Simon says let's swim to France

I'm not sure why all my channel swimming stories seem to revolve around food.  But they do. So there you you go. Maybe channel swimmers like it that way. They're like that- It sort of goes with the territory.

The enormity of the task ahead slowly dawns

Anyway. Whatever.

At 7.45 on Wednesday night I was sitting down to supper. The phone rang. It was Simon Fullerton. "Hi how are you?"
"Not too bad."
"Do you ever say yeah I'm great?"
"I've just completeld a back breaking 12 hour day working on a roof somewhere near Oxford."
"Oh, well you're gonna love my news. I've had the call and we're meeting at Dover at 3.30, hoping to set sail at 4.30!"
"Oh... That's great."
"Are you still ok to come?"
"Er.... yeah."
"Great."
"Cool- see you in the morning."
 
I met Simon on DYST and have swum a couple of times with (or more accurately, trailed far behind) him in Brighton and/ or Hove. Most notably the famous Mark Radcliffe's now almost well known 'Mark Radcliffe10k', from King Alfred car park in Hove under/ through both piers to Brighton marina and back.

Simon had thoroughly researched the wind, tide and currents that day and using his data, we planned a slightly harder outward swim to leave us with an easy swim back with the current behind us.

In practice we got smashed on the massive tombstone rocks getting out to eat nuts and feed at the Marina, then had a (very, at times) gruelling swim back to Hove.

Simon spoke to me a few weeks before his swim and asked me if I would crew for him. Luckily on this occasion Simon would have an expert (Mike or Lance Oram) to work out what the water was going to do.

The dawn slowly dawns

So it was yet more deja vu as I got into bed at 9 and set my alarm for midnight. I missed the message saying to meet at 3 instead of 3.30. So when Simon rang me at 3.15 I was still 25 minutes from Dover. He told me the boat was leaving at 3.45 and he would do his best to stop it leaving without me.
I raced into the car park with only moments to spare. This saved me the effort of loading Simon's exhaustively labelled boxes, if not the embarassment of making the Channel aspirant, his pilot, crew and estcort boat wait. I was quickly introduced to the rest of the crew. David, Simon's dad, Mike, Simon's swim coach and Jeffrey, Simon's sea training swim buddy. "This is John, my er...."  "Ballast?" I thought quietly to myself.

Bizarrely I was Simon's most experienced crew member, having unsuccessfully swum and successfully crewed all of one time.

Mike Oram, after a very busy week had fobbed Simon off onto his son Lance and his eclectic boat crew.

There was an informal, fun atmosphere on the boat, but they were always in control, even when the engine threatened to pack up 10 hours in.

Laughter and clouds of cigarette smoke wafted up onto the deck throughout the swim.

We greased our man well, but forgot to apply sun cream. Simon was in a comtemplative mood as we chugged around to Shakespeare beach.

One very big ship and one very small ferry

The light of the morning was much like the one I swam into. It was a 4 am start albeit two months further into the summer. The weather was calmer and the wind was south westerly. Lance had gambled on an earlier start than any of the other boats leaving that morning, risking a rough start, but wary that the weather might deteriorate towards the early evening.

It was a slightly bumpy beginning there was a fair swell at times and a bit of chop. Simon had decided to have a big bottle of maxi and water every feed. He had a load of cold boiled eggs too just in case and not much else. I had a feeling he was maybe taking too much feed, but decided to see what unfolded.

David insisted on mixing all of his boy's feeds. It was beautiful to see the love and admiration he felt for his son. I imagined if I was crewing for my little boy that I'd probably do the same thing. Simon is quite a bit bigger and uglier than my son, mind you.

After about 4 hours the water became stiller and the sun grew stronger. Simon  swam on like a trouper, occasionally corrected on some monor aspect of his stroke by Mike, but largely unmolested.

As we neared the separation zone his stroke rate began to fall off and he looked visibly messier and slower. And more crestfallen. You could see everything wasn't good in Simon's world.

He said he'd want a support swimmer at his next feed or the one after. The rules are that after 3 hours you can have a support swimmer join you for an hour at a time. They musn't swim ahead and mustn't touch you. After that hour you can have no support swimmer for the next two hours.

Jeffrey got his trunks and some grease on, started fiddling with goggles. He seemed really excited to be about to get his chance to have a dip. The flow of little lion's mane and those nasty purple whatever they're called jellyfish grew steadier. To that exact proportion did Jeffrey's face drop and his anxiety level rise.

"Jellyfish is the one thing I don't like about swimming in the sea," he said. "No fucking shit," I inwardly opined.

De rigeur channel sunrise shot

Harmony reigned on deck. It was a perfect day out. David, voluble, optimistic and happy, Jeffrey self contained and content lapping up the constant sunshine, Mike watchful and supportive of his charge. There was no excessive drama and no conflict.

Next feed, Simon sank his vast portion of lovingly prepared tepid maxi and almost immediately began to disgorge at high pressure that latest feed and judging by the prodigious volume of vomit, at least several of the previous few as well.

Having suitably unburdened himself, off he swam, his stroke rate and his mood picked up to its former level. "Right, let's swim to France!" he said, grim, but firm.

Lance came running up onto the deck and told us to only give him tea on the next feed, because he'd obviously overdone the carbohydrate feed.

Next feed Simon said, "I don't need you Jeffrey," and " there's too many jellies for you anyway, you big nancy." He told us a nasty sting had fired him up. We decided that we'd tie a jellyfish to a string and lash him with it every time he started lagging.

 Anything to help really.

A couple of hours later Jeffrey did get his chance to swim. You couldn't be as relieved as he was that he didn't swim into any jellies. Mike was trying to get me to be the next support swimmer. I had a sense of impending doom because I hadn't really swum since my aborted channel attempt. My confidence was low. I was scared that I would either slow Simon down or else have to bail out before the hour was up.

Jeffrey dodges the lions manes

In the end I told them I didn't want to do it.

Lance kept coming up from below to check everyone was ok. He gave Simon the obligatory, "I'm going to need a fast half hour out of you." Si didn't bat an eyelid, just dug in, grunted and gasped.

Simon is from Belfast, which I guess means he carries with him something of the dichotomous history of that place. In his case he combines a sincere sensitivity and social conscience with a laddish demeanour. 

What Simon maybe lacked in subltety, he more than made up for with his passion. At feeds he variously hurled abuse at or punched the channel, using vernacular language I either didn't understand, or that decency precludes my sharing here (if you would credit such a thing).

In the end all of the huffing and puffing, Mike and Jeffrey's support swimming, David's mixing and, of course, my nutritional advice, put Simon exactly where he needed to be, on a conveyor belt straight to the Cap with 4 knots of current behind him.

The perfect landing bang on the Cap Gris Nez

We all swam in after him, clambering onto the rocks, I got a gashed shin as a memento. David, who came in in the dinghy, whooped and swung a bottle of bubbly, the childlike exstatic joy on his face made Simon's mere very happy face look downright miserable by comparison.

There is a certain irony (for me anyway) that Simon swam for about 3 minutes longer than i did, but atually made it to France.

Envious? Me?

no work for tinkers hands part 2

We wander over and descend the bouncy metal steps to the quay. My crew starts to load their gear onto the boat. One box with my feeds, several small bags with their clothes and a big box with their hamper, sherry trifle, chequered picnic blanket and other luxury items in it.

Roger has box upon case of photographic equipment of various shapes and sizes, probably sufficient to sink an ocean liner. Never mind a little 37' whatever the hell sort of boat SUVA is.

I carry on board a little kit bag with a towel, spare trunks, spare goggles and a jar of petroleum jelly big enough to keep the West side of Hampstead Heath occupied for the entire summer season.

Jez has bought me a new multicoloured trademark swim cap. It replaces the multicoloured trademark Paul Smith go faster 2swim4 life Harlequin swim cap that expired after my 6 hour qualifying swim in Brighton. Which in turn replaced the original multicoloured trademark many Ice Miles swim cap that died the day I did my 'official' ice mile.

The end of an(other) era. Heartfelt thanks to Paul and Jez.

Sam tells me that after we turn right out of the marina and clear the harbour wall we'll be 5 minutes from Shakespeare beach at which point I'll need to be ready to get into the water.

This is my most elegant moment

She asks me which side I breathe on and thus which side of the boat I want to swim on. I say mostly right and left respectively. She says that it might be necessary to put me on the other side of the boat during the swim. In such a case the boat, not me would reposition itself, I'd just have to continue swimming. I say that that'll be fine, no worries, whatever.

She says that their last swimmer could have greatly improved his chances of completing yesterday's swim had he been able to do this and allow the boat to shelter him.

I am smeared with P20® sun block and then have almost every cleft or crevice, nook or cranny liberally slathered with a good 24 hour's worth of Vaseline®. Certain bits I apply myself to maintain a degree of dignity for myself and Jeremy. I tell Alexia, who is keeping her distance, that this was the one reason I had asked her to be on my crew. Now's her time. She seems unimpressed and leaves Jez to it

Next thing you know the boat has turned around and is slowly backing towards the dark pebbly beach. Sam comes through from the bridge or brig or galley or whatever it's called (you know, the place on the boat with the steering wheel in it). She tells me to swim to the beach, clear the water, give a little wave (not sure what that's for). Presently there will be a signal from the boat and I'll be off.

All of a sudden I'm in the channel. And out again. And on the beach. There's a tent up here and over to my right, a roaring fire. Eventually I notice a thin warbling sound emanating from SUVA and think this must be the signal she meant.

I wade into the shallow sea that gently laps the shore. I dive in, the pungent woodsmoke hanging above the water tickles the hairs in my nostrils and stings my nose as I leave England behind me. This part feels absolutely sublime.

Probably this is the one romantic ideal on this day that is not supplanted and spoiled by the unpleasantness of the the actual experience. I swim away from the beach in the feeble dawn light. The sun pushes its way through the ever so slightly misty morning air, slowly turns it from brick red to lemon yellow.  Speckly clouds streak and spatter the towering sky.

That's how it looks on the outside. How can I descibe what it's like on the inside? I feel this memory crystallise into something precious I will carry in my heart forever.

As I am met by the silky resistance of the ocean, skin, muscles and sinews respond to that sensuous caress. No pain, no cold, no complaints, just beautiful belonging.

I relax and stretch and gently ease into the swim. I think of almost nothing. The little choppy wavelets everywhere I put down to the boat's wake bouncing off the harbour wall. I figure once we get away from the harbour it'll all calm down.

I am wrong about that.

It isn't the first error of judgement I make on this swim and it isn't the last by a long shot. I've heard it said that the man who never makes a mistake, never makes anything. I'm not sure about those dodgy aphorisms, it's another thing we can talk about later, if there's time.

I wish the sun could rise more slowly and those fleeting minutes could last for hours. We clear the harbour wall and those little bits of chop turn into bigger bits of chop. I notice the boat is quite a way away from me. I manage to narrow the gap. I see the signal for my first feed and I approach the boat.

Alexia give me a quite warm and insipid carbohydrate drink. In a bottle. On a string. I drink it. 20 seconds or so later I swim on. So far so good. 10 seconds later I look around and the boat is at least 50 feet away. At this stage I am just mildly curious about this. Not bothered. 

It gets more choppy. The wind picks up.

There is a change of personnel for the next quite a few feeds. Alexia goes to sleep. Jez takes over. Feeds go well. Do I want anything? No. Ok on 45 minute feed? Yes. At some point I overrule my pre-swim plan to go onto 30 minute feeds after 4 feeds.

If any channel aspirants are reading this- here's a top tip- in the middle of your channel swim is a great time to vary your feed routine. Mix it up a bit. Experiment. Life's too short for boring routine.

My goggles leak. Each feed, I reseat them. Each time I think they seal. As I swim off they immediately fill with water. I can hardly see the boat. Stupidly I don't give up that pair for about 11 hours.

What with the unexpected change in conditions and the persistence of the high wind, swell and chop, the swim rapidly descends into farce. My planning turns out to have been thoroughly inadequate.

I'm not sure if it's harder for me or for my crew.

There is not enough string let out on one feed- each time I try to lift the bottle to my mouth, the lid snaps shut. Eventually the feed is snatched from my hands and fills up with salt water.

At least I don't attempt to drink it. Two feeds later I don't notice until afterwards that the beaker is topped up with diesel and sea.

I start to get a bit sick. Why not? Some of the best channel swimmers do it a lot. It's something I haven't tried before. I discover perhaps too late that it doesn't really work for me.

One of the most insistent and repetitive thoughts that occurs is, "When I get out of here, I am never, ever, ever going to do this or anything like it again."

About some of it I can't say I haven't been warned:

From my contract with SUVA: "It is the swimmer and their team’s duty to know the challenge they are undertaking and be aware of the possible conditions that can be involved. They are responsible for their own actions. Be aware that sea sickness can be a serious problem for the support team members on the boat." No Shit.

Two out of 4 crew members are so ill 30 minutes from Dover they are effectively ruled out of performing their duties. Only 90% and 50% respectively, so it could be quite a bit worse.

Please excuse the garbled telling of this tale. Events are not necessarily in chronological order. I attempt here to include the bits I will look back fondly on and find most amusing or laughable. (While attempting not to cause any more offence to my crew or the crew of SUVA god love them)  I'm not going to make any promises though.

The wind picks up. It gets more choppy.

Each time I swim off, seconds later the boat is miles away. I have to swim directly at it, not behind it or beside it or I it slips away from me. I am increasingly perturbed.

Pretty early on choppy really doesn't cut the mustard as a descriptive term.

I am told to stay with the boat. "Why don't you follow the boat?" or "STOP SWIMMING AWAY FROM THE BOAT !" Or "Try to stay a bit closer to the boat." Hmm.... The thought never crossed my mind.

My eyes are getting sorer and sorer. The boat is pitching and tossing around. The wind picks up. The swell is pretty much full on and mental.

People shout at me and I want to cry.
The first several hours I feel strong enough. I'm finding it hard to relax, though. Not being able to stay with the boat is getting me down a bit.
 
Drinking gallons of sea water is getting  really old. I hate being here. I torment myself. I feel useless. I remember reading that I'd have to face demons out here in the channel.

To be clear. There are no demons here. It's way worse than that. I am alone. With me. The horror is unfiltered, up close and personal. I know every chink in my armour and I exploit this knowledge fully. I wish there were maybe a couple of demons to keep my mind off this shit.

I can't adequately explain how awful it is, how dark and how pointless and alone I feel. I so want to be out of this water. The thought of enduring the coming hours is painful to an extent and degree I have never experienced. I can't shake it off or ignore it. And I know it's not the channel's fault. I brought more baggage than I thought

I somehow have the presence of mind to realise that as with all things, this state is finite and I patiently await its conclusion. While simultaneously tearing myself a new orifice or two. I note with interest that my is mind bending as a foggy and pervasive surreality covers everything in my awareness.

A couple of hours later I swim out the other side into the separation zone and a lull in the wind. I decide to stretch out and relax for a while. My stroke rate drops by about 30% Nobody tells me to pick it up I and I probably wouldn't if they did. I (over) indulge in the fact that I can now follow the boat and breathe as much as I like.

At some point out there in the middle I notice I haven't urinated for a couple of hours. I know I'm dehydrated but I seem to have lost the ability to speak. I have cramp in both legs.

I am swimming really slowly and I have no idea how to change that, or any inkling to do so.

My heart skips a beat as a huge looming dark shape blocks the horizon. I stop and take a look as a tanker as big as a block of flats crosses 200 yards ahead of us. Weird.

It merely seems odd that the sun has never stopped shining, yet I can't feel it on my back.

I ease back into the black mire of my negative emotion. It's very deep and seems endless. The boatis deliberately trying to give me the slip. My crew is hiding from me. Either that or I'm getting paranoid (which seems unlikely, I'm sure you'll agree). I hate them all. I feel betrayed and abandoned. And to top it off I'm sure I am going backwards as well.

At my next feed an imaginary man gives me green tea and what seems to be a king sized mars bar with bits of pain killer evenly distibuted along its entire length. It's hard to believe this is really happening.

Something (else) inside of me snaps.

Over the next hour or so I have more green tea. Hydration returns even if impetus does not. I am then given flat coke, which I strongly object to on ethical, idealogical and aesthetic grounds and physically ejecting it seems almost logical.

There is more vomit floating around now than you can shake a stick at and not just from the crew.

I've been watching the sun climbing up the sky. I know it's late afternoon and I know I haven't cleared the french shipping lane. The thought of swimming into the night fills me with horror. I feel ashamed embarassed and wretched.

I swap my leaking tinted goggles for a clear pair that doesn't leak. The sun is very bright. My head hurts. The vomiting gets easier. As a matter of fact, it becomes effortless.

I realise that I have almost no control over my legs (even more than normal). They are sort swaying around and doing their own thing. For a long time I think it's because of the cramp. It suddenly occurs to me that my legs are shaking, I'm shivering and numb.

At my next feed I ask how far I've got to go. The assembled crew members dumbly exchange glances. This is a channel taboo. You never tell the swimmer. They don't even answer.

The observer says you are well over half way. Huh. I feel like I'm being kept in the dark. I want to make an informed decision whether to continue.

This final betrayal is the reason I've been waiting for. After  around 13 hours and 15 minutes of (sort of) swimming I get out. I've had enough. With another 10 hours thrown in for good measure.

I don't know what anyone could have said to me to keep me in that water. I doubt being told that I had another 2 tide changes and 6 to 8 hours to go would have helped. I am not sure if I'd been told that my life depended on it, that I wouldn't have replied, "I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?"

I had a go and  this time I didn't want it enough. Bloody mindedness isn't always the answer. Some days every traffic light turns to red as you approach it. Jumping a few of them sometimes causes more problems than it solves.

Today turned out to be the wrong day, the wrong crew, the wrong weather, the wrong boat and above all the wrong swimmer.

no work for tinkers hands part 1

Summer solstice 2014. 6.45 pm.

Hanako, is, by quite a margin, the best restaurant in Watford (which description really doesn't do the place any justice at all, but will have to suffice). I am resigned to another day of channel training of the non swimming variety.

I've just ordered edamame beans, rainbow roll, three types of sushi, and the obligatory spicy seafood ramen (medium hot). Not to mention vegi tempura. Which makes me sound even more gluttonous than I actually am.

Time must have a stop

The phone rings. It is Neil, the pilot of my channel boat.

An American, Willie Schultz, was out in the channel in Neil's boat SUVA earlier. I watched his track and when the boat turned back at about 1pm I thought there was a slight chance that I would get a call today.

At 6 I had decided that Neil wouldn't ring me.

Neil is saying we could maybe go Sunday morning at 4am ish. He's going to check the weather and get back to me in an hour. Great. I wonder whether sushi is the best pre swim food. That aside, I decide that you can't really go wrong with a great big steaming bowl of chilli ramen.

I call my crew to see how everyone's set.

They're all packed and ready to go.

A cautionary note about romanticising a channel swim. Burned out drug addled ex hippy bum that I am, I had a weird idea that midsummer day was preordained for my swim. So the day after was the next best thing. Obviously. Hmmm.

I hear Jeremy's words, "It's already in the can."

Being new to this channel swimming malarkey I didn't really take care to notice the signs. The hour Neil takes to ring back is one of the longest hours I have experienced. Admittedly that's partly because it's well over two hours.

So I ring him. He'd wanted to talk to a few other pilots and people about the weather and what they were going to do, he says. As a matter of fact there's one of them trying to ring him right now. Could he ring me back in a few minutes?

The 'best' boat for the channel

Sure. Why not? An hour later he does call back. Says the wind is North Easterly not very strong. What do I think? It is my swim after all. Monday might be slightly better. Or it might not. It is a gamble. Tuesday and the rest of the week is probably going to get quite a bit worse.


Being asked what I think about conditions by one of the best channel pilots there is, should have alarm bells at least tinkling slightly.

It's a bit like me as a roofing expert with more than a quarter century of experience asking a new home owner who has almost never looked at a roof whether they think the fixing intervals, clips, laps, upstands and weight of lead on their various dormers and bay roofs are sufficient to withstand the prevailing weather conditions at their expected levels of exposure. "It's your house mate, what do you reckon?"

I ask Neil what all this means for my swim. He says a north easterly is colder than other winds. It's 3 to 4 knots so pretty minor though. I wonder why there is an air of caution in Neil's voice (but naturally, don't ask).

The biggest factor in my mind is ending the dangling 'channel swim of Damocles' state of affairs. Rather let it fall than endure weeks more of that excruciating torture.

If you think I sound melodramatic now, and it irks you- stop reading now. I can assure you, that it will only get worse.

I enjoy my exquisite Japanese meal as only a condemned man on the way to the gallows can. Then skulk off home to pack my bag and mix my feed. I have elected to use powdered maltodextrin as I have on previous swims, but without the addition of sickly tasting fruit cordial which I can no longer stand.

At this point you might wonder why I am not enraptured at the prospect of my long awaited day in the channel. If I were a tad less filled with dread at this moment I might wonder at this too. But I don't.

Early doors. For these beautiful and happy people, hope springs eternal.

A week previous when I briefed my crew (at the Thai Orchid) I told them that my feed would be unsweetened double strength Maxi diluted 50% with hot water to be fed at 45 minute intervals for the first 3 hours then 30 minutes thereafter. Occasional little pieces of banana, tinned peach slices, fun sized milky way if I really want them. Maybe a jelly baby every now and then. Ibuprofen on 4 hour intervals if my shoulder starts hurting.

I speak to Neil one more time where he tells me that we will meet at 3.15 am at Dover Marina. He'll make some calls then call me back to confirm. I decide not to wait up.

An hour and a half of feverish and fitful sleep. I'm up at midnight making espresso and chopping bananas for a bowl of porridge. Jez pulls up just before 1pm and we collect Ruth and Alexia. Roger meets us there.

Waiting in the carpark at Dover Marina I secretly hope that since he didn't call back last night, Neil will simply not turn up. I console myself with the thought that, usually, the waiting is the worst part. I centre myself and try to ignore the histrionics of some of my team- it is a big day for them after all.

back in your box (end) part 2

Some people seemed to think that the last post was incomplete, prokoking as it did, as many or more questions than it answered.

I'll carry on, and pretend that you couldn't already guess what was going to happen or not happen.

I hesitate to do so, because, as compelling as the characters I mentioned may be, this blog isn't really about them, their trials and tribulations.

That fact notwithstanding;

Bryn Dymott, obsessive breaststroking Volvo salesman*, was there, in just his trunks, and is, of course worth a mention. He is known as the Pied Piper of outdoor swimming.

I'm not sure why exactly. I don't think it's because he always wears multicoloured clothing, or because by playing bewitching tunes on a pipe, he lures swimmers away from their families never to be seen again (although it could be).

Anyway, whatever the real reason, everyone knows Bryn, and if you don't, then you really ought to.

The skins swimmers loitered for as long as possible, by the shoreline or on the jetty, eschewing the opportunity to have a 'warm up swim' before the race proper began. In this way did those hardcore coldwater swimmers relinquish their claim to be as tough, as acclimatised, or quite as 'mad' as they secretly like to pretend they are.

Eventually, even we got in to the water, variously bobbing around or slowly making our way over into the throng by the starting buoy.

Even though I have taken part in many mass particiaption events, I'm not a big fan, and for that reason I usually hold back.

Rather that than clamber and slither bodily through writhing rubber clad hordes, like you would at some kind of weird orgiastic fetish club field trip (I don't know about you, but I like to keep those two things separate if I possibly can).

Rudi and Paul evidently didn't want to get too involved with these types of shenanigans and made haste to get clear. Bryn and Michael set off purposefully enough. After letting everyone swim away, I stopped and started and fiddled with my goggles for a few hundred metres before I got a good seal.

I am not sure how Raf didn't go past me in those early minutes, he may have been diving for chocolate bars.

Presently the first non wetsuit swimmer came abreast and the furious thwack alerted me to the fact that it was none other than housewife's choice, Paul Smith. Rudi, with his closer to text book stroke limped past a minute later.

Rudi had fallen into that trap for young players, too quick off the blocks, peaked too early, Paul said. Rudi had a slightly different story. Apparently Paul had practically ripped Rudi's shoulder off, as he roughly overtook him in some lonely corner of the lake.

To look at this genial, well mannered gentleman, you'd never suspect that he was capable of such brutality. Of course he denied it, said that Rudi was 10 yards away when he passed him. But Paul did get out of the lake first, and he was running. Rudi has since had to have a break from swimming.

I'm not going to take sides. You do the math.

Michael was next in, followed by bare knuckle breast stroker Bryn.

Raf decided to get out and walk the last lap.

*so I've heard

back in your box (end)

The first competitive open water swim of the season (and possibly my last) was a 5k at Box End, near Milton Keynes. A nice little event (wetsuit optional) in a nice little lake with some nice little people. There were other distances too

With a water temperature of 13C ish and a cut off time of 2 hours, preparation for this swim was by way of a diversion and for building distance en route a la manche.

I was planning to have swum at least this distance each week for the 4 weeks prior to this event, but had done so only once.

As crucial as this swim was to me and my preparations, it was overshadowed by two unrelated matters.

The first of these was the simmering rivalry between slightly intense, though likeable, up and coming cold and open water swimmer, South African Rudi "pit bull" Keyser and the longer in the tooth- but still toothsome some would say (see DYST passim), erudite Medieval French Professor, thinking woman's swim crumpet, Paul Smith.

Rudi's opening foray was the bone crushing handshake to leave no one in any doubt as to who was, in fact, the daddy. Paul countered with, "Rudi has been putting in some very good times lately" and, "Well, as you know I haven't really been swimming much these last few weeks."

About the second thing, more later.

The day started agreeably enough with a pleasant drive up from Hertfordshire with Michael Hawkins, gentile Windermere aspirant, generously taking the time to show me a great deal of the surroundings of Box End in ever decreasing circles until finally we stumbled upon the Venue itself.

 I bumped into itnerant nutritional expert Raf Oya as we waited to register for our races. He was propounding the virtues of his latest experimental swim feed, beer the night before and a Kitkat breakfast a couple of hours before the swim.

He neglected to mention whether the Kitkat was the 2 or 4 fingered variety. Probably top secret I thought to myself.

The entire skins contingent, the last group to enter the water

Presently we assembled in the traditional pre briefing skins swimmer's huddle in various states of undress, some sporting proprietry brands such as the now almost ubiquitous D&%4@be (a dual purpose garment designed to keep you warm before or after OW swimming and make you look like a dosser or bag lady, albeit one with a brand label plastered all over him or her.

At this point Michael Hawkins sauntered up in what looked suspiciously like a smoking jacket looking for all the world like some kind of rakish fop. A pipe and and a pair of galoshes, perhaps a monacle would have completed the look.

As if this weren't enough, he stripped off to reveal brilliant white pornstar speedos barely concealing only certain parts of his classical Michelangelo Davidesque physique.

All this proved quite disconcerting, but didn't prevent normal service being resumed, as, at the end of the swim, I enjoyed as the last man, er... floating, the walk-of-shame-escort-off-the-lake-by-the-entire-safety-crew.

because something may be better than nothing

There are only a couple of things you can do with a pot of Vaseline this big

Less than 8 weeks to go. I feel sure I'm half way down a slippery slope with a damn good soaking at the end of it.

And not much else.

Disappearing over the event horizon, nobody really knows what lies beyond (not in this part of the universe anyway).

All you can say with certainty is that there is no way back to where you came from.

I suppose that's true about any undertaking. Travel through time and space changes you in unexpected ways. And you'll never be who you used to be.

Swimming the channel may or may not be the biggest thing I ever undertake. Time will tell. Probably, though, whether I succeed or not, in retrospect, it'll be just another swim.
 
Only intermittently regaining my mojo, I figure I may have to carry on without it. My high level of resistance to swimming in cold water, open water, very warm water, virtually any water (although it has to be said that I love the shower in my ensuite) is, however, bordering on the hydrophobic.

At this point I might think to myelf, like some sort of fictitious traveller of inner worlds,"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."
  

Take some stuff, complete a 6 hr qualifying swim, soon.

 

After this I may enter a body of water and do some training. 

Post swim, almost every time, I feel uplifted, enthused, limp, replete, sated. My love affair is rekindled. A besotted and hopeless lover, I plot and contrive the next tryst.

Only to find myself getting cold feet before the next date.

Comparisons are odious. I see posts from others who are swimming the channel that are saying things like, "...only swam 50k this week, need to get serious for my Channel swim in 6 months," or, "...moving down to Dover for the rest of the season to train, my family and/or boss/job/wife can go to hell," or occasionally,"my bloody shoulders have fallen off."

I feel in turns totally inadequate, vaguely superior or I wonder to myself, "how badly do you want this thing Johnny boy?" 

I won't bore you telling you how badly my training is going, how lazy or how tired I am. I'll just say, as the polite part of most of my school reports did, "could do so much better."

Over the years I have learned that when resistance does arise, the real gift is to be found on the other side of the perceived obstacle. But when I am tempted to push too hard I am comforted by what Lao Tzu said about this (or some similar situation):

"Who can make the muddy water clear? Let it be still, and it will gradually become clear. Who can secure the condition of rest? Let movement go on, and the condition of rest will gradually arise."

You could wait a very long time before the water in Dover harbour goes clear, mind you.

How far is Cap Gris Nez?

For those of you who are not channel swimming anoraks, Cap Griz Nez (In English, old grey turkey mushroom nose or something) is the little sticky out bit of France which lies closest to England, a mere 22 ish miles from Dover. 135 miles from where I sit (if you go on the road as far as Dover and then swim).

This is not Cap Griz Nez

But for these last few months it has been very much further away indeed. I read a blog not long ago by a guy who gave up only a few hours into his channel swim. I am sure he could have done it, but he had capitulated before he ever got in the water.

He blamed his lack of fitness and training. His whole demeanour was forlorn, lacklustre. As I read, I wondered how that could happen to someone. I knew it wasn't his fitness that had done for him. I knew it was his mind.  

You can always find an excuse, I thought.

A bit of psychology worth remembering. What you judge, you become (or you already are it, which is why you find it so annoying and then judge it in the first place).

One of my teachers used to say, if you are halfhearted your results will be half arsed. And it's true that I have have frittered away five months dangling in a limbo made out of apathy and exhaustion. I have sought and contrived excuses, and, worse still, I haven't cared.

This, too, is not Cap Griz Nez

I spent 10 weeks organising the excellent cold water swimming competition PHISH. This was pretty intense for me and certainly a steep learning curve.

It kept me off the streets and more importantly kept me out of the water. During this period I couldn't force myself to swim more than once a week outside and even that was a struggle. 

And the water in London may have, on a few occasions, hit the magic sub 5C, but it has manifestly refused to hold this temperature for longer than about 3 minutes, which of course is insufficient time to allow me to manage this years secret winter goal, " the never before completed Tw Ice Mile."  

So for that reason, among others, to be perfectly honest, this year's ice swimming training has left me cold.

Six or seven weeks ago or so I did start swimming, albeit indoors- notwithstanding the fact that a couple of years ago I swore I would never swim indoors again.

This isn't Cap Griz Nez, it's the Orchard round the corner

But indoors I have swum. I joined a swimming club where, four times a week, I swim up and down, or down and up, as the situation requires.

I have acquired training plans from several excellent swimmers, some of whom have swum the channel, some not. Some say swim 25 to 30k a week in the pool over winter, lots of others say lots of other things.

I haven't seen many people saying you should do what I've done so far.

I have a friend who is training now for a 2015 swim and worrying now about getting the right mileage and training plan and another one who is swimming this year in September and doing some kind of scientific training program.

Even in my new swimming club there is a kind (for kind, read interfering busybody) lady, who to my knowledge has almost never swum outdoors, who sees fit to advise me on a channel swimming strategy (bless her).

The straws that I am grasping at are the ideas that the best training plan is not the one that worked for Kevin Murphy or Alison Streeter, but the one which works for me.

And that giving myself a hard time about how useless I am has never helped me too much in the past.

I also suspect that if my channel swim was only a week away, rather than a massive 17 weeks, I still wouldn't stop until I hit France.

And although a steely self discipline and clearly defined routine is great and very useful, being kind to myself is probably a more fundamental basis for a happy and successful life.