Young Woman and the Sea: How Trudy Ederle Conquered the English Channel and Inspired the World

by Glenn Stout

  In an instant the unconquerable Channel was subdued, and the weather, while still atrocious, didn't matter anymore. With each stroke of her arms and kick of her legs Trudy was taming the Channel. There wasn't any question about it, not any more. Trudy wasn't coming out of the water, and if she didn't come out of the water, she was not going to fail.

  With each stroke, that realization took hold among those on board the ship. No other swimmer who had ever taken on the Channel could have done it in these conditions, but no other swimmer had Trudy's strength and talent, or her mastery of the American crawl. Anyone else would have failed—anyone, woman or man.

  For the next hour, gaining mere inches with each stroke, Trudy did a slow pivot around the South Goodwin lightship as the landmark moved from the stern to the starboard side of the Alsace and Corthes fought to keep his tug alongside the young woman. He couldn't protect her from the waves anymore, and even when he tried to do so, it had not helped that much in seas as rough as these. And now, as they crawled along, the waves seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Corthes just tried to keep the tug nearby.

  What for? In a matter of minutes Burgess went from exasperation and anger to anxiety, and, finally, as Trudy began pushing past the lightship, anchored only a hundred yards or away, to excitement and exhilaration. By God, she could make it! She would make it.

  Trudy could barely hear, but he began shouting to her from the rail, screaming the words in the face of the wind as if he couldn't quite believe it himself, "You've got it now, Gertie, you've got it now!"

  Pop Ederle joined in. "Don't forget," he bellowed into the teeth of the gale, "You don't get that roadster unless you get over!"

  And then, that voice again, sure and strong.

  "Pop! I will have that roadster."

  Deal, England, Aug. 6.—(By the Associated Press)—Caretakers aboard the light ship off Goodwin Sands about six miles from the English coast reported this evening that Gertrude Ederle was swimming strongly as she passed the ship in her channel swim.

  They state the tide was in favor of success for the young American swimmer.

  Dover, England, Aug 6—(By the United Press)—Ederle five and a half miles from Dover and swimming strong at 7:10 P.M.

  Still, there were hours and miles yet to go, and anyone who had ever swum the Channel or studied the Channel knew that the final two miles, the final mile, the last five hundred yards could be the worst, that dozens of swimmers before had made it that close and then been tossed back out, returning to shore exhausted, eyes downcast, failures.

  Trudy just kept singing, not thinking, not worrying. She sang the words and talked to God and the sea as she swam, and imagined herself not in the Channel but sitting in the seat of that red roadster. She could see the sun gleaming off the hood of the car, and feel the way the gears shifted easily in her hands as the car skimmed down Broadway, Meg alongside her as she waved to everyone as she drove by, going fast.

  Then she stopped. Trudy was back in the sea. Even though her arms and legs and face were numb and the cold was beginning to settle in as the last thin layers of grease that helped her retain some heat began to melt and wear and drift away, she could feel it again, the drift and pull of the moon.

  The tide was changing—she could tell, and she tried to understand, because she knew that this was not the right time. It was still light and the tide should not be changing so soon, but it was. Instead of pushing her down the coast so she could swim with it, toward Dover, like a sailboat tacking before the breeze, the tide was turning back.

  In a moment, Corthes and Burgess could tell too, as the tug began to be pushed back up the Channel. It was rare, but not unknown, a measure of the rough weather. The wind had blown so long and so strong that it held the waters at bay and kept the flood tide short. Now the ebb tide was beginning to run again, some two hours early.

  It was that final tidal change, the one that had stopped so many swimmers so close to the end, closing off the shore like the a door slamming shut, sweeping them away from the coast at the last second and keeping their names off the list of Channel champions, sending them to the much longer ledger of those who had failed. That list read like the names of the dead after a great battle—Freyburg, Sion, Helmi, Barrett, Harrison, Kellerman, name after name after name, and none on that list more often than Wolffe and Burgess, each of whom tried and failed more than any other swimmers in history.

  Until that moment, Burgess and Corthes had been taking aim at Saint Margaret's Bay, a small indentation in the coastline four miles to the east of Dover. Not only the nearest reasonable landing, it also offered some protection—if Trudy missed the mark and ran past the landing spot, there was still a fair chance she'd make land by Dover, or, in the worst-case scenario, by Folkestone, another peninsula jutting into the sea six miles to the west.

  The premature tide, however, made that impossible. Trudy now needed to strike out for land almost immediately, across the current, before she was pushed past Deal and into the water of the North Sea. If she did not, her chances of making it to land—anywhere—were slim.

  What she faced now was the absolute worst, the swimming equivalent of finishing the last few miles of a marathon in a full-blown sprint, lungs ready to burst and leg muscles on fire, and for anyone not named Trudy Ederle, just as unfeasible. But for the young woman who was in the sea, one more completely unattainable act, another hour or two of suffering, hardly seemed like too much to ask. Burgess leaned over the rail and tried to explain, but after sensing the change in the tide, Trudy was not surprised when he told her they were changing course.

  All those hours and hours she had spent in the water for more than a decade, hours that kept her away from boys and dances, that caused her hearing to deteriorate even further, that took her from school, now she needed every minute and every second, all the strength and confidence she had built from a life spent half in the water. She needed it all.

  It was not that unfamiliar. At nearly every distance she ever swam, when others tired, Trudy did not, and when others slowed down, Trudy did not. During the Day Cup swim, only four short years before, at the end, when Helen Wainwright and Hilda James and the others were weak, Trudy had been strong; when she swam to Sandy Hook, and Meg had yelled at her toward the end, she had sprinted and finished strong and broken the old record. And how many times had she been swimming in the Highlands with Meg and her friends, farther out than almost anyone, and when the time had come to return, Trudy had put her head down and aimed toward shore, like a motorboat, and passed everyone and beaten them to the beach, where she collapsed on the sand, out of breath and happy?

  She had done this before, but now, just as the coast was coming into view and she drew closer, there was still one last obstacle. It was nearly dark—the lighthouse atop Saint Margaret's Bay flashed out across the water, and lights onshore began to twinkle on in the twilight.

  All day long, wireless dispatches from both the Alsace and La Morinie had kept the world apprised of Trudy's progress, and now, with success at hand, the sailors aboard the South Goodwin lightship also sent word to shore that Ederle was nearing her goal. From Dover to Deal, residents of the south coast of England streamed to the shore to witness history, collecting in pockets atop the cliffs and on the narrow beaches. They scanned the seas for a sign of the tug, gathered driftwood in huge piles, and lit bonfires to ward off the chill. To the Ederles the red and blue and green flares out over the sea made it look like it was the Fourth of July at Highlands. Everyone hoped to spot the swimmer in the water and light the way to shore.

  With each new report of her position the crowds picked up and moved farther up or down the coast, trying to anticipate her landing, hopscotching from Dover toward Deal, an entourage of cars and taxis full of families wearing slickers and carrying umbrellas. Local fishermen who had stayed in port all day due to the foul weather now launched their boats and likewise searched for the swimmer in the water. Even those who didn't come to the shore but stayed at home gathe
red around the radio or went to nearby pubs and raised a glass to her victory even before it was achieved. In Cape Gris-Nez, there was excitement as well. There, too, people received reports of her progress, and now, in the distance, it was sometimes possible, through a break in the clouds, to see the blazes onshore and impossible to think that it was anything else but Trudy making her final approach.

  Sunset came, officially, at 9:34 according to the French Summer Time the press used throughout her journey to track her progress, but in the gloom and heavy cloud cover, twilight was premature, and it was nearly dark almost an hour earlier. Swimming in the dark was nothing new to Trudy—she had done so before—but never when she was so tired and cold.

  Then, for the first time since she stepped into the water at Cape Gris-Nez, Trudy got a break. After hours of wind and rain and more wind, the storm in the Channel was exhausted and spent. The sea finally started to calm, lifting and falling more slowly. And the rain, too, slowed and stopped, and now the Channel itself hurried Trudy to its shores. For the first time in hours, Trudy, who had plugged along in the heavy seas using four beats—four leg kicks to each stroke—was able to increase her pace to six beats.

  There was elation aboard the Alsace. Everyone on the tug was staying on the rail, urging her on. Pop Ederle kept reminding her of her roadster, now telling her, "If you get over I'll let you take that roadster to bed with you!" Meg stayed busy, and when Trudy complained of her sore mouth, she lowered pieces of pineapple to soothe her and give her strength, while Burgess leaned over the rail exhorting "Gertie," as he called her, to the finish. Arthur Sorenson, the photographer, ran back and forth, always keeping Trudy in sight, sometimes manning the blackboard and delivering more encouraging words from Trudy's mother, received over the wireless.

  Deal, England, Aug 6.—(By the United Press)—9:30 P.M.—Tonight Gertrude Ederle's tug, the Alsace, was only a few hundred yards offshore, blowing the whistle, and blue and red flares were burning on the beach.

  Deal, England, Aug 6.—(By the Associated Press)—Gertrude Ederle was within a mile of Kingsdown near Deal on a flood tide at 9:30 tonight on her swim across the English Channel. Kingsdown is about five miles north of Dover.

  Now, even she could hear them. As light danced across the calming waters, Trudy viewed it all through her amber-colored goggles, and she began to hear, faintly at first, the honking horns of automobiles, and the blasts of the big tugs. From nearby Kingsdown Beach a mighty searchlight from the lifeboat station suddenly cast its beam over the waters and swept it back and forth as if looking for a man overboard. Then the beam of light landed on the Alsace, and then upon Trudy, not a man, but a woman not in danger of drowning but about to change everything, and now the crowds on the headlands could see her doggedly putting one arm over the other in the water and gaining another precious foot or two with each stroke. It was soon joined by a similar light from La Morinie, putting Trudy firmly in the spotlight.

  Some four hundred yards offshore, Trudy slowed and swam closer to the Alsace, now a shadow that loomed over the water beneath the bright lights of the pilothouse. Onboard, Burgess prepared the rowboat for landing. He, Pop Ederle, and a crewman planned to row ahead of Trudy to shore, not just to see her finish, but to ensure that she would do so safely. Hundreds of people had guessed correctly and had gathered on Kingsdown Beach to greet her, and they needed to make sure that no overzealous spectator rushed out and touched Trudy before she actually walked out of the water and took a step without a splash—if she was touched, even as she waded in water below her knees, her journey would be for naught, its veracity called into question, and neither Burgess nor Ederle wanted that to happen.

  But now Trudy was not swimming toward shore but toward the Alsace and looking up imploringly to the rail. Burgess rushed over. "What's the matter, Gertie?" he called out over the cacophony, sudden concern etched on his face. "What's the matter, girl?

  "Gee, Mr. Burgess," she answered, suddenly concerned. "I can't see. It's so dark." Burgess looked at her for a moment, concerned, and then started to laugh. She had forgotten. After fourteen hours in the water the girl had forgotten she was wearing goggles and as the sky darkened the girl who already found it hard to hear was now worrying that perhaps she was going blind as well.

  Burgess called out to her to remove her goggles and for the first time in more than fourteen hours Trudy raised them from her face. Her world, which over the course of fourteen hours had gone from gray to gold and brown and now to nearly black, burst with color as flares and flames and searchlights on the beach all sought her out as if she were the center-ring attraction at some watery circus. The waters danced with color, and a jolt of energy shot through Trudy's body as she stared in wonder at the shore. For a moment she completely forgot where she was and what she was doing but was mesmerized by the scene, which somehow reminded her of some fairy story from her childhood, all magic and light and music.

  "How are we doing?" bellowed Burgess.

  Trudy thought for a moment, as if surprised by the question and then burst out in a laugh herself. "How are we doing?" she asked of the world, pondering the question. "How are we doing?"

  Burgess spoke again and pulled her from her reverie. "Well, for God's sake, Gertie," he said to her, "swim!" He then underscored the fact, pointed the way, with a command—"Swim four hundred yards."

  Now she remembered. It all rushed back, every moment of those fourteen hours in the water, all the wind and all the rain. And she was so close now, to her red roadster and some rest. So close. This way, ole girl.

  "I'm not going to go this far and let four hundred yards beat me," she yelled back, "if I have a breath in my body." Then she rolled over in the water and started swimming, sprinting.

  Four hundred yards? She was the fastest in the world at four hundred yards. She could swim four hundred yards in her sleep. She had swum four hundred yards a million times. Sixteen times back and forth in the old WSA pool, or a few trips around the pier in the Highlands. Four hundred yards was nothing, nothing. She had never, never ever, tried to swim four hundred yards before and failed. Funny, how a swim of more than fourteen hours, more than twenty miles, could end in a swim of four hundred yards.

  Trudy was making her final push. The beach was lit almost to daylight by the bonfires and flares and was crowded with so many people it almost resembled Coney Island on a hot summer's day. While the Alsace dropped anchor and Trudy swam off, Burgess lowered the rowboat into the water and struck out for shore.

  Trudy swam with renewed vigor. This was not the stunned girl who had been touched and taken from the water a year before, but a young woman who with each stroke was reaching for her goal. Now she swam, not with the long, slow strokes that had marked the previous fourteen hours, or with the wild, panicked thrashing she had used when she first learned to swim, but with the quick, sure stroke she had been taught by Louis Handley. It was as if he were somehow standing there beside her, standing along the edge of the pool, pushing her along—"Use your legs, Miss Ederle. Do not forget to use your legs." And she did, upping her pace from six beats to eight, the same rate she used in any race of four hundred yards, kicking stronger now than at any time since she first stepped into the waters at Cape Gris-Nez, churning through the water, creating her own wake. Meg noticed first. In all the time she had watched her sister swim, in meet after meet after meet, never before had she seen her use her legs so well. It was beautiful, the way she carved through the black water.

  Burgess and Pop Ederle raced to shore ahead of her as the oarsman rowed with all his might to beat her to land, and as the boat made the beach a crowd of men and boys reached out and grabbed the prow and pulled it up on the sand. Burgess and Henry Ederle scrambled out and looked back toward the Alsace. There was Trudy, spotlighted in the water, still offshore but getting closer with each stroke.

  Her head stayed out of the water now, taking in the scene, and Burgess, half frantic with excitement, admonished the crowd to stay back. Trudy was almost giddy, but
now she was thinking, too, and she remembered that she must not let anyone touch her.

  The waves were breaking at the surf line far offshore, and when Trudy reached them, suddenly she was gone, underwater. For a heartbeat the crowd gasped, but then the waves broke and spread out on the beach and there was Trudy, on all fours for a second, sand and pebbles beneath her knees and clutching it with her hands. And then, for the first time since leaving France, she stood, sea legs wobbly, and took a short uncertain step as a wave crashed against her backside, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  Henry Ederle, carrying her robe, started racing toward his daughter, but the young woman was taking no chances. She held up her hand and called out, "Stay back, Pop! Stay back!"

  Her father stopped and watched as Trudy kept striding out of the water, her heavy legs feeling lighter and more sure with each step, the water shallower, step after step after step, until it swirled around her ankles. Then she took a final stride, and the surf reached out and this time it did not erase her footstep, and it did not splash around her ankles. She was out of the water, on English soil, across the Channel at last.

  The crowd roared, clapping and whistling, and now it raced toward her, calling out her name. Pop Ederle reached out for his daughter, gathered her in her robe and gave her a bear hug. "Hey, Pop," said Trudy, "Do I get that red roadster?"

  "Do you get the roadster?" he bellowed back in affirmation, a teary smile forming on his face.

  Trudy was done. It was 9:40 P.M. and she was the first woman to swim the English Channel. Fourteen hours and thirty-one minutes after she stepped into the water in France, she stepped out of the water in England, more than two hours faster than anyone had ever done so before.