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.