My SCAR adventure

By Julie Boxsell

SCAR – Day 4

You might have heard of SCAR – a four-day swim adventure in Arizona. Each day features a

different dam: Saguaro (15k), Canyon (15k), Apache (25k), and Roosevelt (10k). An

incredible experience, surrounded by epic scenery and even more incredible people.

Of all the swims, I had really been looking forward to Day 4 – a 10k swim into the night at

Roosevelt Dam, with kayaks and swimmers lit up like Christmas trees. A reward swim. The shortest of the four, and

the most fun.

But it didn’t quite work out how I planned. Standing at the start, I didn’t want to get in. Not even a little bit.

This was devastating. I had never felt this way before. I’ve swum a lot. I’ve done hard swims,

hot swims, cold swims, long swims, and short ones. I’ve swum at night, swum through

jellyfish, swum with sharks, crocs, and sea snakes. I’ve swum in rivers, lakes, pools, and

oceans — but I’ve never stood on the edge of the water and thought, I just don’t want to get in.

But after the day before where the swim started in water that was 11.3 degrees, and ended

up with me being pulled hypothermic from Apache Lake after six hours in the cold — I was a

scared, stressed-out, emotional mullet, full of doubt, fear, and exhaustion. I’d been so cold in

that water for so long. To-the-bone cold. I used all my hard-learned tools to deal with it and

keep going: get used to being uncomfortable, divert my attention to something external,

count, breathe, smile, and the old “fake it till you make it”.

But it was hard. Really hard. Jumping in off the boat to start was a rude shock. 11.7?

We’d been told it would be warmer than the days prior, not colder! My face ached so bad,

trying to swim head down just HURT.

Heading away from the start, the water temp had increased. At the 3-hour mark, I remember

I’d been feeingl fantastic. Warmer. Strong. I was Superwoman. I got this. Woohoo!

At 4 hours, I had a more rational thought that maybe things weren’t going quite as well as I

imagined. I demanded more feeds and tried to lift my stroke rate in an all-out effort to turn

things around. It didn’t work.

Things start to get foggy by the 5 hour mark. The water temp had gone up to 17, but my

internal temp must have been dropping. As the hypothermia worsened, I lost the ability to

make rational decisions. I wasn’t holding my line. I wasn’t following directions. I was seeing

things that didn’t exist. My stroke slowed. I was swimming away from the kayak.

Myron, my support paddler, was alert, and monitoring the situation. At about 5 and a half

hours, he decided I should get out. He let the safety boat know I needed out. But I didn’t

make it easy. I didn’t want to get in the boat. I wanted to keep swimming. I thought I was fine.

In fact, I had a great plan. In my rambling brain, I decided I didn’t even need a kayaker

anymore. I was going to swim the whole, windy way to the end of the lake by myself

following the shallower, warmer areas along the bank. I had been excited to see eggs in

nests in the shallow water, where the warmer water must have been helping incubate them.

One of the hatchlings was already making his exit. I don’t like birds, but I reached out to help

— then pulled back when I realised the poor thing hadn’t made it. It wasn’t a bird. It was a

dinosaur. It looked like Ducky from The Land Before Time. I felt so sad. The nests were all

around me. So many eggs. So many dinosaurs. I thought perhaps it was too warm for them.

I was sad thinking none of them would survive, but I just kept swimming.

Of course, Myron did not approve of the madwoman’s plan. In fact, if he knew what was

going on in my head he probably would have thrown me in the boat with force. Instead, he

used all his persuasive skills to get me to swim to the boat ramp 500m away, with a promise

of a shower to warm up — and then I could get back in and finish it. At least, that’s what I

think the deal was. I’m not quite sure.

We were well over halfway, 16 k’s in, I thought. 8k’s left. Doable. OK, I’ll do that.

I don’t remember the swim to the ramp. I don’t remember getting out. If there wasn’t a photo of me lying on the sun-warmed cement, I wouldn’t believe it happened. I don’t remember much until I was sitting in the motel shower, staring at a pair of blue feet and wondering who they belonged to. It was a bit of a revelation when I followed them with my eyes… up my legs… and realised they were mine. That was scary.

So. That was Day 3’s story.

Now it was Roosevelt. Day 4.

As I stood on the ramp waiting for the swim to start, I didn’t know what to do. Myron I’m sure, didn’t either. I felt like I had to swim. I had to get in. Everyone was ready. My cap and goggles were on. Myron had already pushed off, waiting for the start — and I bolted.

I knew I was going to puke, so I ran for the loo. Barely made it. Puked out of both ends. A total anxiety shitstorm, literally. Not helped by copious amounts of alcohol the night before. The hangover wasn’t the problem though. I was just ridiculously anxious, scared and emotional.

I pulled myself together and went back down. The second wave had already left. Myron was waiting onshore in the kayak, no clue what was going on. He said, “We don’t have to do this.” But I did. I really did. I felt like if I didn’t get in, I might never want to get in again. And that thought was more devastating than feeling cold. I need to get in, I told him. I might not stay in, but I have to get in. I’m sure he groaned internally, but he’s a good sport and let me have my way.

Not the mindset you want to ensure a safe 10k night swim in cold water. But I really needed to get in, to reassure myself that I could swim again. That this wasn’t the end. That I could move forward.

So I got in. And started to swim. It didn’t feel good. It felt cold. But I knew it was nothing like the day before. There wasn’t that brutal cold shock I felt when I jumped into Apache at 11.3°C. Rationally, I knew the temp was fine.

But I still wasn’t okay. I was miserable. There were tears in my goggles. All I could think about was how cold it was going to get as the sun set and the wind picked up. After about a kilometre, I called it. “I’m done.” We turned around.

Almost instantly — relief. The nausea vanished. I didn’t feel like a drowning rat anymore. I started feeling like I could swim again. My body reconnected to the water. My brain calmed. I had that feeling — the one I swim for — of being part of the water. Of the water flowing through me, not just around me. The pressure was gone. I relaxed. I was just present, content. What a dramatic turnaround. On the way back, I put it all into perspective. Two DNFs in a row. Once upon a time, that would have crushed me. But it didn’t now. I swim because I love it.

I swim to challenge myself and see what I’m capable of. Marathon swimming can be brutal.

Even perfect prep can be derailed by so many things — and mine had been far from perfect, for all sorts of reasons. But over the previous three days, I’d swum over 45 kilometres and 16 hours, surrounded by spectacular scenery and amazing people.

I thought back to 2015, taking my kids to the stinger nets — and being scared to swim the 50metres to the back because it felt so far out of my comfort zone. I’ve come a long way. A really long way. Discovering my love for swimming, especially for long distances, has meant confronting all sorts of fears — some new, some old, some real, some imagined. It’s pushed me to see what my body and my mind can do. What I can overcome.

I’ve had incredible experiences, met so many inspiring people, and found a community that’s enriched my life in countless ways. When we returned to shore at Roosevelt, I felt incredibly happy.

I knew I’d be fine. I’d swim again. I’m so grateful that Myron let me get in — just so I could work through it all. He didn’t have to. I probably would have said no if I were him.

So, thanks Myron, for giving me the opportunity to get in and get my shit together, even though you knew I was totally crazy. And thanks, marathon swimming community…for all the lessons, all the support, all the friendship.