear it again.
The tug reached Gris-Nez just before 7:00
A.M.
and anchored about a quarter mile from the outmost tip of old Gray Nose. Trudy, Wolffe, Lillian Harrison, and several crewmen gathered on deck, and Trudy read a telegram just received on ship from her parents: "Swim to Victory. Lots of Love, Mother and Dad." A rowboat was lowered to the water, and Trudy and her crew climbed in. As she did, she saluted the American flag flying over the tug, and as the boat's occupants cheered her on, a powerboat owned by United Press towed the rowboat to where Bill Burgess waited for her onshore. Wolffe didn't want a repeat of the bad luck that had befallen Lillian Harrison when she had slipped and cut her leg, and Burgess, in a show of camaraderie, had agreed to help with the start, knowing that Wolffe, despite their differences, would do the same for him in a similar situation.
Just off the rocky promontory, Trudy, her pink bathing cap tight over her head, slipped over the edge of the rowboat and into the water, followed close behind by Jabez Wolffe. She swam a few strokes toward Burgess, waded toward shore, and then touched a rock jutting out of the water to establish the start of her swim. According to their plans, Burgess was supposed to lead her out to open water, with Wolffe trailing her from behind to make sure she didn't get swept upon the rocks.
Trudy couldn't wait. Despite her recent illness and Wolffe's complaints, she felt terrific, excited but in top shape. A moment later, at 7:12
A.M.
Trudy turned back toward England, stretched out in the water, lifted first her right arm and then her left arm, first overhead then outward, and began to swim, leaving Burgess behind. Only a generation before, the thought of a woman swimming the English Channel would have seemed ludicrous. Now, it seemed not only possible, but for the first time in history, even likely.
She had four hours and twenty minutes before the tide would turn, and she didn't waste a moment. She struck out at a pace of twenty-eight strokes per minute, reaching and then passing the tug after only twelve minutes as the boat pulled anchor and began to chug along some ten or fifteen yards off her lee side, close enough for those on board to watch, but not so close as to interfere with her swim.
On cue, as she swam alongside the tug, the band began to play "March of the Allies," Trudy looked up, laughed, and said, "Give me 'Yes, We Have No Bananas,'" then struck off. Wolffe, in the rowboat only a few yards away, his head covered with a towel to protect his scalp and forehead from sunburn, was heard to bellow, "This is not a 1, 000-yard race Miss Ederle!" already trying to slow her down. She paid him little attention but mocked him by swimming the breaststroke for time, as he preferred, before she resumed her rapid pace. At various intervals other swimmers occasionally slipped into the water alongside her and swam for a time to help her maintain her pace before each of them left the water, exhausted, as none could maintain her speed for long. Every hour or so a motorboat drew alongside the tug, gathered up the written dispatches from the journalists on board, then raced on to deliver word of her progress to the world. Back in the Highlands, her parents, sisters Meg, Helen, and Emma, and even her little brothers, Henry and George, were all up and awake, anxious to receive "bulletins" by telephone from the WSA, which forwarded to the Ederles any information it received by cable.
When the tide turned nearly five hours into her swim, she was already in mid-Channel, having covered eight miles in the first three hours, and even as the tide began to slow and turn, she continued to make steady progress. The only difficulty she was having was with Jabez Wolffe.
He fought her at nearly every instance. When she first complained of being hungry and asked for food, he balked at giving her anything and told her it was too early to eat or drink. When he finally did, passing her a bottle of beef broth by way of a long pole, she popped off the cork top with her teeth, and, floating on her back, lost her grip and the bottle slipped away. "Five shillings worth of nourishment gone to Neptune," grunted Wolffe before he provided another. Later, when he gave her a bottle of hot coffee and she held the bottle in her hands for a moment, enjoying the warmth, he mocked her, first asking if the coffee was too hot, then grinned and said, "Is it nice and warm in there?" referring to the Channel waters.
"Yes," snapped Trudy, unable to contain her dislike of the trainer. "It's a real treat." Then, when she asked that a swimmer be sent in the water to help her keep her pace, Wolffe derisively referred to such companions as her "playmates." When Vera Tanner joined Trudy in the water and the two women chatted as they swam to pass the time, Wolffe barked out, "Cut off that talking, girls," and whenever Trudy asked for an update on her progress, instead of telling her how well she was doing, he continually admonished her for going too fast, asking, "Would you like to go back to France, Miss Ederle?"
If Trudy needed any more motivation, Wolffe was providing it. She was determined to finish if for no other reason than to spite him and prove to him that she could. She wanted nothing more than to walk on England's shore and leave Wolffe behind.
At about 1:00
P.M.,
after nearly six hours in the water, the warning from the red sky began to turn into reality. The wind suddenly turned and blew harder from the southwest, covering the sun in clouds and kicking up the sea. It was as if the English Channel itself had decided, now that Trudy was almost halfway to England, it was time to remind her that there was a reason only five swimmers had ever preceded her across, and that this swim, was, indeed, different from all others.
Almost immediately, those on board the ship began to feel the effects of the swells that now rolled in incessantly and that lifted the slow-going tug up and down like a cork. The passengers had started the trip with a liberal supply of food and two barrels of beer, much of which had already been consumed and was now about to be returned to the sea. The music was the first casualty as the musicians fell out first, playing in fits and starts before each man finally dropped out and abandoned his instrument to grip the rail and bow over the side, soon followed by some journalists and other observers.
In the water, Trudy also began to turn a bit green. The rougher seas caused her to slow down a bit, and she occasionally rolled over on her back to stretch and rub her arms. The Channel is full of jellyfish and Trudy had been stung, but although her arms were sore, the stings were more an annoyance than anything else. But she was not immune to the sea swells and soon began to complain of a sour stomach—she could still taste the beef broth she had consumed earlier. She was beginning to cramp, too, which was a bit strange for this stage of the swim—she sometimes cramped up during her first minutes in the open water, before her body adjusted to the temperature and effort. Yet all in all, she was okay. Dover was only eleven miles off.
Over the next hour conditions deteriorated, and it became difficult to tell if it was raining or if the air was simply full of wind-whipped mist. Trudy slowed to a pace of about a mile and a half an hour, but she did not stop, and at 2:30
P.M.,
with the musicians now huddled below deck with their heads between their knees, some bored journalists took up their instruments and began to play, not as well, but with great enthusiasm. That momentarily cheered Trudy, who over the course of the last hour had become a little lethargic.
Yet at around 3:00
P.M.,
as conditions turned even rougher, Helmi joined her in the water. Trudy was fond of the big swimmer and felt at ease in the rough seas with him at her side. After all, he had recently been credited with saving both Lillian Harrison and Jeanne Sion, grabbing the former swimmer as she lost consciousness during one of her attempts, and pulling Sion into a boat when she was too weak to climb in herself, and others couldn't gain a grip on her due to her coating of grease and lanolin.
Trudy didn't quite understand it, but she didn't feel right. She wasn't exactly seasick, but she felt woozy and light-headed. Every time she told herself to pick up the pace, there seemed to be a slight delay before her body responded, and even when it did, it was as if the message faded. Despite her best efforts she kept slowing down.
She had never quite felt that way before, not during the Sandy Hook swim, not at the Highlands, and not during any of her training swims. Of course, she'd never been in the Channel quite as long as this before, but still ... she just didn't feel right.
Those aboard the tug could tell that Trudy was beginning to labor. She would swim strongly for a hundred yards or so, then slow and occasionally roll over in the water as the rough seas washed over her head. Then she'd turn back over and start up again, a pattern that was completely out of character.
She was at a critical time in the swim, like a mountaineer about to make the final push to scale a peak and then head downhill. Those aboard the tug could see the English coast just coming into view and knew that in a short time the tide would turn again in Trudy's favor and rush her toward her goal.
Yet while Trudy had certainly been struggling as conditions deteriorated, from the tugboat she didn't appear to be in great trouble. Those who had spent any time in Gris-Nez had seen her swim in similar conditions many times. Then, as they watched from twenty-five feet away, observers on the tug saw a series of great swells roll in and swamp both swimmers.
Helmi, bigger than Trudy and much fresher, managed to duck under and stay atop the water. But the seas hit as Trudy was taking a breath and she breathed in and then swallowed some seawater. Helmi noticed her spitting and sputtering. "Steady, Gertie," he told her, "Steady. Take it easy." Then as Trudy rolled over on her back, seawater and a trickle of vomit streamed from her mouth.
She acted as if she hadn't even heard Helmi, and looked up, her eyes glazed and her skin pale. She wasn't swimming anymore, but simply floating.
For the next moment or two those on the tug watched with curiosity as Trudy bobbed in the water, her face turned to the sky, and Helmi dog-paddled around her. Wolffe rowed closer, fixing the swimmer in his gaze, a bitter look on his face.
Trudy knew what was happening—sort of—but she was a bit nauseous, dizzy and disoriented, and suddenly as tired as she had ever been in her life. She just wanted to float for a moment, to rest. She was so tired all of a sudden, so very very tired.
Jabez Wolffe watched from the rowboat only a few yards away, his stare never wavering as his boat lifted and fell with the two swimmers in the water.
Wolffe then turned his head to Helmi and spoke, barking out an order in a tone of voice the big Egyptian knew better than to ignore. "Take her out," spat Wolffe. "That's enough."
The swimmer reached out and put his great arm around Trudy's chest. She felt the pressure, and the warmth, and then her mind began processing precisely what was happening, and it was as if she were waking from a deep sleep and slowly becoming aware of her surroundings.
It was 3:58
P.M.,
and the instant Helmi touched her, the swim was over, a realization that was only slowly making its way into her consciousness. She had been in the water just short of nine hours. Dover was six and one-half miles away, near enough for those on the tug to see the coastline jutting up out of the sea.
T
RUDY DID NOT RESIST
, could not resist. By the time she realized that Ishaq Helmi had touched her, it was too late—the swim was over. With a few sweeps of his arm Helmi drew the bewildered swimmer to the rowboat. Wolffe swung a towel out over the water, and Helmi wrapped it under Trudy's arms so Wolffe could gain some leverage on Trudy's greased body, then Helmi pushed and Wolffe pulled and Trudy, passive, was pulled into the boat like an exhausted fish after a long battle. She sat, and Jeanne Sion put her arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.