Landing in France

The problem now was that I thought I was pretty much there. Of course, I still had another half hour to go, which dragged on…. and on…..

Still lumpy on the way in to France.

Finally, I saw the dinghy being lowered into the water. I had spent the first few hours swimming alongside that dinghy imagining how it would feel to see it being lowered. Dave got into the dinghy. I was nearly there!!! I swam along, heart nearly bursting out of my chest.

Then I breathed to my left again. Hang on, where was Dave? I could see the dinghy still in the water but Dave wasn’t in it.

Oh no. Maybe they lied. Or maybe they thought I was about to hit land but I’ve suddenly slowed. Or the tide has picked up. Maybe I’m not going to hit landfall after all. Maybe I’m being swept past the Cape.

I felt sick with disappointment but tried so hard not to let it affect me.

I could keep going. I must keep going. I will make this.

Ten minutes from landing.

Of course, Dave had got into the dinghy to prepare it in time and make sure everything was working OK. Ten minutes later, I saw him getting back into the dinghy and he motored over to me. My heart pounded once more.

“Just follow me, love.” Yes, I will, Dave. Right now I will follow you anywhere.

I finally saw the bottom when I was about two metres from reaching land. It was rocks. In all the times I had visualised me landing in France it had been on a beach; I had never imagined hitting rocks. And now here I was.

The waves weren’t particularly big but I tried to time my scramble with the push of a wave. The rocks were covered in barnacles which were pretty sharp. I crawled out on my hands and knees and tried to stand but my vision was a bit blurry and my legs were wobbly.

I knew I had to clear the water line so I saw a rock next to me and climbed up that. I turned around and sat down so that I didn’t overbalance. Only the top bit of the rock was dry so I pulled my knees up to my chin in the hope that that would mean I’d cleared the water line. I had made it.

Happy happy happy.

I looked around me, appreciating the scenery, taking in the rocks behind me glowing a peaceful yellow in the sinking sun.

There was no whooping up and down, no screaming with excitement, just a contented and satisfied song that started as a hum in my heart and built into a glorious tune that sang through my soul during the following days.

‘Having a moment’.

Anastasia stayed about 150 metres offshore but I couldn’t see it at all as it was silhouetted in the sun. Apparently John was screaming his head off and deafening all on board; I couldn’t hear a thing.

Dave was in the dinghy about 50 metres away but also silhouetted. But then I noticed that he had his hands in the air with his thumbs up. I was suddenly struck by the thought that perhaps he wasn’t saying ‘Well done’ thumbs up, maybe he was saying ‘Go higher’ thumbs up. Maybe I hadn’t officially cleared the water line. (Yes, I now know how ridiculous this was.) I couldn’t bear the thought that I might get back to the boat and Jane would tell me that I needed to go back and climb higher.

So, better to be safe than sorry, I slid down the other side of the rock (of all the injuries I thought I might sustain on a Channel swim, a lacerated backside was not on the list) and found a rock that was completely dry. This must be classed as ‘clear of the high water mark’, I reasoned. Just in case, though, I turned towards the boats and threw my hands in the air to signal to them that I thought I had finished, and hoped that Dave would come over and tell me if that wasn’t the case.

Meanwhile, of course, the crew was on the boat watching me going for a climb amongst the rocks, thinking, ‘What the hell is she doing?’

Rational thought: a casualty of 11 hours of swimming.

I then had to climb back over the rocks and into the water to swim to Dave. As soon as I got back in, I started to feel cold and I didn’t want to be in the water anymore. It wasn’t far to reach Dave but I was glad he was there to take me back to Anastasia; 11 hours was fine but don’t make me swim another 50 metres!

Dave hauled me on board, wrapped a towel round my shoulders and zoomed me back to Anastasia. Along the way he said, ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to get back in the water to get on the boat,’ and right at that moment, I was so happy because I couldn’t bear the thought I might have to get wet again. It was strange how happy I had been in the water but now how quickly I didn’t want to be in there anymore.

Tired by oh so happy.

The best hug from Jane.

The first thing Jane said to me was '11 hours and 5 minutes'. I couldn’t believe it. I had expected 12.5 – 13 hours. I sort of knew that I was going OK because the sun still had a way to go to the horizon, but I had never imagined anything under 12 hours.

Jane and John quickly helped me get out of my cossie and into warm clothes. They had filled a hot water bottle which I cuddled under my t-shirt and then they sat on the bench on deck on either side of me to keep me warm.

A bucket was standing by in case I was sick – apparently this is quite common once you move from horizontal to vertical and feel the motion of the boat. Usually pilots prefer the swimmer to stay on deck for half an hour or so just in case.

I was fine for about 45 minutes but I had been sipping water all the time (the worst ‘injury’ I sustained was a painfully sore throat and ulcerated tongue from the salt water) and John received about five seconds warning to reach for the bucket in time. Clearly my body had decided it no longer required the litre or so of Ribena and Maxim mix still in my tummy.

The boat trip took about three hours back to Dover. We enjoyed a magnificent sunset and beautiful moonrise.

I finally went below deck when it started to get cold; the wind had picked up and we were pitching from side to side, and I found it hard to hang on.

Cap'n Eddie looking serious...

...and crewman Dave looking not so.

Back on dry land, we packed up our gear, and said goodbye to the crew.

Me & Cap'n Eddie

We headed to the petrol station to buy an ice cream (about the only thing I wanted on my throat, which by now felt like I’d choked on a cheese grater) and went back to the caravan park, where my mum had driven down to Dover and was waiting to welcome us back. Dave & Evelyn had decorated our caravan with a banner, with my mum adding the UK & Aussie flags for extra decoration.

I enjoyed a wonderful hot shower and finally stopped talking at about 10.30pm when I collapsed into bed.

What do you dream about when it's just come true?

The next few hours

At some point (time has become very vague by this stage) I started to wonder whether I had made it through the separation zone and into the north east shipping lane. I couldn’t see any ships around me and I felt that I was still swimming along at a cracking pace (for me) and surely I must be seeing a boat heading in the opposite direction soon.

I asked on one feed, “Am I in the next shipping lane yet?”

“You’re well into it,” Jane replied. Oh, OK then. Good.

As if to prove a point, three big boats came by in fairly quick succession.

Fifteen minutes later.

And five minutes later. This was the closest I came to one of these big boats, which was quite close enough. When I saw them a distance away it would seem like we were heading straight for each other, but they move deceptively quickly through the water so there was no way I was going to be anywhere near them.

The water here was still fairly flat and easy to swim in but as we drew nearer to France it started to get pretty bumpy again. I also noticed that I would breathe to the left and see the boat about five metres away, but when I next breathed to the left, six strokes later, I was about thirty metres away from the boat.

Eventually I realised that this was the tide pulling me away from the boat but I started to get very frustrated at not being able to stay next to it. At one point I couldn’t see the boat over the chop when I was breathing, which meant it was too far away for my liking. I stopped to look up properly and it was about fifty metres away.

A-team support crew nearly copped a few choice words after this remark was shouted over to me:

“Do you think you know the way better than the pilot does? You need to change your rudder.”

I felt such frustration boil up inside. Sarcastic comments were definitely not required! Still, diva swimmer bottled it up, put her head back down and swam calmly back over to the boat, with not one swear word uttered (out loud, at least.)

The next couple of hours were hard work. I had heard and read the stories about the tide off the French coastline and here it was in action (and today was the middle of the neap tide when it was at its slackest.) On one feed, Jane said to me, “Just focus on the boat, Helen, just focus on the boat.” This really helped as I spent the next hour or so focusing solely at the blue lettering of Anastasia on the bow and made sure I stayed next to that. France will take care of itself, just keep looking at that boat.

John saw this tall ship out for a sail. This was still about two hours from the finish and just look how close that shore looks.

Before the swim I had been prepared for ‘hitting the wall’. This has happened to me on previous long swims, the first time just after the six hour mark, the next time at the seven hour mark, the next time at the eight-hour mark. I was hoping I could push it out to nine or ten hours before it hit. And I had also resolved that no matter what was going on in my head, I wasn’t going to waste time shouting about it, I was going to deal with it while still putting one arm in front of the other.

Hitting the wall is an awful feeling in my experience. One minute I can be absolutely fine and then it hits so suddenly and my entire mind and body is overwhelmed with fatigue. However, I went into this swim knowing that I had a hideous time pushing through it on my swim last year and if I could do it then (particularly in those conditions) I could do it today, with the sun shining.

I had a feed (maybe 9 hours?), put my face back in the water and felt it start to hit. As soon as I recognised the familiar feeling I tried to put the brakes on it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t give any time to it. The sun is shining. You are in the Channel. You are living the dream. Over and over, just don’t pay it any attention.

But then I did a really stupid thing. I looked up at France.

Freda always advises: never look forwards, never look back. But all day I had loved looking back at Dover; on my feeds I would flip onto my back and kick, and look at the white cliffs. And then I'd look forwards at France before I set off again, loving the fact that I was in the middle of the English Channel.

But this time was different; I shouldn't have done it. France no longer looked like the benign coast in the distance that I was happily swimming towards. It looked threateningly out of reach. It was still two or three hours away. I felt the feeling in my head growing stronger.

I looked up to the sky, gave a quick roar of frustration, put my head back down and just kept swimming. Marathon swimming is a deceptively simple concept really: just put one arm in front of the other – I had heard it time and again from Channel experts – but in the end, it’s all a mind game. It’s no wonder they call it the ‘graveyard’ just off the French coast, where so many dreams have been laid to waste.

Don’t give in to it. Don’t give in to it. Do not look at France again. One arm in front of the other til the water runs out. One arm in front of the other….

And not long after, the feeling passed. I had hit my wall (only a mini one this time, though) and just sailed on through it with only one shout and no swearing. I really was being quite well behaved.

Once I started to see recreational sailing boats nearby and a bird flew overhead that wasn’t a seagull, I knew that land was getting closer. I had never doubted that I would make it but, as I was getting tired, I still couldn’t tell how much further I’d have to go and the bumpy conditions were once again preventing me from finding a natural rhythm.

On one feed, John asked me what I’d like on the next feed.

“Sand,” I replied.

On the following feed, John asked me what I’d like on the next feed.

“For you to tell me there aren’t going to be any more feeds.”

The preferred landing spot for Channel swimmers is Cap Gris Nez, the closest point to England. I always thought this was where the faster swimmers landed and, having not put myself in that basket, had envisaged walking up a beach somewhere. But in front of me I could now clearly see land with a lighthouse on top. Surely this was the Cape?

My big fear now was that I would miss the Cape, that the tide would sweep me past it, as so often happens. As the land drops away on either side of the Cape, this would mean perhaps another hour or two of swimming to reach a beach. I knew I could do it if I had to but I hoped so much that I wouldn’t. Land appeared to be so close, but still I was being carried away from the boat and felt like I was swimming at a 45 degree angle just to stay close to it.

“Am I going to make that landfall?” I asked Jane, with trembling voice and sounding a little desperate. I wanted to prepare myself for the fact I might have another two or three hours to go.

“If you just keep swimming you’ll hit that land,” Jane replied.

“You promise?” A little more desperate.

“I promise.” Jane had spoken. I believed her. I was going to hit that land. With renewed strength, I powered on.

And then I heard those words from John at the next feed:

“This is your last feed. No more feeds. You're done.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Jane. “Congratulations – keep going and you’re a Channel swimmer.”

I put my head back down. One arm in front of the other. Just as at the beginning of the swim, my goggles were filling with salt water, but this time they weren’t leaking.

The first few hours

As soon as I started swimming, I realised I hadn't got a proper seal on my goggles and water was slowly seeping in. I stopped every couple of minutes to tip my head back, drain them and try to seal them properly but I was getting a bit frustrated.

I didn't want to stop because I'd heard so many times that a minute wasted in England could mean an extra hour swimming in France. Eventually, though, I had to stop as I knew I'd lose more time in the long run having to keep emptying the goggles. I took them off, tightened the strap a few notches and put them back on.

I had also heard about pilots who told their swimmers (with varying degrees of politeness) to stop wasting time and get on with it. I called up to the boat that I was just fixing my goggles and Dave's reassuring Scottish tones wafted over: "Don't worry, love, you just take your time. Better to get them sorted now. You take all the time you need." I instantly felt much calmer. The goggles were soon back on, with a proper seal, and I settled down to swim.

Ten minutes in.

Swimming into the sunrise - magic.

When I breathed I could see the white cliffs on either side and I was so excited. I had dreamed of this moment for so long and now that it was here I wanted to enjoy all that it was.

The water was quite calm just off the coast but once we moved further away from land, it started to get a bit bumpy. The wind was behind us and quite gusty; every so often a wave would pick me up and push me forwards (I was quite happy to surf my way to France) but then the chop would hit from either side and it was hard to get a rhythm.

Just after the first feed, so one hour in, and there were big brown patches. It was probably just silt as it didn't taste unpleasant or smell, it just gave me quite a ridiculous beard which John said he found amusing at the first couple of feeds.

I counted my second feed (two hours in), my third feed (two and a half hours in), my fourth feed (three hours in); I didn't want to be counting them but I couldn't seem to help myself. I don't like to know the time when I'm swimming, I just like to drift along with it all. But this time, I was completely present in every stroke. This was no bad thing, as I was determined to appreciate all of it, but I still didn't want to know how long I'd been going.

On the second feed my only words were, "This is a bit f***ing bumpy." John was using my back-up bottle for my feeds, which I couldn't understand because he knows which bottle I prefer. I was determined not to be a pain in the a**e swimmer (this time (because I have been known to have my diva moments in the past)) so I didn't say anything but I couldn't get a decent airflow with the back-up bottle. By the third feed, though, John had switched to my proper bottle, so I think maybe at some point my diva sneaked out and demanded, "Other bottle." The feeds then went down much quicker.

Three hours in and the water was much cleaner.

I had a rough idea that the first shipping lane was about 10 km into the swim, which I thought would take me about 3 hours. So when the fifth feed came and went and I still hadn't seen a ship, I started to get a bit anxious. I knew I wasn't going terribly fast because I still couldn't find a rhythm in the uneven chop, but I didn't think I was going that slowly.

And then, behind me, I saw it. My first ship. I was ridiculously excited. And it meant that I was already well into the shipping lane.

I was, at this moment, sticking my head up to say to John, "This is so f***ing exciting."

I then looked forwards to see what looked like a solid bumper-to-bumper line of ships cruising down the south west shipping lane. But the shipping lane is four miles wide, so these ships weren't actually in one long line, it just appeared as though they were from a distance.

I didn't see too much of John and Jane during this time. The sides of the boat were quite high, so when I turned my head to breathe, I wasn't rotating enough to see them. The only time I was aware of them was when the feeding pole came down to me.

With the wind behind us, it blew the diesel fumes from the exhaust at the stern towards the bow, so Eddie positioned the boat just ahead of me so that I wouldn't be breathing in the fumes, and I swam alongside the stern.

Hanging off the back was a little dinghy that would shepherd me into shore on the French side. I spent a good few hours looking at that boat, dreaming of the moment I would see it being lowered into the water, meaning I was there! And then I realised that I didn't want to wish the day away; that time would come anyway so I should just concentrate on the here and now, which is exactly what I spent the rest of the day doing.

The only time the diesel fumes were really an issue was at the feeds, where I had to be in the middle of the boat, which meant that while I was trying to drink, I was also breathing in the fumes. Having me slightly behind the boat must have been hard work for Eddie because he would have always had to try and keep just in front of me, while not losing sight of me.

On one feed, Jane told me to swim up by the bow to see if that made any difference. It was probably easier for Eddie but I had been OK at the back of the boat. A couple of feeds later and Jane told me to switch to the starboard side of the boat. The sun had moved over its zenith and they didn't want me swimming in the shadow of the boat and potentially getting colder, although the cold was the furthest thing from my mind. As we headed over to France it was warming up from 17 degrees to 20 degrees.

Fortunately, I started to lose count of the feeds after about four hours and time drifted by. There was a small crisis on the boat at one point when the lid of my drink bottle came off and fell overboard while the A-team was preparing a feed. Not wanting to go back to dodgy back-up bottle, Jane used one of Kevin's feed bottles. It was a perfect drink bottle - good airflow, good nozzle, decent flip top, and a proper screw cap (it's amazing how technical a drink bottle can be to a swimmer!) I'm disappointed I forgot to buy a couple before I came home.

I remember coming into the boat for a feed at maybe six and a half hours and saying, "Having a bit of a sticky patch." I had just started to feel a little grumpy, so I simply reminded myself how bad the Channel can be, how magnificent it was on my day, and how I had nothing to grumble about.

At every feed, Jane told me how well I was doing. John often tells me I'm swimming well but I know he says it because he loves me. But I believed everything Jane said; I thought that Jane must know, having been on a support boat so many times. Her words were reassuring at every feed and kept me buoyant.

And so I swam on. The first three hours were a little tough with the chop, the middle five hours were fantastic - the water had levelled out, I found a wonderful rhythm, I was completely happy, and then there were the last three hours, where getting in to France was as tough as I had imagined.

And we're off

It took about 20 minutes to motor out of the marina, past the harbour wall and head round to Shakespeare Beach. I had the odd wobble, clutching John's arm at one point and looking slightly more panic-stricken than was strictly necessary. "I can do this, can't I?"

What else could his answer be at this point? "Of course you can," he said. "You know you can."

Yes, I did know it. Just a little wobble.

The air temperature was about 7 degrees and by far the coldest part of the day was standing in a cossie on the deck while John plastered on sunblock and some grease. (Thankfully no pictures of this bit... A-team support crew was busy being 'A', and not taking photos.) The wind whipped around me, biting into my skin and making me so keen to jump in and warm up again.

I fixed the glow light to my goggle strap and asked Jane to attach the other one to the back of my cossie. "Don't worry, you won't need that," she said.

"But what if it's dark by the time I finish? I can't fix it on to my back myself," I worried.

"You'll be finished long before dark," Jane replied, with alarming confidence.

Looking out to sea, I could see other swimmers' boats bobbing around far ahead of us. The earliest swimmer had set off about 4am and I was either the last to set off, or the second last.

"How come everyone else has already started?"

"Stop worrying," said Jane, "You're a fast swimmer; you'll be fine."

I have never felt like a fast swimmer. I train with people much faster than me and I seem to lack the ability to change pace for more than about 30 seconds; after that, it's just the one pace all day. All that bothered me was the thought that I would much rather have set off in the dark in order to finish in the daylight, rather than have the dark at the end of the swim.

Still, as happened throughout much of the day, if Jane said something, I believed it. Having so much experience of Channel swimming and having been support crew so often, her word was gospel to me right then. If Jane believed I didn't need that light stick on, then so be it.

Eddie pointed at the boats ahead of us. "See those?" he said. "They're your target. Now go get 'em."

I descended the ladder at the back of the boat and in I jumped. The water was sooo much warmer than the air, it felt lovely. Unfortunately, I banged my heel quite hard on something on the way in and it started to throb. 'Brilliant,' I thought, 'I might well be the first person to fail on a Channel swim before I even reach the beach at the start.' Wouldn't that be something. But I think at that point, even if I'd broken my ankle I would have ignored it and carried on swimming.

The sky was growing lighter by the minute as I swam the 100 metres or so into the beach. There were a few stones but it wasn't nearly as bad as the 'beach' we trained at in the harbour, which was very painful to walk on in bare feet. Sonia and Martin had actually driven down to the beach to wave me goodbye too (also their second trip down to the beach that morning as well - fantastic people!)

Also there was a man called John, who took these couple of photos and emailed them through the next week. Thanks very much, John.

Arriving at the beach ready for the start.

A quick goodbye to the beach crew and I fixed my goggles, waved to the boat to signal that I was ready to start, and headed back into the water. It was 6.35am.

Still getting ready...

On the morning of a swim, I'm usually so nervous I can't eat a thing. I know I have to, so I try and force some food down. The morning of the 18th, though, and I was tucking into a massive bowl of hot porridge, courtesy of A-team support crew (who had already started excelling at such an early hour.) A glass of juice and cup of coffee and we set off down to the marina.

We met up with Jane Murphy, official observer for the swim and the other half of the A-team support crew. Also down at the marina were Sonia & Martin who run the Sandown Guest House, where I had stayed the previous week. They make it a habit to come down to the marina to see off their guests at the start of their swims, and one of their daughters (still in pyjamas and dressing-gown) came too. It was lovely to have friendly faces around, and to have their support, and I can highly recommend the Sandown if you're heading to Dover. What made the gesture so lovely was that they had already been down at the marina at 4am to see off another swimmer, Chantal, before coming back down to see me at 6am.

Just after 6 o'clock, my boat, Anastasia, pulled round to the dock. My first sighting of her!

Jane tells me Anastasia is the luxury vessel of the fleet. Only the very best for A-team support crew.

I was to spend many hours looking at that bow.

My fantastic crew: (l-r) Dave, Eddie (pilot), and Michael (Eddie's son.) Sonia, from Sandown Guest House is just visible in the background.


Happy the moment was finally here!

Getting ready

After the wind howled all through Tuesday night as well, we woke on Wednesday to see a blue sky. I couldn't believe it. The clouds had been so dense the previous day, it seemed impossible that it had blown itself out. I don't think I could make a living in an environment so changeable; I don't know how the pilots cope with it all.

Still very windy but France was visible again on Wednesday.

Without a doubt, the most stressful part of it all was deciding on the right day to swim. By the middle of the week most swimmers were being told 'Saturday the most likely' by their pilots, and Eddie had said 'probably Friday or Saturday'. The weather forecast looked really good for Saturday so I had settled myself that this would be the day.

What unsettled me was that I saw Duncan on Thursday and he said that his pilot had told him he was off the next day. I spoke to Kevin - what did he think? Duncan was the only swimmer going out on the Friday, which made me think I didn't need to worry. But what if Friday turned out to be half decent and then Saturday blew out.... I nearly walked a hole in the floor of the caravan with my pacing. What I really wanted was someone to make the decision for me.

Which is exactly what happened on Thursday night. I spoke to Eddie and he said Friday still looked a bit dodgy and we'd more than likely be off on Saturday. Finally, thank goodness. No decision on my part involved. Brilliant. Saturday it was.

We got quite a shock on Friday morning when we were having breakfast in our caravan and saw Duncan and his crew walking by the caravan. It turns out that when he spoke to his pilot the night before he had also been told Saturday.

Friday was spent putting all the gear together, mixing up the feeds and, of course, being interviewed by the BBC (which is what every normal aspiring channel swimmer fits into their preparation.)

The owners of the caravan park, Evelyn and David, are absolutely fantastic. They know that it's hard for overseas visitors to bring everything with them for the swim, so they have all the gear ready to loan out - feeding poles, packing boxes, blankets, hot water bottles, thermoses, light sticks, sea sickness tablets....

I had to pack and unpack my feed crate several times for the cameraman to shoot (riveting footage....), trying to pack everything in the same order each time, for continuity's sake. By this time I had memorised what was in the crate so well that I was quite sure we hadn't forgotten anything.

And so all that was left was to have a good pasta for dinner the night before and get an early night.


I had been waiting for this day for three years, ever since first listening to Murph talking about his swim before he came over to England. This time, there was none of the usual panic or nerves, just an absolute rock-solid belief that the next day I was going to swim to France.

Time to get some pics up

Several people have now asked when I'm going to write about the swim, so sorry it has taken me a while to get to. I haven't found the ability to write about it yet (and not sure I have even now) but I still walk round with a warm glow inside. Even though Botany council has been doing its best to ruin it.

So a few pics of the days leading up to the swim.

John and I arrived in Dover on the afternoon of Saturday 11th September, with the first possible day of the tide window being Tuesday 14th. Sunday and Monday morning it looked as flat as a millpond, although a front was due to move through some time Monday afternoon. France was clearly visible.

All the cliff top pics are taken from just across from the caravan park. Here, we'd gone out to look for a swimmer who had recently set off.

The front most definitely did move through on the Monday afternoon. My pilot, Eddie, had taken a relay out at 1am Monday and managed to get them across before the weather turned, but had a Force 8 on the trip back, making it a long and rough crossing for all. The wind howled round the caravan all night and all the next day. It was a day to curl up with a book (or check the weather forecast for the hundredth time.... that day....)

When cabin fever (or caravan fever) set in later that day we went for a walk at Samphire Hoe, an area made up of reclaimed land from when the Channel Tunnel was excavated. From the car park, you can walk along the sea wall to a beach at the far end, from where some pilots start their channel swims.

Just a wee bit windy.

Doesn't that look inviting....?

Dover Harbour in the distance.

In the press

Made it into print. Duncan tipped off the press and we got a mention in Fitz's column.

(Scroll down to the 'Team of the Week'.)