Channel Crossing

Grease, grease, grease. First a coat of lanolin, an eighth of an inch thick, then a coat of heavy grease. Gertrude Ederle, standing bare in the Hotel Sirene, Cape Gris Nez, France, shivered slightly and pressed her legs together. "Gee whiz, let's get started." Her sister, Margaret, dipped her hands once more in the grease pail. "Put your bathing suit on," she directed over her shoulder. More grease was applied to the strong stumpy body, clad now in a thin racing suit, cut away deeply under the arms. Gertrude Ederle (pronounced "Ed-er-ly") ran across the beach into the surf, briefly acknowledging the cheers of the crowd that had come to see her off. It was cold, she remarked as she felt the water, colder than last year. She struck out for England. When, after 14 hours and 31 minutes in the water, she had landed at Kingsdown Beach, beating by two hours the best male record for the Channel, herself the first woman in the world to swim across; when her tug, the Alsace, had taken her around to Dover and the crowd was shouting on the pier--a customs official came aboard. For an hour he kept the whole party waiting while he asked questions. What was her name? Her race? Her age? He turned to the stout, red-faced individual beside her. Would he be good enough to state his profession? "Potztausend!" cried Father Ederle, looking hungrily at the gaunt official, "I am a butcher. . . ." He had not, on the long slow trip, behaved like one. As Gertrude Ederle, having splashed through the breakers at Cape Gris Nez, fell into a slow crawl beside the tug, "Pop" Ederle sat on deck, chatting comfortably to Thomas Burgess (trainer), Helmi (Egyptian swimmer), Miss Cannon (another U. S. Channel aspirant) and one Timson (Boston swimmer). In the bow was a brass band. On the tug's side was a great white arrow with the legend, "This Way, Ole Kid." The band played The Star-Spangled Banner. Miss Ederle responded from the water. She swam the first four miles in three hours and had a drink of beef juice. The band played Yes, We HAVE No Bananas. Miss Cannon got into the water and swam for an hour; Miss Ederle offered her a drink of chocolate. Miss Ederle ate some chicken. The band played Valencia. It was six o'clock and she could see the cliffs of Dover. She had been swimming for eleven hours. The water blackened fast. A squally rain whipped the broken seas that, running out with the tide, slapped her in the face. No hope of making Folkstone now. For two hours the current would run against her; she could not expect to make progress. It would take all her strength to keep from being carried back to France. Trainer Burgess began to whisper to "Pop" Ederle. Suddenly the butcher stepped to the side of the tug. "Trudie," he roared, "remember you don't get that roadster unless you git over." The watery reply was indistinguishable to the people on the tug. Mr. Ederle beamingly assured them that his little girl said she was going to "git her roadster." The rain fell harder. The seas were treacherous as a swarm of sorcerers. They did not wage fair battle, but disguised in many shapes their malice, plotting curiously to undo her. Now an army of horsemen came riding against her breast, with plumes blown back and dark flanks swelling in a line; and now a thing like a wolf reared over her and fled away again with a hissing sound; giants cudgeled her, dwarfs nudged her; and black sea-beasts, part imp and part leviathan, folded suddenly her body in theirs, raining upon her face blows like the short slaps of a wet fin. The rain fell. The band played Barney Google. "Trudie," roared the butcher, "if you git over I'll let you take the roadster to bed with you." She was no nearer the shore. For two hours, with truncheon legs that never stopped kicking, with failing arms that beat on, she had been swimming in a treadmill. The human will is an unknown quantity, but it has its limitations. Another woman might have been beaten an hour ago. Gertrude Ederle might be able to keep swimming for an hour more. But surely before long the courage that kept her warm would go out like a lamp, she would give a brief, cloudy call from the water, and a life-preserver would swoop out for her. Already Trainer Burgess had started his whispering. And then, abruptly, the girl called. It was a critical moment. Weakening now meant certain defeat, and at the sound of her voice everyone on the tug, even the musicians, pressed to the rail, straining his eyes through the dusk of black waters. But Gertrude Ederle had not cried because she was tired. Suddenly, deliciously at her back she had felt the lifting current that would sweep her ashore. It was then--not later--that she felt her triumph. She felt as if she could swim to China, to Hawaii or to the cottage in Highlands, N. J., where her mother was soon to tell pressmen about her character. She could see her mother bobbing in a rocker, hear her voice go dreamily on: "Gertrude is just a plain home girl. . . . She does not smoke or drink. She does not go out with young men, except just once in a while. . . . No, she has no sweetheart . . . that I know of. . . ."

The pale cliffs of England, from Kingsdown to Dover, blazed with light. Bonfires were flaming there as in the days when the Jutes and Saxons welcomed their black sea-rovers home from war. People pranced on the beach shouting her name, they waded into the surf and tried to help her out. Gertrude Ederle pushed them aside. Smiling, she reached down, and felt the sand under her feet.