Last year’s winter in New England was hellish. Snowstorm after snowstorm. They just kept coming and the snowbanks kept on rising. The big joke was that some of the snow piles wouldn’t melt until late summer, and that was actually true in some cases– where snow had been transferred to huge unused lots (“snow farms”), debris ended up covering the last vestiges of the mounds, protecting them from the summer sun until finally they dissipated in late July and August.

Having endured that bleakness, especially the cabin fever that comes with entertaining three small children with me occasionally away on a work trip, my wife Michele declared that we needed to plan a proper vacation for the next winter.  That summer, one of our friends came up with the idea of ditching the kids and having a weekend staycation of sorts, since we live in a town that has a ton to offer in the summer. It was cleverly dubbed SWANKY– Scituate Weekend: Adults, No Kids– Yahoo!– and the idea worked so well, we gathered the same crew together for a long weekend in early April in Cancun.

Knowing that 30% of prepping for an event is being opportunistic as life happens and interrupts your planned training schedule, I saw this a chance to log my first long ocean swim. It was also a great place to try out the new nutrition approach I had been turned onto– UCAN.

In the water in front of our resort, there was a roped off rectangular area designating the swim area. I thought perhaps there was netting dropping from the lines that sat on the surface down to the sea floor, protecting swimmers from the myriad sharks I was sure were lurking just offshore. As it turns out, there was no such barrier; it was just a guideline as to where to swim. I guess I’d have to take my chances.

The long side of the rectangle, which ran parallel to the beach, was about 100 yds. (4x longer than the pool I had been training in) so I was excited to stretch things out. At about 6:30am, I downed a packet of UCAN mixed into about 12oz of water, loaded up my water bottle with another dose of the same, and headed to the beach for a 7:00am start.

After a few moments of reenacting Clark Griswold’s “This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy!” from his pre-swim-with-Christie-Brinkley freakout in Vacation, I dove in and started plugging away. The water temperature was great– probably about 75-80 degrees– and I told myself not to look at my watch for as long as I could. My plan was to do a three-hour swim, and I didn’t want to glance down after what I thought had been a good long chunk of time, only to see, say, a paltry 11 minutes had ticked off the clock.

I made my way back-and-forth, parallel to the beach, and stayed close to shore. Even though I could have gone out a bit further– the ropes extended maybe 25 yards into the ocean– I like being near the beach. Maybe the phantom sharks were in my head, maybe I was just being practical (if I had any issues, I could just stand up), maybe I liked the extra training that comes with battling the modestly breaking waves. When I finally looked down at my watch, I was indeed pleasantly surprised: 1 hour, 22 minutes. I thought it hadn’t even been an hour yet.

I kept on keeping on, doing lengths that ended in a tight and semi-awkward u-turn whenever I reached the rope on the far side. On the far left side, there was a small rock in the sand I had found when I made one of my early turns, and of course it became “Turnaround Rock”. Every lap thereafter, I made a point to go at least that far to be sure I wasn’t cutting the length short. The distance didn’t matter of course, it was just a mental game to play, and Turnaround Rock became a friendly companion while I was out there.

I had planned to grab the UCAN at the halfway or maybe two-hour mark, but I felt good, so I didn’t stop. Plus, I didn’t want to break my rhythm by getting out of the water to retrieve the water bottle. It was only in the last 45′ or so that my shoulders started to hurt, but by that time I was in the home stretch. I was looking at my watch more and more frequently, which made time slow down, but eventually I made the turn for the final right-then-left lap that I knew would bring me back past the three hour mark.

I cranked through and felt great, finishing strong though a bit tired overall. It felt tremendous to have knocked out a three-hour swim– my longest to date had been 2:30, and in a pool– and to have the whole day and rest of the vacation ahead. Michele and some of the others had walked the beach while I was swimming, and I had waved to them mid-stroke, and I was looking forward to rejoining them, this swim in the books.

When I got out of the water and made my way to the chair where I had left my towel and gear, a woman at the chair next to me said, “Oh my god, you were in there forever! We were watching you the whole time. Are you training for something?”

“Yes,” I replied, “the English Channel this September.”

“I knew it, ha!” said the man in the chair next to hers.

“We had a bet,” she clarified, seeming equally happy just to get resolution on why someone on vacation would be doing so many mind-numbing laps back and forth in the ocean.

Because it was now about 10:30, the others had already eaten breakfast, so I headed over to the outdoor restaurant solo. I was able to get a seat overlooking the water I had just been swimming in, and I sat deep in the chair, letting both the good ache and the reflection on this first big milestone settle in. Two breakfast entrees were in order, and I’m afraid the waiter didn’t get much of a workout of his own when he cleared the table of plates which carried nary a scent of leftovers.

By all accounts, the swim went really well, and the only ill-effects were that my tongue was swollen, or numb, or both, and it took the rest of the day before it felt reasonably normal again. I can see now why swimmers bring mouthwash on their crossings. Also, I had a bit of chafing around my neck and between my thighs. I should mention that I train in longboard shorts, partly out of modesty and partly because the extra drag gives me a mental edge– if I train with a parachute around me, won’t I feel (and be) faster during the actual event when I’m sporting a mere Speedo? The chafing on my legs I’m sure was due to a combination of the salt water and the extra material in the shorts; the neck surprised me a bit, but it was good to know I’ll need to load up on Body Glide.

Having wrapped up my internal debrief and lessons learned, I left the restaurant to find the others. I caught them coming from our hotel rooms and heading to beach. When we met up, they asked about the swim and someone exclaimed, “We can’t wait to get in the water!” Have at it. I’ll be in my chair filling my new quota for the day: Coconut drinks and Tecates.