Sandpoint, ID

It has been said that nothing is as strong as the heart of a volunteer. Nowhere could this have been more evident than at Sandpoint’s 14th annual Long Bridge Swim. If not for the many people who organized, oversaw, directed and managed this event (right down to the homeowner who provided the starting line), we swimmers would have never entered the chilly waters of Lake Pend Oreille.

2007’s swim saw 564 bodies splashing into the drink. This year, 650 people pre-registered, at least another 100 showed up on race day, and there were 300 “newbies” taking the 1.76 mile plunge. Sign-in (and late registration) started at 6:30 am; volunteers provided caps, bags for belongings, information, and reassurance. Crowd control, dressing areas, the marking of swimmers’ hands, and security were provided by the National Guard and the local police. Visitors and family members were guided safely to parking spots by more volunteers.

The safety lecture commenced at 8:00: “Slow swimmers stay at the back (there were some Olympic-class athletes in the crowd, and they were impatient to get across the lake); don’t go under the bridge; use the kayakers to help you stay on track and, if necessary, to tow you to a motorboat and get you out of the water if you get into trouble.”

Check.

We were a little late getting to the south end of the bridge, where the whole thing was supposed to unfold. School buses manned by volunteers ferried us over the causeway. The starting horn sounded about a half-hour late, and the “elites” out front rocketed northward. The rest of us fell into the water in our fashion…whereupon I discovered some big holes in my well-planned strategy.

My intent was to stay out of the crowd, so I lingered at the starting line until there were 40 or 50 of us remaining. Then I eased into the lake, swam a few yards of breaststroke to get my bearings, and finally settled into a comfortable freestyle. Almost immediately, I caught up with the swimmer ahead; I switched course and headed to my left… another body. I veered right… and found a clump of legs and torsos festooned with floats, ribbons, water weenies, and kickboards. Further to my right, I encountered a kayaker, who gestured with an oar to guide me back into the fray.

Half a race later, I found a safe and relatively unoccupied groove at the eastern edge of the melee. One kayaker followed me along, gently pointing with her oar whenever she felt I needed to be closer to my fellows.

Finally, as I was funneled toward the buoys at Dog Beach, my guardian fell back to guide another swimmer home—no doubt another misfit like me.

I finished somewhere in the middle of the pack—just where I’d hoped to be. I looked around for Tonya, never expecting to find her in the crowd gathered at the finish line, and found her face immediately as I stripped off my goggles. A volunteer (who else?) handed me a numbered card: my ranking. Another took the card a few seconds later to record my time, though it didn’t really matter.

Spectators who’d been strung along the bridge to follow their favorite swimmers were trickling back toward Dog Beach. The music system had been put to work, and the swimmers were taking advantage of free food and beverages. Refreshments could be purchased by those who’d come to watch and encourage but who hadn’t registered for the swim.

As the sun warmed my back, I followed the directing hand of a National Guardsman to recover my belongings. Tonya and I made our way up the path, already working on a better plan for next year.

Photography by Tonya Attridge