The big swim

After around a week of waiting due to windy weather, I get confirmation that I'd be starting my channel swim attempt on the afternoon of the 24th August.  Here's how the swim went.

Packing and getting to Dover

As soon as the swim is confirmed, roughly 18 hours before the start time, plans swing into action quickly.  First up all the kit and food is loaded into the car for the trip down to Dover.  This includes food for me and the support crew; medications and ointments etc for the swim; electricals, such as lights, glow sticks and batteries; clothing and overnight gear; and of course my swimming kit with spares of everything.  Believe me, there are some serious lists involved.

Dover Marina, where you meet your escort boat.

At 06:30 I set off to pick up my support crew Zsuzsa and Ryan. They're giving up their time to pass me food and encouragment at the right times, and I can't thank them enough.  By 08:00 we're running like clockwork and flying past High Wycombe.  Now, being the sort of person who's paranoid about overlooking something, I decide to go through a mental checklist of everything I remember packing. Suntan loton - check.  Thermos - check.  Passport - check.  Food - check.  Swimming kit . . .  FECK!!

Choking back the panic, I calmly ask Zsuzsa if she can see my swimming bag in the back.  No. No, she can't:

"Awww, so, you didn't make it across then Dave? Well, never mind, that's still a really great effort - fantastic job. How far did you get?  Oh. Oh, well. I, er, suppose that could happen to anyone . . ."

No. NO. This can't be happening.  Barely keeping my cool and a straight line on the carriageway, I ask Zsuzsa if she's sure she can't see a black bag with Exodus on it.  Rummaging.  "Ah, yes, that's here. But you can't really call that a swimming bag can you?"  Panic over, thankfully the bag was there (I made Ryan double check from the passenger seat).  Perhaps the Channel Swimming and Piloting Federation makes you swim the channel in your pants or something from lost property if you forget your swimming kit, like in junior school . . .

Starting the swim

About to jump in & surprise those sun bathers

On arrival we had to pass a few hours in Dover.  That's due to my insanely cautious allowance for traffic delays and due to the City of Oxford masters relay team before me taking slightly longer than planned.  They're good friends, and knowing them I suspect they were loving it and wanted to make it last as long as possible - they were deservedly buzzing when I saw them at the end of their nearly 60 km (!) trip. At the appointed time though, you get into your swimming kit and get all your provisions onto the boat in Dover Marina.  From there, you get taken on the boat to your start point - in my case the pebble beach at Samphire Hoe, about 20 minutes sailing west of Dover.  On the boat you have your support crew, three crew who sail the boat, and an official observer from the Channel Swimming and Piloting Federation.  They're there to explain the rules to you and your support crew and to make sure you follow them as well as to make sure you're safe.  If you get to France they ratify the swim.

When you get to Samphire Hoe, you slap on sun tan lotion and attach your lights.  Starting at around 5:00pm, my crossing is going to involve swimming in the dark.  They clip two lights to you: one on the back of your head on the goggle strap; the other on the back of your trunks. You then jump in, and swim to the English shore and get out.  Once you're clear of the waterline, they sound the siren. And you're off!

The swim

Bottom right: looking teeny in the scheme of things

As I start the weather has been scorching for the past few days, and the water temperature is up to just over 18 degrees.  The wind is a little blowy and there's a little bit of chop in the water, but that's due to fall off after a couple of hours as the wind drops.  So all in all conditions are good. The only problem is my adreneline. I end up taking out the first 90 minutes faster than I'd planned at around 65 to 70 strokes per minute.  My schedule is to feed after 90 minutes, and thereafter to take on food and fluid every 60 minutes until 6 hours 30 minutes.  After that the aim is to feed every 45 minutes until 11 hours are up, and after that to feed every 30 minutes.  This helps maintain hydration and energy levels, and gives milestones to tick off in your head. That's important as it helps you feel you're making progress.

At 3.5 hours I feel a bit sore in the shoulders which is worrying.  I've also been stung quite a few times by jellyfish. It's a tad worse than a nettle, but nothing too dramatic.  My friends in the relay team who were swimming before me took 13.5 hours to get across (albeit on a far longer track/route taking nearly 60 kilometres), so I'm banking on being in for at least 14 hours. After 4.5 hours I'm feeling looser in the shoulders and really enjoying the swim, but it's getting dark. I've done some night swimming to prepare, but I'm not vastly experienced, particularly if conditions get rough.

Are we nearly there yet?

By between 5.5 and 6.5 hours hours I'm feeling pretty low.  I'm beating myself up mentally about having gone out too fast. I'm worrying that the pain in my shoulders will turn into muscle damage at barely a third of the way across. At my feed stop I give surly one word answers to my crew's enquiries as to my health like a spoiled teenager.  To make matters worse I'm also berating myself  about how rude and ungrateful this is, particularly given how good a job they're doing.  This is probably the hardest part of the swim.  To give you an idea of my state of mind I celebrate internally when I get stung by jellyfish as I know it'll distract me from the pain in my arms and shoulders.

Getting past the bad patch

After 6.5 hours things start to pick up.  I notice that the pain isn't getting worse, and I'm holding my stroke rate.  I also realise that I'm going to beat the longest I've ever managed to swim for, and so won't disgrace myself. I also start to take in just how beautiful some of the sights are.  At about 11:00 pm the moon rose in the east.  I breathe to my left, so I saw it come up over the horizon, dusty red at first but silvering slowly and reflecting down into the sea.  The stars have also come out and are spectacular to the east right down to what I guess at being the horizon.  These are unforgettable sights and remind me how much I love swimming and how lucky I am to be out here.

What's more, ahead and to my left I can now clearly see the lights of French towns (I hope to hell they're French anyway).  They're very clear at the feeds after 7 hours 15 mins and 8 hours.  However I know that the tide's going to sweep us away from them towards Cap Gris Nez to the west.  Besides, you can see street lighting many miles away, so I try to stay focused on the fact that at best I'm two thirds of the way there.  The swim's still hurting, but I'm feeling more confident that I can see it out to the 14 hour mark.  I also know that first light is going to show in the east at around 03:45, so I'm using sunrise as a milestone to aim for.

The end in sight

At the 8 hour 45 minute feed I'm taken aback to hear my crew tell me this is my last feed.  My first thought is that, wow, they've really taken my surly one word answers from earlier to heart. My second reaction is to ask "Are we really that close?"  They tell me to turn around, and I can see the Cap Gris Nez lighthouse atop its cliff.  I look back to my crew and they tell me to just swim towards the light.

Cap Gris Nez - where you get out. In the dark in my case.

After about 15 minutes I wonder what the plan is for getting ashore.  Cap Gris Nez isn't a sandy beach.  The landing point is under a cliff and it's strewn with jagged car-sized boulders.  Navigating them is challenging in daylight, but in the pitch black you can't see what you're swimming into until you swim into it.  Still, worry about that when we come to it.

After another ten minutes, the crew starts flashing a torch into my face.  I look up, and get told the plan.  "Swim towards where we're shining the light".  Now, as we've established elsewhere in this blog, I'm a bit of a detail freak.  As plans go, this feels vague. I lack assurance that anyone's gone through a risk register on this one. Risk one: the first part of Dave to make contact with France is his teeth.  Impact: high.  Probability: far higher than I'd like.  Oh well, time to stop being a wuss.

Luckily my right hand is the first thing to reach France, or least a bit of it that's lurking under water, waiting to ensnare unsuspecting Englishmen going about their business.  From there on, it's a case of floating and scrambling onto the rocks until I'm fully out of the water.  Once I'm out the boat's horn sounds to mark the end of the swim. Just to make sure, I climb out to where it's definitely dry land and not just a rock cut off by the sea (which technically doesn't count as a full crossing).  We've made it. The relief is immense.

The journey back

My swim: 48 km, 9 hours 16 minutes.  Each dot is 15 minutes

Once you've celebrated (feebly waved your arms at the escort craft in my case), you swim back to the boat.  It's challenging. You have to get back over the scratchy cutty rocks, and swim again now all the adreneline has gone.  Still, the boat puts on a bit of a celebration show by sweeping  its search lights and torches all over the place as you come back which is nice.  You get in by climbing a ladder at the back of the boat.  Except I can't.  All I can do is grab the ladder and gracelessly lever my feet onto the boat whilst trying to heft my bottom onto the side.  In the elegance stakes, we're not exactly talking Copenhagen harbour's Little Mermaid here.

On board, Zsuzsa and Ryan prudently assume I'm about to collapse and take the initiative in taking my goggles and cap off for me.  They also, rather gamely, try to dress me. The left side of me that Zsuzsa's dressing is done in seconds.  On my right hand side, it soon becomes clear that Ryan didn't have dolls to play with as a kid.  But we get there.  One sobering revalation once I'm decent is that the boat lost sight of me as I swam back from the rocks. The lights on the back of your trunks and head are invisible when you swim head on towards a boat with your head up looking where you're going.  The sweeping lights weren't a celebration show - they were trying to find me.  Still, we got there in the end, and before long we're heading back to England. As a bonus, the crew tell me the time was nine hours sixteen minutes - massively faster than anything I'd hoped for.

The aftermath

When we get back to Dover at around 04:30, we unload everything into my car.  Next stop - the local hotel I've booked. Ryan types in the postcode.  Satnav tells us it's 50 minutes away. Now call me picky, but in my book that's stretching the definition of 'local' a tad. In any case it's further than I'm going to be able to drive. Park benches it is then. Mercifully though, Ryan's typing skills are on a par with his ability to dress people.  With the correct post code entered, we set off on the ten minute drive to our lodgings.

To give him his due, the duty manager at our hotel is one laid back guy.  He doesn't bat an eyelid at three dishevelled people (me in a hoodie) turning up at 05:00 am with just a couple of bags and a credit card between them, claiming to have booked.    Add into the bargain that my arm's so stiff my signature doesn't look remotely like the one on my credit card.  Still, he's a kind chap and lets us in for a few hours sleep. Thank God.

No fakin' - I couldn't face the bacon.

So after some kip how did I feel?  'Elated but terrible' captures it. My arms were OK until I tried to raise them above neck height, at which point they locked.  I also felt dizzy in the way you do after you come off a boat onto solid land.  The salt water had taken most of my tastbuds off my tongue and the thought of salty food like bacon made me feel sick.  I just had to have my full English without it. That's dedication for you.  Other muscles including wrists and legs were also stiff, but as I write this three days after landing in France I feel mostly recovered.

Some final words of thanks

I didn't swim the channel.  We swam the channel.  Without the help, time, expertise and encouragement of others I wouldn't have reached the start line, let alone have gotten across.  Zsuzsanna Felvegi and Ryan Steward - thanks so much for coming on the boat as my support crew and keeping me fed, encouraged and focused.  You were brilliant, and apologies for any sulky one word answers I may have thrown your way. To Marcus Wadsworth and Emma France and everyone at Durley and Dover sea swimming clubs respectively - thank you for being so welcoming and encouraging when I came to train with you in the sea. 

You really do a tremendous job for people training for channel and open water swims.

To Piers Lewis, Matt Storry, and Emma Gibbard who I've been training with and who are also attempting the channel - you're amazing and I took inspiration from all of you. To Adam and Tim - thanks for your training, coaching and support in the last five years and more.  To everyone at City of Oxford Masters - thanks for your support, encouragement and good humour.  To Katia and everyone at Queenford lakes - thanks for your friendliness and expertise in preparing for a big, cold open water swim. Thanks also for all the other stuff that tends to get forgotten like organising safety details week in week out, and scheduling in the qualifying swims.  And of course, thanks for the cakes after training on winter Sunday mornings! To Lance Oram and the crew of the Sea Satin and my observer Mark Johansen - thanks for your skill, hard work and support during the swim. And lastly to family, friends and work colleagues - thanks for your good wishes, patience and indulgence as I whined and wailed about how cold or tired I was over the last 18 months.

Fruition of a year of punishing the mini-rolls

OK, OK, that's the end of the cheesy Oscar acceptance speech. But you do all deserve it.  It's also the end of this challenge, which I've loved doing. I hope you've been amused and informed by the blog, and maybe even feel encouraged to have a crack at your own goals big or small. As for me, who knows what other challenges in the water might follow this one.  Most immediately though, I've got the challenge of moderating the worrying chocolate mini-roll habit I've developed!   Wish me luck with that one, and thanks for coming with me on the journey!