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.