Well what a week or two it's been. I take two weeks off work in the run up to my swim. The day before my tide slot starts the wind blows harder and badder than it has for a long time and it takes a few days for the sea to calm down and become swimmable again. Meanwhile I set off for Dover to wait for my swim to happen... Saturday in Dover I spend in floods of tears and can't even make 20 minutes swimming in the harbour, training. I spend all day in tears, exhausted from months of anxiety about being ill. I don't know what's making me so spectacularly miserable - maybe it's the antibiotics I've only just stopped taking for my ongoing bronchitis? Maybe it's PMT? I don't know whether it's just the pressure? Frankly I'm a complete mess. Sunday another swimmer is sent out in front of me and I try and pull myself together unsuccessfully. I decide, along side Freda, to cancel my swim and try to do it next year. I head back to London completely exhausted and dejected. Sunday night I feel a bit better and talk to Simon, my Channel swimming mentor. I meet up with him on Monday and talk it through, change my mind and decide to swim after all. I feel 100 per cent more positive. I phone Freda and my pilot Neil and ask them if I can swim after all. They clear a slot for me for Wednesday morning - forecast is good. I get my kit and my crew together and head towards Dover again feeling more positive and relaxed than I have for months.
The swim of my life...
Wednesday morning I wake up at around 6.00 - I've slept all night, soundly, which I didn't expect. We breakfast on porridge and bananas at 6.30am at the B&B. I'm meeting my crew at around 7.15am at the marina. I feel very very positive and fired up as we load all the gear into the car. It's enough kit for a polar expedition. Food for crew, food for me, swim gear, cameras, phone chargers, whiteboard for messages, thermos flasks, warm clothes and sleeping bag for afterwards, antihistamines (for jellyfish stings), vaseline for greasing up, cups and bottles for feeds, light sticks for swimming in the dark, spare hats, spare goggles... the list goes on. I meet my crew at the marina and they load up the boat, I tell them all about the stuff I have and where it all is. I want to get on with it. We're due to start the swim around 8.30am - an hour or so before high tide.
We leave the harbour and start the short journey round to Shakespeare beach where the swim starts. On the way round I put on Factor 30 sun cream (it's forecast to be the hottest day of the year) and try not to look out to sea to the task ahead. I think if I do I might discover it's a very long way! As we approach Shakespeare beach Simon greases me up with Vaseline to stop friction burns from the prolonged exposure to the salt water. Contrary to popular belief the vaseline has no insulating properties. He liberally applies grease to my armpits and inner arms, back of neck and shoulders, and the crew tell me to put some between my legs too. Then there is a comedy moment when the vaseline inexplicably is knocked off the boat and floats off to sea and we have to find a spare tub on board to finish the job. The boat stops a few metres from the shore and I pull goggles on and dive in to the water. I swim in to shore and stand on the beach where the official observer on the boat will start the watch and I will run into the sea and start swimming. My mom and Barrie are on the beach to kiss me and wish me luck and wave me off. The observer waves a hand, I wave back to signal I'm ready, then I run into the sea.
I thought that this would be excruciatingly nerve wracking and panic inducing to start with but I'm just so excited and so many thoughts are rushing into my head and it's such a beautiful day that I have no time to get nervous. I think that the last few days have been so traumatic and I've been so low that I'm now euphoric. I don't remember ever having such an adrenalin rush. I remember all the positive things that people have said to me and all the amazing people I've met this year. There are two things I remember specifically. One is the enthusiasm of Anna who swam in July, telling me how much she enjoyed her swim. I decide if she enjoyed her swim so much then there is no reason that I can't. I decide that I am going to as much as her. I also remember Matt who swam in August telling me to think of only positive reasons to stay in the water. I heed both of their advice.
For the first three hours we feed at hourly intervals, after that it's every half hour. Swimming in cold water you are expected to lose around 600 calories per hour and it's crucial to replace that. When the feeds come every half hour the time flies. I'm not wearing a watch - we're advised not to - and soon I lose track of time. I'm swimming along quite happily, quite strongly.
Every half an hour my crew appear on the deck alongside me for my feed, like a rent-a-crowd. Simon lowers down warm flavoured maxim in a beaker for me and makes me drink loads - he's worrying about me getting dehydrated in the 30 degree heat. I duly slug back the warm sweet ick. Of course I don't feel the heat as the water is cooling - although every now and again I get my bum warmed by the hot sun. Simon is shouting "drink it all up Sal" and shouting encouragement about my stroke "your stroke is looking really strong, your stroke rate is really consistent". Cliff, the official observer and another amazing Channel swimmer of seven or so crossings, shouts encouragement "fantastic feeds Sally, really really fast, the pilot is really impressed". You have to try and keep your feeds as quick as possible. Laura, another of my support crew and Channel swimmer, lowers down mouth wash at every other feed, to stop my mouth getting burnt by all the salt water. I have taught myself to swim with my mouth firmly closed in the sea, to guard against the worst excesses of sea salt. Laura also shouts encouragement. Eduardo, from my swimming club in London is in charge of communications and at each feed holds up the whiteboard with messages of support. I read the messages as I slug back the feeds and listen to instructions. I nod and swim on. No time for conversations. I feel like a Formula One car at a pit stop - all hands on deck for a fast refuelling - but I think I'm a Sauber instead of a Ferrari.
The hours go by, I swim to the next feed and then the next and then the next, I just watch my crew on the boat and think "Oh my god, I'm swimming to France!". It's so impossibly exciting. I'm guessing the time by the position of the sun. I guess it's about two o'clock and then four. I keep thinking that soon I'm going to stop enjoying myself, but then I think "Well I still am, so make the most of it". Some of the messages of support I'm getting are fantastic - some are funny and make me laugh. I hear that my aunt and cousin in Brasil have both phoned, and that a Channel swimmer I met a few weeks ago has texted messages from South Africa.
Huge ferries glide past - I had thought that it would be frightening and ominous to see them and to experience the wakes from them but they don't phase me at all. They are amazing and awesome and I feel like I'm on another planet sharing it with these massive alien things which are so big but pass so effortlessly. At around seven o'clock I'm swimming and I hear a deep throbbing underwater hum. I look up after a while to see what it is. Directly in front of me about a mile away there is a great hulk of a ship with hundreds of brightly coloured sea containers. It's fantastic. "Wow!" I shout. "Yup" shout the crew "... now swim on!"
I think to myself "I'm enjoying this swim more than I've ever enjoyed a swim in my life".
More feeds, more encouragement. I see two jellyfish - the only two I see the whole swim. It's around eight o'clock I guess and getting gradually darker. At the next feed the crew are preparing for the swim into the night. The boat is having a line of fluourescent light sticks attached to it to mark out the line of the boat for me to follow. One is put at a different angle to the rest at the front of the boat to mark the bow - the point at which I shouldn't stray in front. Next feed I am told to change my goggles (from tinted to clear, necessary for swimming at night when you need all the visibility you can get) and the light stick is stuck to the back of my head under my goggles so that my crew can see me. I'm told to keep close to the boat.
I start getting more demanding. I want crew on deck cheering me on. I want company and smiling faces. I've been swimming for about twelve hours. I estimate that at the very longest I'll have around another eight hours swimming. I know my feeds have been very swift and that I haven't really tired as much as I thought I might. They've been telling me all day that I've been swimming strongly. I try to stay positive.
I can see the lights of France very clearly but to me they seem a very long way away and not as close as I thought they might. One of the other swimmers I talked to earlier in the month had said to me "The lights look close at night but really they are far away". I think to myself "Shit they don't look close at all, what's wrong?". I say to Cliff "France seems a very very very long way away" at one of my feeds. He replies "That's because it's very very very deceptive". Your crew don't lie to you but they don't tell you the truth either. That is their (very important) job. More feeds, and more anxiety. France really does still look very far away. It must be around midnight. I'm getting a bit more demoralised now. Every time I'm fed up I think this: "Sally, do your arms ache?" Answer: "No". OK. Shut up and keep swimming. Next time: "Sally, is it impossible to go on although you are a bit tired and miserable?" Answer: "No". OK, shut up and keep swimming." But I ask at each feed "Am I still swimming OK?" "Are we still moving forward?" "Are we still making progress?"
Around 1am the wind starts to pick up. I am positioned to the left of the boat as I breathe to the right only when I swim. The wind gets stronger and stronger and gradually it gets hard work to keep away from the boat which is being blown into me by the wind constantly. The boat seems to be tilting wildly from side to side and sometimes looming right down on me. All of the crew are now out on deck and shining torches at me, flashing them in my eyes to keep me awake and aiming them at the boats hull to mark it out for me. They keep shouting "move away from the boat" and "swim to your left". I'm pissed off and a bit panicky. I know I have to escape from the boat but it takes all of my concentration and effort to do so. The feeds become a chore as I have to stop still to feed when that happens I'm practically dragged under the boat and have to drop my feed, sprint off away from the boat as much as I am able, be thrown my feed bottle again (no possibility of cups now, we have bottles) and so on. A couple of times I end up at the back of the boat, being swept under the platform at the back - once I bang my head on it and once my ankle. It hurts. I realise I'm not enjoying myself quite so much. At all in fact. I still ask myself "Can you still move your arms?" "Yes, they don't hurt" "Swim to the next feed then" "But I'm knackered" "Just to the next feed, France must be getting closer" and "Pain is temporary, success is permanent". More feeds, more feeds. The wind is getting no better, but my crew tell me that the tide will soon turn and will take me in to the coast. They are absolutely fantastic. I have another feed but notice that when I stop to feed I'm swept backwards away from the coast not towards it. I panic again.
I gradually notice the sky isn't black any more - it's grey. I can see colours on the flags on the boat. Shit. It's the morning. Why aren't we any closer? I have another feed. I think it will get better, when it's really light I can swim further from the boat and we won't have this problem, this constant gladiatorial battle with me pitted against the boat's hull. I think I can probably do another couple of hours. I think I must have been swimming a good twenty hours or so. Surely it won't be much more than that if we have the tide on our side? But I look up at the lights. They don't look any closer than they did a couple of hours ago. I look up at Laura. I tell her I don't know how much more I have left to give, which is the same thing I've said about six times in the last four hours. She says "Sally, swim for another five minutes we're having a chat with the pilot". I know this isn't good news.
I swim until they all come out on deck. I tread water. They tell me that I'm swimming at a rate of 0.4 miles an hour now and have 5 miles to swim. The tide isn't helping us in - it's being cancelled out by the wind. I quickly do the math. 10 hours. There is no let up in the wind at present but there might be in a couple of hours. But I can't do it. Two or three hours maybe. Not ten. Not in this. No way. "Nope" I say. "It has to be your decision" they say. "Yup" I say. I climb onto the boat and that's the end of my swim.
My journey for this year - and certainly my journey to France - is over for the time being. On board I'm comforted and dressed by Laura. I've had an amazing adventure but for now I have to call it a day. I've swum for a total of 21 hours.
Finally. I can't blame the weather for my swim finishing prematurely but I don't blame myself either. I feel more positive about my swim than I thought I would do. It's actually easy to be positive - I swam longer and had more fun than I thought was ever ever possible. I pushed myself beyond my bounds. OK, so I haven't had the plaudits and no one is calling me to offer congratulations, but I know that I haven't failed. I just need to work harder next year. I need to get faster somehow (and I have a horrible feeling that this might involve lactic acid and pain) and learn properly to breathe bilaterally. I've already emailed to book for next year. The Channel might have won this year, but next year is a different matter.
Felt tired reading. Congratulations on an extraordinary effort. I am sure it is only a matter of time. Very impressed and very proud.
Adam
Posted by: Adam | September 08, 2005 at 01:18 PM
Hey Sally; I just read about your Channel experience... - you are really an inspiration! A friendlier day and you would have been in France NO problem. Keep going going going!
Posted by: Carina Bruwer | September 05, 2005 at 10:15 PM
A great swim Sally! - you know you can swim 21 hours, which is incredible - I can't stay awake for 21 hours, let alone swim them. You have been ill this year - and managed this swim despite that;
Next year it won't be so unknown, you'll be heatlhy - and you know you have the strength to swim it.
Posted by: Marion Stern | September 05, 2005 at 05:31 PM
Congratulations!!! I couldn't swim for 21 minutes let alone 21 hours!!! They say that if a goal is too easy then it's not worth aiming for. At least you have a huge goal to aim for next year.
Posted by: Jay | September 05, 2005 at 02:53 PM