Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe right side.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left side.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.
Mark Hamilton was swimming nude in Monterey Bay. He’d left his clothes above the high tide line on Natural Bridges beach, gazed at the lights of Monterey and Pacific Grove across the Bay, and started swimming. Having surfed almost every day over the past forty plus years, this seemed like an appropriate way to end his life.
The water was a chilly 55 degrees. He’d worn his surfing ear plugs and triathlon swim cap to eliminate the discomfort he felt in his ears when swimming in cold water. Although this was a suicide, he wanted it to be painless. In fact, he was relying on what he’d discovered years before when training for his first triathlon – he loved to swim. It wasn’t just something you did when you lost your board, it was meditative. Your body and breathing got into a rhythm and you could just empty your mind. You could forget the pressures of the day and the sins of your life.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe right side.
If all went as planned, he’d last an hour, maybe a bit more. But in an hour, he’d be well out to sea. The tide was dropping so it would help him along. He’d probably be two miles from shore.
Mark had studied the effects of hypothermia when he’d worked as a beach lifeguard during college, and revisited them the week before. It usually took at least twenty to thirty minutes for the first effects to set in. Once your body temperature drops below ninety-five degrees, you start to lose coordination. In an hour or so, he’d be so exhausted that he’d lose consciousness. Then he’d drown. His lifeless body would sink and maybe he’d be lunch for a passing shark. He certainly hoped he wouldn’t wash up on a local beach and frighten some poor child. No. He would be far enough from shore that his body would never be found.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left side.
And the swimming should help speed the process. He’d burn much more energy swimming than just floating. Exhaustion should overcome him soon.
Mark paused in his swim. He looked back at lights from the homes on West Cliff Drive, then east at the Wharf, the Boardwalk, the East Side and the power plant at Moss Landing. It looked like he’d been swimming pretty straight.
Rising up on a passing swell, he looked south and could still make out the lights of Monterey and Pacific Grove some twenty five miles away. Mark double checked the position of the soon to be setting moon on his right side and began swimming again. He knew this was the right thing to do.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe right side.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left side.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.
Mark Hamilton was swimming nude in Monterey Bay. He’d left his clothes above the high tide line on Natural Bridges beach, gazed at the lights of Monterey and Pacific Grove across the Bay, and started swimming. Having surfed almost every day over the past forty plus years, this seemed like an appropriate way to end his life.
The water was a chilly 55 degrees. He’d worn his surfing ear plugs and triathlon swim cap to eliminate the discomfort he felt in his ears when swimming in cold water. Although this was a suicide, he wanted it to be painless. In fact, he was relying on what he’d discovered years before when training for his first triathlon – he loved to swim. It wasn’t just something you did when you lost your board, it was meditative. Your body and breathing got into a rhythm and you could just empty your mind. You could forget the pressures of the day and the sins of your life.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe right side.
If all went as planned, he’d last an hour, maybe a bit more. But in an hour, he’d be well out to sea. The tide was dropping so it would help him along. He’d probably be two miles from shore.
Mark had studied the effects of hypothermia when he’d worked as a beach lifeguard during college, and revisited them the week before. It usually took at least twenty to thirty minutes for the first effects to set in. Once your body temperature drops below ninety-five degrees, you start to lose coordination. In an hour or so, he’d be so exhausted that he’d lose consciousness. Then he’d drown. His lifeless body would sink and maybe he’d be lunch for a passing shark. He certainly hoped he wouldn’t wash up on a local beach and frighten some poor child. No. He would be far enough from shore that his body would never be found.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left side.
And the swimming should help speed the process. He’d burn much more energy swimming than just floating. Exhaustion should overcome him soon.
Mark paused in his swim. He looked back at lights from the homes on West Cliff Drive, then east at the Wharf, the Boardwalk, the East Side and the power plant at Moss Landing. It looked like he’d been swimming pretty straight.
Rising up on a passing swell, he looked south and could still make out the lights of Monterey and Pacific Grove some twenty five miles away. Mark double checked the position of the soon to be setting moon on his right side and began swimming again. He knew this was the right thing to do.
Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe right side.
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