How It Starts How It Starts Air temp: 44 degrees. Water temp: 68 degrees. Body temp: 98.3 degrees. Mental state of swimmer: Calm. Loose. Ready. Mental state of support crew: Unknown and highly variable. Arch looks like he's going to puke-- hands on knees, head down like a dog, orange life vest bunched around his ears. Poor Arch. He wasn't meant for the open water. He's a worrier. You can't be a worrier and a swimmer. The water demands trust. Whatever conditions... Whatever's below... Whatever your head tells you... You have to believe you're going to make it to the other side. The minute you start to doubt yourself, you make mistakes. The water doesn't forgive mistakes. Me? I'm a believer in the power of the water and in myself. I don't make mistakes. While we're still on shore, Arch adjusts his life vest and breathes in through his nose. I check his watch. "5:58 a.m. You've got two minutes to get it together," I say, and look out over the dark blue of Lake Tahoe, which is just beginning to twitch awake. "Tully, I can't," Arch says, like he has a choice. "You have to. You swore it." I don't remind him when or why he swore it. He picks up the kayak, drags it to the water's edge. He remembers. Behind me, Cave Rock would cast a shadow if the sun were high enough. They call her Lady of the Lake. If you squint hard enough, the rock looks like a woman. I think it's a stretch. If you try hard enough, anything can look like anything. Unless it disappears, and then all the imagining in the world won't turn it into what you want, which brings me back to today. "One minute," Arch whispers, and swipes his dark hair out of his eyes. We look out over the water. I nudge his shoulder. "You can do it." He nudges me back. "That's what I'm supposed to say to you." This will be the last time we touch for at least six hours-- if I do this right, which I will, because I do not make mistakes. I pull my goggles down and step in. Lady of the Lake, wish me luck. Not that I believe in luck. Or second chances. But I believe in the power of the water to do what it needs to do for me, for Mom. "Call it," I say to Arch, who swallows, lifts up his phone, presses record. "Time is 6:00 a.m. Participant has left the natural shore." His voice breaks on shore , but he keeps going: "The marathon swim has begun." Excerpted from Deep Water by Jamie Sumner All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
