A Boy in the Water

by Tom Gregory

  Tom Gregory

  * * *

  A BOY IN THE WATER

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Changing Lanes

  2. The North

  3. Summertime

  4. Windermere

  5. The Early Starter

  6. The Sea of Faith

  7. A Whole Army of Little Tefals …

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tom Gregory grew up in Eltham, south-east London. He holds the record of being the youngest person to swim the English Channel, completing the crossing aged eleven in September 1988. (He still owns the Gold Blue Peter badge he received for the feat and the box tickets he was given to see Leyton Orient play at home.) Today, Tom Gregory lives in Surrey with his wife and two children. He takes his daughters swimming every weekend.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  A BOY IN THE WATER

  ‘This evocative memoir recounts an agonising hallucination-filled 12-hour swim across the English Channel in 1988 when Gregory was just 11 years old’ Daily Telegraph, Best Books of 2018

  ‘A memoir about the power of a good teacher, about family, about loss, about growing into the man you are meant to be’ Lemn Sissay, Radio 4

  ‘His vivid recollections of the near 12-hour ordeal and the team of people who supported him spring off the page as if it all happened yesterday … a very moving book’ Simon Griffith, Mail on Sunday

  ‘An enjoyable memoir, curiously affecting … a powerful and shocking final chapter’ James Marriott, The Times

  ‘The youngest ever Channel swimmer recalls his agonising swim and charismatic coach … In 1988, at the age of 11, Tom Gregory became the youngest person ever to swim the English Channel. This memoir is structured around Gregory’s account of that swim, and he makes no bones about how horrendous it was’ Alice O’Keeffe, Guardian

  ‘The extraordinary story of how an 11-year-old became the youngest ever person to swim the Channel … edge-of-your-seat’ Daily Mail

  ‘A delight … Gregory’s descriptions of the Eighties are wry and perfectly observed’ Catherine Nixey, The Times

  ‘A memoir charting the extraordinary three years of his training to triumph’ Boudicca Fox-Leonard, Daily Telegraph

  ‘A lifelong journey begins with an incredible swim … just part of a story that began at a swimming pool in south London, where one man changed countless young lives’ Radio Times

  ‘A compelling story of dedication and commitment. It’ll make a great movie, but you should read the book first’ sportsbookofthemonth.com

  ‘Charming and different; a lovely, brilliant memoir. What a boy! What a feat!’ Victoria Derbyshire

  For Rosie and Beatrice

  The sea is calm tonight.

  The tide is full, the moon lies fair

  Upon the straits; on the French coast the light

  Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

  Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay

  ‘Dover Beach’ by Matthew Arnold

  Prologue

  4.30 a.m., 6 September 1988, Wissant Bay, Northern France

  John flashed the car headlights again. The seascape illuminated briefly as he did so, but no reply came back from the inky blackness. It was still very dark. The Vauxhall Cavalier was parked at the top of a slipway, beyond which a long sloping beach ran out to sea. From inside the car I could just hear the waves breaking on the sand in the distance; happily it was a soft, rhythmic sound rather than an angry one. To the right of the car a headland ran away out to sea on the north edge of the bay, while behind us, somewhere in the vicinity, a lighthouse flashed its occasional warning to the unseen shipping out in the Dover Strait. There was no one else around but the three of us in the car.

  ‘Where the bloody hell is Willy?’ asked John from the driver’s seat.

  ‘Don’t worry, you know he’ll be here,’ replied Dennis from the passenger seat, after a long, nervous pause. The pair sat in silence – John anxiously repeating the headlight-flashing routine more than was probably necessary.

  I was in the back seat, under strict orders to remain asleep, but was wide awake – had been since we rolled off the ferry at Calais two hours earlier. I had tried to sleep as the car wound its way out of the silent port town and into the countryside beyond and to the south. The sneaking glances I had caught from the car revealed a lowering crescent moon, on what was a clear and chilly night. Probably a neap tide given the moon. John said this meant ‘less water’ in the Channel. The trip over on the night ferry had shown me there was still plenty enough of it.

  I quietly lifted my head to get a peek at the situation from the gap between the front seats. I caught another glimpse of the beach, and of the vast black English Channel that lay before us.

  John jerked his head around. ‘Tefal! How many times have I got to tell you? Go back to sleep!’

  ‘I don’t feel tired, John,’ I pleaded. He didn’t reply. Dennis offered John a sympathetic glance on my behalf, which might have said Leave him alone, John – how would you be feeling?, had it been accompanied by any words. But it wasn’t, and John remained silent, so I gazed out, without further reprimand, into the blackness.

  The beach ran for probably 50 metres beyond the slipway before it met the water’s edge. The white flashes of the waves could now be seen as well as heard, but still, they were slight rather than angry. I judged from the state of the beach that we were probably at half tide, and that the water was on the ebb. I was facing westwards where the night sky was indistinguishable from the dark sea. Off in the distance, there were some occasional lights to be seen.

  The lights came and went at random. Some flashing, some constant for a while, some with a green hue and some that were clearly red. Had to be shipping, I thought. John was fond of reminding me that this was the world’s busiest shipping lane – presumably most ships preferred daylight given it didn’t look that busy out there. Then they could see all the swimmers, like me. The chances of a collision or accident seemed remote. Besides, I knew we had a special blue and white flag to fly. For a moment I thought about how they would not be able to see the flag before the sun came up, but quickly decided to think of something else … ships were supposed to stay out the way, according to John, so that was all that mattered.

  Off to the right I could suddenly see clearly a passenger ferry a couple of miles offshore, presumably bound, like me, for Dover. It was lit up in the darkness with its many decks and portholes visible. As it made its way out into the black sea I wondered if it was the same boat we had come across on from England just a few hours earlier.

  I remembered the grumpy man in the ferry canteen who had loaded my plate full of fried breakfast during the night crossing. John always said that fried food was bad for swimming – bad on account of its ability to make you feel, and be, sick. It struck me now, a little late, that John had made me eat the biggest greasy breakfast ever on the way over, and with no explanation. The grumpy man just filled the plate with food, before repeating the procedure for the next person in the queue, which, apart from me, looked to be made up exclusively of truck drivers. I ate every mouthful of the fry-up, which tasted great, safe in the knowledge that I would need the calories. John and Dennis just watched on as I fed greedily – not eating, but sipping cups of tea. The three of us looked quite out of place compared with the truckers, none of whom spoke to each other, each sitting on their own.

  Suddenly a much closer light appeared offshore – probably just 200 metres or so. A fishing boat, Willy’s fishing boat. The boat, which didn’t seem very big to me, was illuminated on its flat deck, and I could just about make out the shape of people moving around on board.
There seemed to be a small wheelhouse at the front, behind which a roof of some kind covered the flat working area. It was bobbing up and down in the swell – accentuated by the fact that it looked to have come to a halt and was no longer carving its way across the blackness. The boat looked very alone, with nothing else nearly as visible in the offing. John flashed the headlights once more, and this time the code was answered in kind by a search lamp on deck. A sudden sickness came over me. I had felt it before and knew what it was. It wasn’t the fry-up. It was fear.

  ‘OK. Let’s go. Tefal, get changed,’ said John. My heart thumped. I found myself gulping, trying to swallow a lump that had appeared in my throat on hearing John’s instructions. I felt myself calm down after a couple of deep breaths, and a wave of childish excitement came over me, replacing the fear as it did so. John and Dennis got out of the car. Dennis went to the boot and started unpacking various bags and boxes. John rummaged around in his own kit bag – a very old-fashioned blue leather Adidas sports grip from another decade – looked at his watch, and briefly consulted a page of notes concealed within his trusty book-like clipboard. I had no idea what was written on its pages – John never let me read his notes, and even when I had tried (often) when he wasn’t looking, his handwriting was worse than mine. I stood by the rear passenger door of the car, dropped my swimming bag on the slipway and began the familiar routine of getting changed in the open, with a towel to cover my modesty, even though it was pitch dark with not a person in sight apart from my companions.

  As I stripped out of my cosy tracksuit I felt the cool air on my bare skin as the breeze coming off the land blew through me and out to sea. I put on my special trunks – the ones I had worn up at Windermere that summer, and the summer before – and tied the cord carefully. I reached in for my bright orange swimming cap and for my favourite pair of goggles. I had remembered to throw some talc into the inside of the cap when packing, so it came open easily as I pulled it onto my head. It was still quite new so had the full thickness, which could sometimes deteriorate over a year or more – not that this in any way contributed to keeping warm. The goggles – were they the right goggles? – yes, they had knots on the elastic on each side to stop them working loose over time, and this special pair had not one, but two knots in the right-hand strand. That’s how I knew they were the special pair. The goggles were clear ones – John only allowed the clear ones. He said it was important to be able to see into a swimmer’s eyes.

  In a minute or so I was changed, my clothes shoved hurriedly back into my own kit bag. Facing out to sea, I stood still and silent in the breeze, in my trunks and orange hat, goggles in my hand, and waited for John.

  ‘Come here, Tefal,’ he said, and I joined him in the light provided by the now full-beam headlights. The surrounding world had become invisible as a result of the brightness – I wondered what the fishing boat was doing, along with everyone on board. Who even was on board, come to that?

  ‘Dennis, pass the grease,’ said John firmly, as he pulled on a pair of blue plastic medical gloves. Dennis handed him a pot from the top of the box of supplies that now lay at the front of the car in the glow of the beams. John opened the large round pot, forced his gloved hand inside and swore. ‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’ Dennis turned with a quizzical look. ‘This grease is bloody rock ’ard.’ Under normal circumstances this would be a cause of great amusement: the swimmer forced to endure a cold application, which typically meant the removal of any body hair as the grease was worked onto the skin (although this was less of a problem for me on account of my age). But these were not normal circumstances. ‘Get it in the footwell. Whack up the heating,’ said John sharply. Dennis, who had just that moment lit a fag, did as he was told. John looked anxiously at his watch again. ‘And gun the engine while you’re at it. We’ll start with the Vas instead.’

  Vaseline, unlike the wool fat that was now under the heater, could be applied cold, and was thought to be better for those areas prone to salt friction – under the arms and between the legs. As John worked the Vaseline into and around my armpits in big lumps, I stood motionless, like a scarecrow, legs spread and my raised arms bent, in an ‘M’ shape, looking out to sea. No words were spoken for a while. Much of this routine had become a drill, so they weren’t needed anyway.

  John held out another fresh blue glove in the silence. I pushed in my hand, which was too small for the glove. He offered the tub of Vas and I took a large wad of the grease into my spread fingers. I worked it into and around my groin, paying particular attention to the lowest part between my balls and bum, where I knew the friction could get severe. No one ever enjoyed getting greased up. It was embarrassing, sometimes painful. I had long since given up believing that the grease helped my body to stay warm. After all, I had little doubt that the Brazilian swimmer who’d died of hypothermia just a few weeks ago on her attempt was well greased up. It felt like more of a ritual that, if nothing else, at least protected the skin against salt friction and the effects of long-term immersion.

  We waited in silence for a while. John ordered up the wool fat from the footwell and, to my surprise, just a few minutes under the heater had done the trick. John went about his work. The grease was pliant and soft. ‘That’s a first,’ I said, smiling. The first moment of attempted humour I could recall for many hours. There was no reply. Back, front, legs, and finally arms. A camera flash went off in the dark. Dennis, having smoked another fag, deployed his Instamatic and started to record events. The camera spool made a familiar clicking noise as he wound on the film, ready for the next exposure. It said something about the changing mood that he felt comfortable to take a picture. Behind the camera his face formed a knowing smile. His own daughter, Alison (or Miss Piggy as she was known to me), had done this in 1983 and, for a matter of just hours, held the world record for the youngest girl to swim the Channel.

  After a few minutes, and halfway through a fresh pot, the work was done.

  ‘Now don’t bloody touch yourself, Tefal, eh? And I don’t care what you want to scratch.’ I knew John wanted me to keep the grease off my hands, because if I didn’t, it would eventually find a way onto my goggles, and if it did that, I was ‘blind’. And that could make me lose the boat, especially once I became tired.

  John reached back into the box of kit and pulled out something new. He unwrapped a foil tube containing a plastic light stick – the kind I had seen for sale before on Fireworks Night with Dad. They had chemicals inside that, once ‘snapped’ and allowed some air, would glow for hours, until the chemicals lost their magic.

  ‘That’s new,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied, ‘but I need to be able to find you in case you decide to swim off in the dark, Tefal.’ I considered the point in silence and felt it unlikely that I would, but then I had never been swimming in the English Channel in the dark before. Especially not in the French bit.

  ‘… and just for the record, Tefal,’ he added, ‘don’t fuckin’ do that. OK?’ He demanded an answer.

  ‘OK, John.’

  The light stick snapped in John’s hands, and immediately began to emit a faint green glow. John held it up, looking disappointed, but then, as if remembering forgotten instructions, shook the stick violently. Suddenly it became as bright as any torch. ‘Hold that,’ he said, as he reached for a length of twine in the box of kit. He threaded the twine into the stick’s moulded plastic hole, before issuing the same instruction. ‘Hold that.’ I grabbed the green glow for a second time. This time a penknife was produced from the box. Having unfolded the blade John went behind me and grabbed the rim of my swimming trunks. After some fumbling from his chubby fingers, presumably to attach the twine to the now pierced trunks, he grabbed the stick and tied it on. I could feel its slight weight and wiggled my bum, looking anxiously at John as I did so.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tefal. It floats. You won’t feel it once you’re away.’

  At that moment, I heard the buzz of an engine – quite a high-pitched, busy noise that I knew to b
e an outboard motor. A small boat, a tender – only a dinghy really – was working its way to shore. Behind it, the fishing boat lay in place, rocking in the swell. One of the people on the tender had a torch, which meant I could track it as it raced to the waterline, still some 50 metres away from me across the sand.

  Dennis stubbed out another fag and, without words, walked over to John and patted him on the back. ‘See you in Dover,’ he said. John looked at him and, after a pause, and with a slight smile, said, ‘Thanks for this, mate.’ Then he turned to me.

  ‘Right, Tefal, it’s time. In a minute I want you to swim out and meet the boat. I’ll be going across to the boat in the tender, so DON’T worry, but I’ll need to go ahead quickly in front of you, so you can keep swimming once you get to us. You can’t get fuckin’ lost … just swim out to the big boat. It’s the one with all the lights on,’ he added with a note of sarcasm, coupled with affection.

  ‘Got it,’ I said, with all the confidence I could muster.

  And I did get it. John and the others would need time to board the trawler, get their kit on board, and secure the tender before we were ready to move on, which was quite a palaver. I would be cold, swimming fast to warm up, not keen on hanging around.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Nervous,’ I replied, with a little more honesty this time.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Let’s just get it done.’

  And with that the conversation ended, and we walked down the dark beach, John with his trusty kit bag in hand. The tender was now ashore, half lodged on the gently sloping sand. Another flash went off behind me, as Dennis took another snap. I didn’t look back.

  The tender had a crew of two, neither of whom I recognized. The younger man was operating the boat, and by the time I got to the water’s edge, was fiddling urgently with the outboard that had been tilted to allow access to the beach. Judging by the stopwatch around his neck I guessed the other man was the official observer, from the Channel Swimming Association. Both were dressed in cold weather gear with woollen hats on. It must have been a chilly night coming over from England.