A Boy in the Water

by Tom Gregory

  John climbed into the tender, and the young man, who held it steady as John boarded, got more than just wet feet as he struggled to push the boat out to a floating depth. Having boarded himself, he ripped the outboard cord, which fired the engine, and I heard the clunk as the gear was engaged and some low revs moved them gently out to sea. From within the boat, now bobbing, in neutral again, and some 20 metres in front of me, John called out in a measured tone, ‘When you’re ready, Tefal.’

  I brought my goggles up in front of me and looked at them. My heart knotted as I noticed that one of the plastic lenses had a good smear of white grease across the front. It must have brushed against my thigh as I walked down the beach. I knew that I’d made a mistake I might come to regret. But it was too late to do anything about it. I wasted no more time and pulled on the goggles. They felt familiar and comfortable.

  Then I stepped into the water, ankle deep, and shook out my arms. The waves were still slight, breaking over my calves. My cold feet triggered familiar apprehension – the moment of full immersion was just seconds away. There was never a pleasant way to enter the cold sea. The water out in front appeared quite calm, but it was still dark and my eyes had yet to adjust. I had swum in much worse conditions at any rate. Would these conditions hold? What was it like beyond the shelter of the bay? The rolling of the fishing boat 200 metres or so away gave a clue that things might be different offshore.

  So this was it. On the other side of the darkness somewhere in front of me was Dover, and England. I was going to swim there, on a route that would likely become a minimum of 28 miles on account of the tides. It was hard to know how long it would take. I’d only ever swum about half that distance but I thought up to fifteen hours was likely – double the time I had managed in cold water before.

  If I could do all that, and it was a mighty ‘if’, I would hold a world record, because at that moment, I was eleven years and 333 days old.

  1. Changing Lanes

  5.45 a.m, 6 September 1988 – 30 minutes, 1 mile west-north-west of Wissant Bay, English Channel

  I rose to the top of the swell just as the boat entered a trough and rolled back towards me. I looked down on the occupants of the boat. Someone on board was being sick, but from the water it was hard to know who as it was still dark. Another nice early problem to solve given I had time to occupy, lots of time. Probably the doctor or the photographer; it couldn’t have been John, JC, Mother Duck or Spike, all of whose faces I had picked out on the neon-lit deck of the trawler in the first minute of being beside the boat. They were too accustomed to this kind of thing. All bar John had made their way over on the fishing boat overnight from England, I realized. I hadn’t known who was going to be on the boat other than John himself and the doctor, I had assumed, so I felt a wave of euphoria as I realized each of them was there to help me through; it was like walking into a surprise birthday party but without being able to talk to friends, or say thanks.

  Likewise, neither Willy the pilot nor his two sons, who collectively formed three-quarters of a fishing family from the famous shore fleet at Lydd, were likely to be the person being sick. Then I remembered that Dr Ian, conspicuous on the deck on account of his thick red beard, was a sailor, so concluded it had to be the photographer. I hadn’t known there was going to be a photographer either, and so this had been the first puzzle – who was the stranger on the boat? He looked vaguely familiar from the distance at which I observed him. He was young, good looking and athletic, and probably in his mid-twenties. Perhaps he was a lifeguard with a hobby; he had been playing for quite a while with what looked like a fancy camera with large lenses, the sort you see at football matches. Maybe that’s what made him sick – he should have been looking around him for the first hour at least, even in the dark. It was a ‘swimming club fact’ that focusing on the horizon was the best way to avoid sea-sickness. He was trying to stay out of sight, and to vomit on the other side from me. John Bullet, conspicuous in his trademark blue and white bobble hat, would have insisted on that. John would have been insisting on a lot of things at this point, some more important than others. There were watch routines to be established, tea to be made, notes to be compiled. This was a meticulous operation and he would have planned every last detail. As ever, my safety was in his hands, but also, on this occasion, in the hands of Willy the pilot. So much had changed between John and me in just four years, I reflected; but it had all started very differently, back in 1984.

  My first trip to the swimming club in Eltham, aged seven, was not one I enjoyed. Mum made Anna and me go along one Wednesday night at the start of what promised to be a long summer holiday, claiming it was a good idea to try out new hobbies. I thought it a bad idea from the start. Not only was I nearly the slowest swimmer in Miss Morgan’s school swimming lessons, but I could barely get across the width of the pool and had to stand up to rest halfway across. Besides, I didn’t need another hobby – not with a new football sticker album due out any time now. I was very unhappy that the tales relayed by our cousins, Carolyn and Victoria, who had been members of the swimming club for years, had influenced Mum to take me. But this was just the latest tragedy in a year where I’d had to move house and start school, which meant spending less time in Greenwich Park or on Shooters Hill with Mum.

  And Eltham Baths seemed huge to me. It had two pools – big and small – and in the summer the swimming club used only the small one for younger swimmers. Apparently the older swimmers were ‘in cold water’. This had something to do with swimming in the sea, as both Carolyn and Victoria had told fanciful stories of swimming the English Channel with their swimming club friends. I’d been to France on a ferry myself, so I was doubtful as to how true any of this was. Girls did like to boast, after all.

  The small pool was about the same size as the one at school but had no diving boards. Changing rooms surrounded it – single wooden cubicles, with a plastic curtain to hide behind – women on one side, men on the other. All around the poolside there were older kids, teenagers I thought, barking instructions at small groups of younger children, all of whom wore bright orange swimming hats. Some groups were swimming back and forth busily across the width. In other groups the kids hung onto the rail in a line, watching the bigger kids on the poolside, who were miming how to swim.

  Anna and I were taken by Mum to a desk near the entrance, where a woman was signing people in – like a school register. On the table in front was a tin box full of money, and a list of names on a pad. Mum spoke to the lady, who did not appear to be all that friendly, and we were promptly told to get changed and ‘to report’ to the shallow end. This was just like being at school, I thought. And who wanted more of that?

  Anna and I found a couple of spare cubicles, ignoring the men and women rules, and got changed. I had my school swimming trunks with me and a pair of big yellow swimming goggles that Mum had found for me in the toy shop in Blackheath. We walked to the shallow end where a grown-up was marshalling other children into groups. ‘OK, who are you two?’ she asked us. ‘My name is Anna,’ said my sister. ‘And my name is Thomas,’ I added. ‘Can you swim?’ asked the adult. She was wearing a tracksuit and trainers, just like Miss Morgan.

  ‘I can, well, sort of, but Thomas can’t,’ offered Anna for both of us. She often spoke for both of us. She was right, though. Swimming was at best an occasional activity for our family, but Anna could do a few lengths on her own. Whenever we all went swimming, I was much keener on diving in and floating to the top. Dad said this was brave, but even so I ought to try and swim more, and dive in less.

  The grown-up sent Anna to one group of kids her own age, and me to another of the smallest kids of all. I felt anxious once we were split up as I’d expected we would stay together for the entire ordeal. I fought back the urge to cry as, for the next thirty minutes, I was subjected to a more intense version of Miss Morgan’s swimming lessons, but instead of there being twenty of us, there were only five or six, including me. My teacher was an older girl. I was not very go
od at guessing the ages of older kids, but she was probably about fifteen, or maybe twenty-five. Much younger than Miss Morgan at any rate. She told me her name was Clair, but that people called her Mother Duck. An odd name, but it established credibility, from a swimming point of view.

  Mother Duck set the others off on a four-width swim and asked me to wait as I held onto the rail. With the others gone she said, ‘OK, Thomas, I want you to swim to the other side, as well as you can, and without stopping, all right?’ I suddenly noticed that we were now a bit deeper than I was used to, and that there was a good chance my feet wouldn’t be able to touch the floor when I got tired. I tried to touch the bottom, just to check, and only my toes made contact. I looked up at her anxiously. ‘It’s OK, Thomas, don’t worry,’ she said, reading my face, ‘I’ll be watching you all the way.’ I didn’t reply, but turned to face the other side of the pool. My massive goggles were already leaking water so I couldn’t really see where I was heading. I set off in the most energetic way I knew how, hopeful that Mother Duck was as good as her word.

  I kicked and kicked as hard as I could, and whirled my arms round and round as fast as possible. Just like at school it was exhausting, but I knew I had to keep going given I couldn’t quite stand up. Eventually, I reached the other side, bumping quite hard into the wall I hadn’t seen thanks to the leaky goggles. I pulled them down around my neck and immediately looked back to the other side, hoping to see a look of approval for my efforts. I’d surprised myself by getting across without stopping and was tired, but pleased. She wasn’t there, where I’d left her. I frowned – all that effort and no recognition.

  ‘Well done, young Thomas.’ I turned around and looked up. Mother Duck was standing above me on the same side of the pool, smiling to herself. Standing next to her was a short, stocky man with a largely bald head, a sharp nose and a stern expression. He was built like a cannonball. He wore smart grey flannel trousers and a white t-shirt, on top of which was an even smarter blue cardigan, with two white hoops on each sleeve. His gleaming white tennis shoes stood out against the grey trousers. He was about Dad’s age, maybe a bit older, but there any similarity ended. He didn’t have a beard for a start. And he looked to be very much in charge.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he said to Mother Duck while looking at me.

  ‘This is young Thomas. It’s his first night.’ In that moment I began to understand why she had the name she did.

  The cannonball nodded at me without smiling, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Do what Mother Duck tells you,’ he said firmly. I nodded back in silence from the water. ‘You’ll need to get an orange club swimming hat … and some proper goggles.’

  With that, John Bullet walked off, and my summer of swimming began.

  In the end, that summer turned out to be as good as any summer could be. The new house had become something of an adventure after all. Nearby there were large parks, perfect for flying kites, and even tennis courts. Anna, who suddenly seemed to know a lot about tennis, had her own smart new wooden tennis racket – a ‘McEnroe Junior’, which was too heavy for me. We played on the immaculate public grass courts, which were often empty despite being so well kept by a nice man who worked for the council. There were also woods to be found with some exploration, and some big slopes that would be useful if it ever snowed.

  Since that first session at the baths, Mum had made us go to the swimming club every Wednesday night and I was slowly changing my opinion of it. I was still being taught in the same group of kids, but only sometimes got to be taught by Mother Duck. There were other teachers of a similar age, all with odd nicknames. ‘Miss Piggy’ was my favourite of the other teachers, whose number also included ‘Panda’, ‘Bear’ and ‘Shovel’.

  My swimming was getting better. I could now swim two widths of the small pool after a rest halfway, and, thanks to my smart new Eyeline goggles, I could see where I was going. I’d started to learn a new stroke – breaststroke, which was harder and slower than front crawl. It required more coordination in order to avoid sinking, and if one of my feet made a splash when I kicked I was told off for having a ‘screw kick’ – both legs had to mirror each other. I was less keen about the bright orange swimming cap we all had to wear, as by the time it had sat in my bag for a week it was very firmly stuck together and hard to put on. Plus I thought I looked like an orange Smurf. Still, my progress at swimming more than made up for the silly hat.

  Our choice of music had also improved dramatically now the cousins were on the scene. Anna had access to a seemingly limitless supply of cassettes, which, thanks to Vicky’s special double tape-deck, could be re-recorded by Anna at will. Car journeys as a family had become more of a sing-along, provided there was no Test Match commentary which triggered Dad to veto all music. Anna, who was suddenly much more knowledgeable about nearly everything, had achieved a new level of brotherly respect anyway. She was able to explain why things, from girls, to the latest craze, or even Mum and Dad, were as they were, and in a way I could understand.

  As September and its new term arrived, school seemed far less intimidating than the year before. The new term brought with it new people, as our class grew bigger with the addition of a couple more boys. One of them, Roger Ratajczak, sat next to me. I liked Roger from the moment I met him. As he introduced himself – he was very polite – I knew he was unlike anyone else in our class. I told him he had an unusual name, and he agreed. He said it was harder to spell than it was to say (it rhymed with ‘Crackerjack’, like the TV show). I was glad to be a Gregory once he wrote it down for me. In the weeks that followed we became best friends. Roger (sometimes known as Rat-Bag) was a very confident companion, despite being so new, and much more knowledgeable about many things: girls, music and how to have fun. I, on the other hand, knew how things were at his new school, and so we made a good team. We even practised our French together in between lessons (we now had French lessons once a week) – essential given my desire to return to Brittany after a recent family holiday there.

  Apart from having a scary new class teacher, Mr Fuller, things carried on very much as they had done, save for swimming lessons with Miss Morgan. I had already told Roger the main rules – do as Miss Morgan says, and don’t talk at the same time as her unless you want to freeze to death; the school pool was outdoors, and so punishment for any collective misbehaviour was simply to stand in the open, dripping wet, until order had been restored. Fine in the summer, traumatic in the winter. In our first lesson of the term she set us off across the width in the very shallow end. To my astonishment, I was the fastest to the other side. Miss Morgan was still standing on the side of the pool where we left her, and so, buoyed by my triumph, I swam back, but quicker this time, leaving my classmates hanging on the rail.

  ‘Well done, Thomas,’ she said, beaming a magic smile. ‘Have you had a busy summer?’

  ‘Yes, Miss. Very busy,’ I replied, adjusting my Eyeline goggles.

  She summoned the class back to our side of the pool. As I watched my friends splash towards us, I realized that something important had happened. For the very first time, I was the best in the class at something, and that something happened not to be maths, or comprehension, or French, but … well … swimming. Good enough, I thought. And then I thought of Mother Duck and how I owed my progress to her and the other club swimmers.

  September passed quickly with all the excitement of a new term, and, despite my best efforts, I failed to possess either a champion conker or an even near-complete football sticker album. In class I was struggling a little, too. Roger was good at keeping his concentration – despite my attempts to distract him – but I really was not. Mr Fuller had put a sign up on my desk that read ‘Think Before You Ink’. I was the only boy who needed this reminder. By the time of my eighth birthday on 9 October, I was near the bottom of the all-important class ‘plus’ board, having only achieved a couple of hallowed ‘plus’ marks in homework assignments. ‘Tommo’ Thompson had twenty to his name already.

  Even at the
swimming club things had started to get harder. With the summer over, we were all required to return to the big pool and join the Senior swimmers, who, now the season was over, were resuming their training in warm water. The stories of the cousins had not been quite so fanciful after all; they had spent the summer swimming only in cold water, training in a place called the Lake District, and, according to Anna, had spent most of August and September on something called ‘Channel Alert’ – a dramatic term used by their dad, Uncle John, to describe the possibility of being sent to swim to France with their friends at very short notice. When they weren’t doing all that, they were teaching younger kids, like me, to swim on a Wednesday night.

  The big pool at Eltham was another proposition entirely. Not only was it very large, and very deep at one end, but it also had a daunting array of diving boards, the highest of which was the tallest I had ever seen. The ladder even had a safety rope to prevent accidental access, from which was suspended a cartoon sign warning of the danger of falling. In fact, there were lots of cartoons around the pool advising swimmers what to avoid. There was one caption that read ‘No heavy petting!’ and featured a couple, surrounded by hearts, which rose like balloons, kissing in the water. Clearly this was a regular occurrence at Eltham. As I considered the possibilities, I concluded the likelihood of my breaking that rule to be slim. My favourite poster was a kind of compendium, or ‘best-of’ all the rules not to be broken. It included prohibition on ‘bombing, loud singing, splashing others, smoking’ (presumably difficult while swimming) and ‘running’. The big pool at Eltham was for Big People.