3. A long story cut short

In Watford Central Baths I watched people swim and I wished I could swim. I would imagine asking someone to teach me. Friends even offered to, but I was too self conscious to take them up or to ask a stranger.

For years I had loved going in the sea, I loved the power of the waves and had had no fear of it at all. I never let not being a swimmer get in the way.

In Kerala in 2008, in the Arabian Sea, I was trying to bodysurf a wave which was breaking right on the beach. It caught me and dumped me down onto my shoulder from about 6 feet. I lay on the beach too scared to move in case I couldn't, the air smashed out of my lungs.

You can make a total ass of yourself and the little people will still love you

It was a sobering moment- a respect was born in me then. Respect and a tiny splinter of fear which grew almost unnoticed. At first I just didn't want to go in the sea any more. It was simply a preference, I told myself.

But an almost inaudible inner whisper told me different. And that nagging fear got bigger until it was strong enough not to have to lurk and hide itself.

(But I digress).

To recap and to fill you in on the events of 2 years: I worked, I fucked my back, I hung, I recovered, I went back to manual work and left the pool behind, I relapsed and was in constant pain again, I hung again for some months and recovered once more.

One day I asked at the lobby at the pool for one to one lessons (I thought 3 would be enough). They said I could book onto a 6 week adult beginners course- actually it was halfway through. When I turned up the following Sunday there was no one else there. So I got my 3 one to ones and it cost me £6.

I went to the pool in  March 2011 and as well as hanging, I started to swim front crawl- I swam 25m and I thought I was going to die. The next day I swam 25m and I thought I was going to die. The next day I swam 25m and I thought I was going to die. Did I already say that? Anyway, whatever.

The beautiful river Thames at Marlow on that fateful day

Over the next few weeks I built it up a few lengths a day. Within a month or so I could swim 30 or 40 laps. I posted it on Facebook. My friend Andy who does triathlon, (but is so much more besides) noticed and asked me if I fancied an outdoor swim. It was 750m in the Thames at Marlow. In a wetsuit.

I thought, I can do better than that, I can swim 1,000m, what's the worst thing that could happen?

I bought a wetsuit- I swam in a lake. Twice. When I got into Heron Lake my fear snapped sharply into focus. I knew I had to face it. This was the first step. It was thick, green, cold and I couldn't see through it. It had weeds in it and fuck knows what else was under there. Fish probably.

The big day came. I ate loads of french bread, brie and ham not long before the swim. I was so nervous I didn't know what else to do. I squeezed into my wetsuit and climbed into the water. Swam to the start and raced off with everyone else.

My buddy Andy cheering me to the finish line. I feel like crying when I see this picture

I suddenly saw what looked like a great big white fish flapping around right in front of my face. I totally shat myself, figuratively speaking. (There are things that you would do in a hired wetsuit, that you would never do in one that you actually own).

It was a pair of feet, but it did for me.

At Marlow you can run along the tow path with a swimmer and give them encouragement. My kids were there to witness me run out of steam, breath and energy after 100m. I looked upstream in dismay as almost every other swimmer disappeared into the distance. Ringing in my ears as I wobbled my wonky bad breaststroke way was, "come on dad, you can do it!"

I crawled for 5 minutes, sculled for 5 minutes, floundered for 3 minutes, all the time wishing my children weren't there to witness my humiliation. Andy finished 4th and I was 10th out of 15. A shade under 20 minutes.

My children were so proud. They didn't realise I had failed.

It felt like the worst day of my life. That night I booked a 1.5k. I was hooked.