Escaping Alcatraz

By Sarah Fisk

You already know the end of this story.  She survives.

While I have always been happy within the safe pages of a good book, my daughter Beth has always been happy in the daring arms of adventure. As a child, she climbed too high on the jungle gyms and jumped too high with her bike.  She learned to windsurf when she was ten and scaled rocky cliffs at fifteen. In college she experienced firestorms, earthquakes, and mudslides, but didn’t once ask to come home.  And so, when Beth announced that she planned to swim and run in the Alcatraz Challenge, I had hoped she was kidding, but I knew she was not.  This child is going to be the death of me.

Our adventure started early on a cold and windy August morning in 1998.  Long before the cable cars started rumbling in the streets or the coffeehouses opened their doors for breakfast, Beth, her father Doug, and I were driving up and over hills to the National Maritime Museum on San Francisco Bay. At 5:30 a.m. Beth registered for the over one-mile swim from Alcatraz Island and the eight-mile run to and from the Golden Gate Bridge. No fog. That’s a relief.

As Beth studied her map of the race course she asked us to buy, “two shots of espresso with two packets of sugar, peppermint gum, and bottled water.”  Doug and I walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, peering into dark restaurant windows.  Finally, we spotted men waiting to board a chartered fishing boat and a street vendor selling them coffee and donuts.  We bought black coffee (for three), gum, and water and walked back to Beth.  She thanked us but complained about the bitter, black coffee. Espresso is better? 

As the day began to lighten, Beth pulled on her wet suit and grew quiet, staring out at Alcatraz. At 7:30 a.m. the wind still chilled us; the air temperature hadn’t risen above sixty degrees. Beth and Doug joined the over one hundred other entrants and their friends boarding the Red and White Ferry to Alcatraz. As I watched Beth leave, my heart begged me to grab her and keep her on land; my mind willed me to let her go.  My mind won out.  I wished her luck and waved goodbye.  Doug would stay with Beth until she jumped into the ocean and the race began. Then, he would ride back to Fisherman’s Wharf to watch the rest of the race along with me.  Doug has always encouraged Beth’s adventures. He doesn’t know any better.

Word rippled through the spectators, a small group of young adults and me (an old mother), that the race had begun.  The swimmers had jumped into the icy-cold ocean just moments before the starting gun sounded.  A quick beginning, a good start.  I knew that volunteers, paddling kayaks, were to yell to the swimmers when needed, to help them stay on the correct course onto shore.  The swimmers had to fight an ocean current so strong that their focal point on land was the Coit Tower even though the bay inlet they were swimming toward, was several miles northwest of the tower. If Beth is swept out to sea will anyone notice?

As I waited on the concrete steps, I listened to the sounds of San Francisco waking up; the cable car bells double-ringing, sea gulls calling, tourists discussing the cold summer weather. I looked out over the expanse of white-capped ocean waves and hoped Beth didn’t suffer hypothermia, leg cramps, or… Anyone see any sharks?

Finally, I spotted the swimmers. I had hoped Beth could wear her tangerine orange college swim cap imprinted with a bold blue “P” so I could easily locate her among the other swimmers.  However, she had to wear the red florescent cap given her by the race sponsors. Now, so far out in the bay, all the swimmer’s heads looked like little red apples bobbing in the choppy Pacific. Why did I forget my binoculars?

Less than thirty minutes after the race began, one of the red-capped swimmers entered the narrow opening into the inlet.  We onlookers clapped as he aimed for the buoys and the shoreline. And then, others completed the swimming portion of the race.  Where was Beth?

Suddenly, a swimmer appeared in the protected waters of the inlet, head turning from side to side, arms cutting the water in smooth alternating rhythm.  Beth—I knew her freestyle stroke by heart—I had watched her swim for over 20 years. She was safe. She entered shallow water and bounded onto the rocky beach, smiling as we cheered.  She grabbed a cup of water, struggled out of her wet suit, put on her shoes. The Golden Gate Bridge stood far to the west.  She started to run.   Where does she get her energy?

After waiting on the cold observation steps for what felt like forever, we stared down the tree-lined path from the bridge as a few runners came into view, finishing the race.   Sooner than expected, Beth appeared in her lime green running shorts, matching bathing suit top, and red, white and blue Texas-flag socks. She crossed the finish line.  Only then did she gasp for breath as she bent over to grab her knees for support. Beth had finished 5^th among the women in the race.  More importantly, she had challenged herself; accomplished yet another goal.  She will always be able to talk about the time she “escaped” from Alcatraz.

Yes.  I, too, survived the Alcatraz Challenge.   I lived through sleeplessness, worry, and imaginary fears.  And I developed a survival plan for the future: to steer Beth towards the adventure of reading good books.  

I know, I’m getting desperate! This child is going to be the death of me.