by Tom Gregory
‘Got him,’ said Dennis, who had the advantage of a set of binoculars. The doors of the bus flew open and we ran out into the rain to get a better look, passing the binoculars between us. When it was my turn I needed some directing, but after a while, there, within the magnified jerky view of the lenses, was a rowing boat. I saw three people, one rowing from the middle, the others sitting at the stern. They wore luminous orange waterproofs with hoods, matching the trademark orange swimming cap worn by club swimmers. Blue and white flags flew from poles at each end of the boat – stiff in the wind, in spite of the rain that would have long since soaked them. On the near side of the boat I noticed a rhythmic splash, splash, splash, and a flash of colour, orange again, amid the water, which was grey, reflecting the sky above it. The swimmer, whoever it was, was still in – after about five hours. Collective nervousness was replaced by collective sympathy.
I had been for my first swim in Lake Windermere that morning. We swam in the rain from a pretty shoreline on the north edge of the lake. The shelters in the pleasaunce park at Ambleside were empty. Just like at Dover, we seemed to do things when everyone else preferred to stay indoors. The destination that morning had been a flotilla of cruising boats that were bobbing quietly on their mooring buoys out in the deep water of the north shore. Maybe 100 metres in each direction, I reckoned. This swimming was a different physical experience to the sea or the pool. The visibility of the water was exciting; I could see the plants, weeds and stones below – until the water got too deep. In the shallows there were thousands of tiny fish in big shoals, darting all over the place. They scattered in all directions with incredible speed once my foot entered the water. I wondered if I would see a big fish. The water was clean and clear – no salt, and no chlorine either. It was cold, and wonderful. And the colder the water was, the more I was on terms with the older swimmers. Many of them became cold quicker than me and so reached their limit before I needed to get out. I had good resilience, I was just not as fast.
Back in the lay-by, John reported that Shovel was expected to make it to Ambleside in one to two hours’ time. She was tired and slowing, having already put 7.5 miles of the lake behind her in terrible conditions. I knew myself from Dover that she was not one for giving in – especially to cold. She was normally one of the last ones out, along with Mother Duck and Miss Piggy, and, like them, rarely shivered let alone boasted. The bus headed for Ambleside for the second time that day. I thought of Shovel out in the middle of the huge lake and hoped she was OK. Not too cold, not too tired. But in truth we all knew she must have been both of those things and was likely to be suffering. The longest I had managed in Dover harbour was about thirty minutes, possibly a mile of back and forth swimming if I was lucky. I was beginning to discover that things were not really measured by distance; what mattered was endurance. Time was relevant, but only in the context of someone’s ability to withstand the conditions. As time passes, so fades the swimmer’s ability to survive the cold and continue the physical motion of swimming. A mental challenge evolves in parallel to the physical one. At some point a moment is reached where the journey ends; either because the swimmer cannot continue, or, hopefully, because they have reached the shore. Shovel had no one to beat but herself. It didn’t matter how long it took her to complete the distance – just completing the distance was the point. I had never seen anyone do something so remarkable. Could she really swim all that way?
A small crowd began to grow on the shore. The rain had stopped and so the passers-by and holidaymakers had ventured out again from the shops, guesthouses and B&Bs. The rowing boat was only a couple of hundred metres off, still clearly marked by the blue and white flags. We had tracked it from half a mile out, anxious to see the splashing that would confirm Shovel was still in the water. I saw John at the back, wearing his distinctive blue and white woolly bobble hat, and caught his shouts of encouragement on the wind. Shovel’s strokes were slow, laboured and deliberate – the oar strokes required to keep up with her were occasional and delicate. As she edged towards shore she stopped, approached a large orange boating buoy, swam up and kissed it. I looked at Anna in confusion – she shrugged her shoulders. In the final few yards of this slow-motion drama, she stopped again, and instead of resuming with the front crawl that had carried her 10.5 miles through the wind and rain, began to swim butterfly – in a heavy and defiant rhythm … until she touched land.
As she staggered ashore the bemused onlookers began to clap. The water ran off her bare, broad shoulders in large beads as she knelt in the shallows and began to scramble forwards. The remains of the grease that had covered her seven hours earlier were still visible. Her swimming costume was a saggy mess, and her face … her face looked very different: puffy and swollen, with a grim expression. As Shovel struggled to her feet the rowing boat behind her sped up quickly on both oars; momentum was needed to gain a holding on the shore, and the wooden hull made a muffled rattling sound as it collided with the shingle at some pace. Shovel fell back to her knees, before standing again. Wobbling, she took three deliberate and careful steps up the beach, and sat down, exhausted. At that point the swimmers joined in the celebration, clapping and cheering along with the watching public. In a moment John was on the beach, looking into Shovel’s eyes, holding both of her hands out in front of her, asking her quiet questions. It reminded me of a boxer being spoken to by his trainer between rounds – like I had seen on the telly. Shovel sat motionless, before slowly removing her goggles and looking around her, smiling broadly but as if half asleep.
The tourists’ cameras clicked. John helped Shovel to her feet and began what looked like a mummification process, wrapping each of her limbs in the big incontinence pads before zipping her into a body bag, presumably also acquired from the hospital. She was carried in a fireman’s lift onto our minibus by Panda. With Dennis at the wheel our bus sped away. The week-long conquest of England’s longest lake, by John Bullet’s team of swimmers from South-East London, had begun.
I watched the bus disappear and turned to see Palfrey, now in a pair of trunks, standing motionless in a star shape on the beach. John, wearing a pair of funny blue gloves, began to apply thick white grease all over his body. Palfrey looked nervous but masked his apprehension with a smile as he was photographed by the tourists who watched on with still more fascination. Tetley and John were joined by Tanya on the rowing boat, which we pushed out into deep water with a team effort. I watched Palfrey set off, still enthralled by what I had just witnessed. A major achievement, by Shovel, had just occurred, but there was clearly no time to waste on group celebrations. John was heading south now, with another swimmer, for a second solo attempt in the same day. I gulped at the prospect of ever being asked to do that myself. Not in a million years, I thought. The boat and swimmer moved slowly out into the lake, John’s hat distinctive against the Lakeland backdrop and grey skies. It was just after lunchtime.
‘Right, come on, you lot!’ called out Mother Duck, once the boat was 200 metres offshore. ‘Let’s go for another swim.’
The third chair in the food tent that night was for Palfrey. Shovel sat in the middle chair and seemed almost back to her normal self. John sat in his usual chair – nearest the ladles. Palfrey was still cold, wrapped in multiple layers of clothing, and was having trouble speaking, but I didn’t think he wanted to say much anyway as I sat watching, cross-legged on the floor of the tent. Tinned ravioli, mash and tinned marrowfat peas arrived on a plastic plate. I didn’t ask for seconds that night.
Information had been scarce and whispered. With John out of sight and Palfrey being showered, Mother Duck explained that he had been pulled out of the lake 2 miles from the hamlet of Lakeside, towards the southern end, after about 8 miles and four to five hours of swimming. He had swum quickly to Belle Isle – the 4.5 mile point – and then further, down the longer and narrower stretch past a place called Storrs Temple, but was eventually unable to carry on. He had become very, very cold. None of us were there to see the boat land with
him in it. I didn’t know how they got him out and kept him safe, or how he got back to the campsite, but he was here, and he had the special chair. I wondered what would happen in the morning, and who would be next. Then I remembered something else. I was down to my last pair of pants.
Friday arrived and it was still raining. It had rained just about all week and I was used to it by now. Swimming had become my cure for homesickness, as if the cold water was itself the medicine. Miss Piggy had swum the lake’s length, not for the first time, and with some ease. Mother Duck and Panda had made the distance, while Palfrey, Bear and Big Steve were all pulled out. The relay teams then had their turn, swimming sections of the lake in groups of three or four, an hour at a time, sharing the rowing duties on the boat. Every day, Swan and Teal, the lake’s own veteran passenger steamers, plied the length of the lake, from Ambleside to Lakeside and back again, and so did we, waving at the passengers from the water or the old wooden boat. The chain ferry at Belle Isle clanked its way back and forth as we swam around the network of small islands in the vicinity, passing the time between solo attempt rendezvous and mealtimes. The stereo on the bus ran out of batteries twice, requiring a whip-round for change to ensure the mix tape never fell silent. We ate porridge, drank soup and swam. My towel was never dry.
That final morning, I stood on the remote lake shore with Bleachy, and pulled my goggles on over my now well-worn orange hat. This was the final event of the swimming week for us all – a mile sprint across the widest part of the lake. The width event. I could see the shoreline a mile off but couldn’t tell where we would need to aim for. The shore looked so far away, even as the mountains behind continued to dominate the scene. At my back, the green forest looked on in silence, dripping rain that carried the scent of the watching pine trees. In front of me the rowing boat held its station in deeper water, ‘oars-in’ to reduce drift against the wind and choppy wavelets. The boat was less crowded now. John and Tetley had rowed us over the widest part of Windermere on two sets of oars in order for us then to swim back.
We were both nervous, but Bleachy was perhaps more so, even though he was older (the same age as Anna) and much faster. He knew the cold was harder on him, being skinny, and the lake was about 57 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius) at this, the widest point. I reminded myself that everyone else had made it over already. Palfrey had probably broken a speed record, and I knew Anna had made it, as had both cousins. But that all just meant I couldn’t be the one to fail, and neither could Bleachy. We were the last boat.
Then I remembered something else. If I could swim this mile, further and colder than anything so far, then I would be with Dad, Mum and Flossie, who were waiting for me on the opposite shoreline. It wasn’t at all clear why they had arrived in the Lake District, but I knew I needed to be with them again in the shortest time possible – probably about forty minutes given the wind.
‘Ready, mate?’ said Bleachy, in a tone that confirmed his apprehension.
‘Ready, Bleachy,’ I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the rowing boat without looking back at him.
We walked purposefully into the clear Lakeland water side by side. I had learned from Bleachy the best way to get in was with purpose … the water was so cold here there was no other way.
After what felt like about twenty minutes I could not keep up with the boat and my arms and shoulders were starting to hurt. Bleachy was bobbing in the water, waiting for me, getting cold. Looking up every few strokes to see where he and the boat were just made me more tired. But if I didn’t look up I couldn’t see which direction to swim in, which was frightening. And without the boat I was in the middle on my own. I wondered how far we had come. I was starting to feel cold too – a warning sign. I knew the water in the middle was colder than on the shores – just the day before I had managed nearly a full thirty minutes on a relay swim in the southern part of the lake with Anna, Shovel, Miss Piggy, Bleachy and the cousins. Anna was embarrassed by having to put her arm around Bleachy in the rowing boat to help him warm up after his stint. John had repeatedly explained that human body contact was the best way to warm up a cold swimmer.
It felt like a long time since we had left the other side and we had clearly made progress – but how much? Then a new thought – what if I didn’t make it? … not good enough, and the only one? I looked up to the front to see that the boat had stopped rowing again. Maybe this was the moment John would pull me out for being too slow. I swam as hard as I could to catch up. When I got there John was shouting at Bleachy to keep going. He was shivering in the water and complaining of the cold.
‘You’re nearly there, lad!’ shouted John. ‘Stop your complaining. Now kick out more and just get on with it.’
Bleachy did not reply.
Tetley let the oars rest in their rowlocks and moved to the back of the rowing boat, where a kind of open boot in the stern allowed a cold swimmer to be pulled aboard should it be deemed necessary.
John steadied the oars. I felt guilty. Bleachy was so cold because he kept having to stop, to wait for me. John looked down at me from the boat, oars now in hand. ‘All right, let’s go, Young Thomas. You need to speed up now, lad. Less than half a mile left.’
He bent right forwards, arms outstretched to gain a full swing for the oars, which pointed forwards of the boat – ready to be recovered with a big heavy pull. As the oars splashed into the water under the ever-grey sky John heaved, letting out an unscripted rallying cry as he did so: ‘Let’s go! … Go! … GO!’ The boat gathered speed.
I began to calm down. Now I was alongside the boat I could see John on every stroke, and the faster pace felt manageable. Out in front Bleachy was pushing ahead, striking for the shore, which was finally looking closer. Every breath looked the same above the water; John’s eyes studying mine from beneath the blue and white bobble hat, an unflinching gaze on his weathered face – almost a look of curiosity. John looked tough, as though he belonged here, in total control, which made me feel safe. I also became aware, perhaps for the first time, that I was desperate not to let him down. Beneath the surface, each dip of the oar left a swirling arc of bubbles trailing behind the blade. I glimpsed their fizzing and rising pattern with each breath and became slowly hypnotized by the repetition. ‘Frankie’ started playing inside my head, and so I sang along to myself.
The cold was taking a hold on me – numbing my senses. It was my first proper experience of the steady degradation that cold water causes, given enough time – where thoughts become slower, and where the core of the body gradually adjusts to its setting, trying to maintain the essentials by triggering involuntary shivering. I kept singing until I got bored of the song, and decided to replace ‘Frankie’ with a day-dream about Miss Piggy. Other key moments of the week began to replay in my mind. I let them play. It was the best distraction I had found.
I knew already that the days leading up to this final event had been special, and I didn’t even have to go home yet. I had slowly begun to feel part of this new world, having spent day after day splashing and swimming in the cold clean Lakeland water, while the fells, their sheep, forests and crags stood silently watching over us. I had discovered hidden places. Windermere’s more remote shores were always deserted, its secret islands sometimes the only protection from the weather, which could become brutal very quickly. Then there was camping, skimming stones, CB radios and pop music. The group looked after each other like the best kind of family from morning till night, and I was now one of their number. Total immersion.
I was still quite raw about the conclusion of the pants incident. On the Thursday afternoon Mum and Dad had arrived without notice and found our group in Ambleside, waiting for a swimmer – Panda on that day – to complete his length. Blessed with the week’s only sunshine, he was even more Panda-like after six hours in the lake. The relief I felt was not at seeing Mum and Dad, but because Dad was in a position to solve the pants issue without anyone ever finding out. I tasked him with purchasing some immediately – no questions
, no objections.
That evening, I was handed a brown paper bag by Dennis at the campsite. I peeked inside and my heart sank; the bag contained the worst pants I could ever have been forced to wear. They were the Y-front type from the old days, which only dads wore. They were bad enough to earn me a full barrage of derision at school, if I was ever stupid enough to wear them on PE day. The material was a brownish flowery paisley pattern, like some of Dad’s older ties, and there was dark yellow furry piping dividing the segments of the ‘Y’. I wandered behind the wash block in a panic. I checked over my shoulder that there was no one around, and held a pair up in front of me, hoping that some magic would change the contents of the bag at the second time of opening. How could he get this so wrong? The other pair were the same style but with an even worse colour scheme of light blue with yellow swirls and brown furry piping. I stuffed them back in the paper bag and considered my options. Concealment was the only strategy.
Back on the tent pitch John was making a cup of tea on the camping stove – on his own for once as all the others headed off to wash up and then swim in the mountain stream before the sun went down. ‘What’s in the bag, Young Thomas?’ he asked as I walked in.