Man vs Ocean - One Man's Journey to Swim The World's Toughest Oceans

by Walker, Adam;

  I asked how many days it would be before we could potentially go and the reply I got was ‘Tonight’. It was Molokai all over again – no rest, no time for acclimatisation, just straight into it. I thought it was good to have come just before my scheduled swim date, as I had 2 weeks holiday I could take off work, and I knew this strait was unpredictable. If the weather conditions weren’t favourable to begin with, it would at least give me the opportunity to wait until it settled. Not that it always works out that way, but I thought better safe than sorry. I had waited nine days before swimming Gibraltar and finally went on the last possible day before returning home.

  The plan was to meet up again at 2 a.m., just over nine hours later, so I knew time was against me. We said our goodbyes and went back to the hotel to start organising things. I had an early dinner in the hotel restaurant with the most unbelievable view of the Tsugaru Strait. The hotel was on top of a cliff and you could see across the strait. For most people this would be a good thing, but for me, being reminded of what I was going to take on in a few hours’ time made me feel sick to my stomach. They had big glass windows in the restaurant and lounge areas, and you couldn’t help but look out. All the stresses and strains of my job, selling my house, my divorce, my lack of training, lack of time to acclimatise to the conditions or time zone, and lack of operational shark unit, started to manifest themselves in my brain. I sat there eating fish and looking out at this vast ocean, with no clue where I was going to start or end as I couldn’t see any land. It really affected me and I felt quite emotional. I wanted to achieve this so badly. My life felt upside down but the swimming was a constant. These were more than just swims to me – they were a huge part of who I was now.

  I said to Gemma, ‘I have to get across. There is no other option!’ She hadn’t seen me like this before. The ocean has a way of making you feel vulnerable, no matter how tough you think you are.

  I tried to explain to the waiter what I was about to do and asked could I have some meat for energy, rather than just fish. I was feeling a little tired from the journey so needed something to pick me up. They were great, bringing out a big selection, and although I wasn’t too hungry I forced myself to eat it.

  We went back to the hotel room and began preparing the equipment and drinks, shaking up the Coke bottles to release the gas. As there was no kettle on this boat, John had provided us with several large thermos flasks. Gemma boiled the kettle in the room and filled the flasks up so that I could still have warm drinks out at sea. By this time it was 7.30 p.m. and I had seven hours to try and get some rest. I lay on the bed, put my headphones on and listened to my motivational CD. Clem’s CDs had really helped me, since Molokai, to focus. I played them over and over again as I couldn’t sleep. It could have been due to jet lag as well as nerves: Japan is eight hours ahead of the UK, so it was actually lunchtime back at home.

  I was particularly anxious – more so than normal. I tried to keep my mind free of the devil on my shoulder, as I knew it would only take one negative thought about my lack of training to spiral into self-doubt. I’ve realised it can take a lot of focus to keep a clear mind, but if you get into the habit of not overthinking the swims it does get easier – but you have to continuously work at it.

  I remembered getting a good night’s sleep before both the English Channel and Gibraltar, but there was more going on in my head now and I resorted to walking around the room, still listening to my motivational CD. I think I eventually fell asleep around 11.30 p.m., so I at least managed to get a couple of hours rest.

  At 1.30 a.m. the alarm went off and it was time to wake up. John met us in reception just before 2 a.m. and we made our way to the bottom of the hill to meet up with the pilot. It was really windy so I was worried the sea would be choppy and we wouldn’t be able to go. We lifted everything on board and off we went to the harbour to assess the conditions. The time now was 2.30 a.m. and it was going to take about an hour and a half to get to the starting point in Honshu.

  John, having no experience of supporting a swimmer on a channel swim, had brought a deckchair, which did make me laugh. I thought, ‘He’s got no chance if he thinks he’s going to sun himself!’ John sat on his chair in the middle of the fishing boat and I wedged myself at the back, where I could see the horizon in case I felt sick, as I often do when it’s choppy. It worked out to be a good decision as the boat was swinging all over the place, with the rain coming in sideways. Poor John looked green and halfway into the journey was sick over the side. I felt sorry for him – there is nothing worse than being sick on a boat and having no option but to put up with it. And we hadn’t even started the swim yet! Gemma was fine – she was enjoying the boat ride, having never experienced anything like it before.

  Mika came over to speak to us and said they were taking their time getting us to the start due to the weather conditions; if this continued, there was no way we could go ahead with the swim. I continued to play my hypnotherapy CD and among the crashing of the waves and the rain coming in sideways I could hear Clem’s calming voice in my ears saying, ‘Just relax.’ It made me chuckle as I could see at the same time John being sick and the boat rocking all over the place.

  At this point I convinced myself I wasn’t going. I said to Gemma, ‘There is no way we can go out in this – it’s far too rough.’ I had never talked negatively like this before – it wasn’t like me. But I thought I’d been given a lifeline having had next to no sleep, and everything felt wrong to go. I told her, ‘I’d prefer to go tomorrow and get some rest.’

  Gemma said, ‘OK, but you need to make sure, if we do, that you don’t leave the hotel room but just sleep.’

  I agreed and, as my decision was made, I felt relaxed and even began to joke a little. Another hour later we arrived 15 metres from the rocks in Honshu, which was the starting point of the swim. Mika said we would wait a while to see if the weather improved. It was very rough and I was convinced we wouldn’t go. In the previous swims I was ready to go whatever the weather, so it was a concern that I was thinking this way. I went to the toilet at the back of the boat, which was so small I couldn’t shut the door. It made me laugh, sitting on the toilet rocking back and forth, looking out at the ocean. I thought, ‘There are worse views whilst sitting on the toilet, I guess!’

  After around thirty minutes of waiting, the pilot appeared with a beaming smile. Mika translated his words: he believed the weather would improve as we got closer to the Hokkaido side. I asked what the weather would be like tomorrow and the thought was much of the same – could be better and could be worse. The trouble with this sport is that you can’t predict the conditions; if it was worse tomorrow I might miss my chance, as I now only had a two-day window. Mika then asked me, ‘Are you prepared to swim in this?’

  I didn’t know what to do. I thought for a few seconds and went with my instinct: ‘OK, let’s do it.’ I felt like saying ‘no’ but going the next day would somehow be giving in to the channel and showing weakness.

  I put on my swim hat and goggles. Gemma helped do the greasing under the arms and back of the neck with Vaseline and I slid off the side of the boat heading in the direction of the start point. I swam very slowly to the rocks, trying to save energy before I started the actual swim. This was a very different approach from when I swam the English Channel solo. On reflection it was a bad move: I was obviously concerned that my energy levels were low, so I was starting with the wrong mindset.

  I fiddled with my goggles, delaying further, and then put my arms in the air to say I was ready, and off I went. In previous swims I had set off like a rocket, but this start was much more subdued. Perhaps I was subconsciously thinking I would need all my energy and so didn’t want to go off too quickly. This wasn’t my normal confident mentality before a swim.

  I was definitely anxious and couldn’t even decide which side of the boat to swim on. I went to my favoured left side, then convinced myself I would be faster and use less energy swimming on the right and breathing left, so I switched.
In training I am slightly faster breathing left as I pull harder with the right arm just after breathing due to the biceps tendon issue in my left shoulder.

  After just thirty minutes I took a gulp of water and started to be sick. As I’ve mentioned previously, I am no stranger to being sick, but it does disrupt my rhythm and my relaxed state of swimming. I had unfortunately become used to this irritation and I just saw it as one of the many mental tests open-water swimming puts me through. I always convince myself it will finish at some point. But I had never been so sick so early into a swim, and with everything else that had happened up to this point, it was the last thing I needed. I hadn’t got off to a good start and the devil was well and truly trying to get in my head, telling me it was over when it had hardly begun. I turned my thoughts back to where they needed to be, like on previous swims: ‘It’s just one arm in front of the other … Forget everything else.’ It was evident my mind was not in the right place, but I remembered what had happened in Hawaii, my shoulder operation and how much I needed this – even more so after all the disruption in my life.

  I switched back to the left side of the boat to stick with what I was comfortable with. I was sick on and off for the first four hours, trying to not let it affect my thoughts and just get to the next feed.

  At the four-hour mark, I was waved over to the boat by Mika and she said the strong current was pushing us eastward, so I had to swim faster or we would be pushed off course. I asked how long for and she replied, ‘Until we tell you to stop!’

  Not the answer I was looking for. I asked if I could have an estimate. Mika spoke to the pilot and replied, ‘Maybe thirty minutes.’

  I had no choice now but to concentrate on speed. In some ways it was a good thing as I had no time to think about sickness or my personal and work issues. I had been warned by the pilot that the currents could change at any time and I had also read that it can be impossible to cross if they are too strong. I tried not to think about it. My only thought was to get past this first hurdle by beating the current.

  I swam as fast as I could, trying not to overthink it and to keep as calm as possible. I went close to my full pace and kept an eye on the crew, waiting for some reaction or signal that I could slow down. I pushed hard for around twenty minutes and then saw Mika and my crew signalling to me that I could ease off. I fell back into my normal pace. I had kept on course for now, but I wondered when the next moment would come to do it again. I tried to convince myself it had been a one-off.

  It was wishful thinking. After a short period of twenty minutes or so, I saw the pilot look at his monitor and call Mika over. They told me I had to push again. I went up the gears and started swimming like my life depended on it; after twenty-five minutes or so I could ease off again. I remained calm, but it was now in my mind that I might have to do this all the way across, and I was clinging to the hope that this wouldn’t be the case.

  I had never faced this kind of brutal challenge before. I had fought my battles with currents and tide, but not this pressure to swim so fast this early on. The sickness had stopped, which was just as well as there was no time to stop for that. The next few hours consisted of sprints, limited rest and then sprinting again. There was only one occasion, around the six-hour mark, when I was told to sprint because the current was in my favour. It didn’t last long, though, and before long it was slow going again. At the start I tried to make it into a joke, saying to Mika, ‘Let me guess: I have to sprint again.’ After a while, however, the joke had worn thin. Shortly afterwards John attempted to motivate me by saying, ‘Good news – you’re almost half way!’ This only served to upset me more, at the thought of how long I had to go; however, he meant well by it.

  The waves were not letting up either, and although the pilot believed the conditions would improve as we got closer to Hokkaido, the reality was quite the opposite. Around nine hours in, it was like I was swimming uphill.

  John said, ‘You’ve probably got ten minutes of this and it will improve.’

  Sadly he too was mistaken: it went on for a good hour and then calmed down slightly, but it was still very choppy. I came in for a feed and everyone looked a bit glum. I thought everyone would expect me to be down so I’d do the opposite and make a joke of it.

  ‘If anyone has anything positive to say,’ I told them, ‘now’s the time!’ No response from Gemma or John, so I said, ‘No? No. OK, I’ll carry on, then’, in a sarcastic tone.

  I then started swimming in front of the boat for a few seconds and I shouted to the pilot, ‘Come on! I haven’t got all day to wait for you!’ He of course didn’t understand a word of what I was saying and just smiled.

  The pilot was a nice little fella. When Mika told me to sprint, he would occasionally punch the air to fire me up and have a beaming smile. On one feed, Mika told me, ‘He’s never seen some one with so much power – how you can just pick up the pace.’ Hearing this gave me a real boost and was just what I needed to hear to push me on.

  I’m not sure where the energy was coming from; I felt flat and finished after two hours and I had sprinted on and off for nearly eleven hours. I could only put it down to desire – I felt like I found more energy and speed than I ever had before. I was desperately trying to stay in with a chance of completing the swim. I knew if I eased off on any of those sprints I might not be able to get back on course and the swim would be over.

  At eleven hours thirty minutes, the choppy seas were in full force – it was as if the sea was fighting against itself and I had no chance of developing any kind of rhythm. I decided to change sides of the boat. I felt having the boat on my left side would encourage me to swim in the right direction.

  I couldn’t believe I could see land – this was the first time I actually truly believed I was going to finish the swim. I thought I had done the hard work and I wasn’t going to fail now!

  Just as I thought that, the ocean gods unleashed more rough water on me, with swells 10–12 feet high. I had never been in such rough seas in the middle of a channel before. I was getting bounced around like a pinball. I couldn’t believe it. I thought, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I was hardly making any headway at all.

  John was nearest to me in my eyeline when I breathed and Gemma was up at the front of the boat. I couldn’t see her full face, though I could sense she was upset as she had her head in her hands. As I breathed to John, through a slightly steamed-up goggle I could see him smiling away at me. I felt exhausted from all the sprinting I had done. My pace had been taken right back and I struggled at times to search for the most efficient spot to put each arm in the water as I was lifted up and down and pushed from side to side.

  I started to get emotional – not from tiredness or pain, but from wanting to swim across so badly and watching it being taken away. I was left helpless in the face of the ocean’s power and all I could do was stay with it and pray that the conditions would subside and I could carry on producing enough energy to keep going. My heart was pounding so hard that I thought it was going to burst through my chest. My breaths were getting shorter and shorter and it was hard to find where to get enough oxygen as the chop was so constant.

  Gemma said, ‘You should get this for another ten minutes or so and it will calm down.’

  I didn’t know whether this was true or whether she was simply wishing for that outcome. I have found in these swims, very much as in life, if you have hope it’s easier to carry on with optimism.

  I came in to the boat for a drink and was being thrown around like a ragdoll; I couldn’t stay in one spot to drink and I watched the boat swing from one side to the other. I could barely speak. I turned to Gemma and said the worst thing you can ever say to a loved one in this particular situation: ‘My heart is going so fast, I think I’m going to have a heart attack.’

  As soon as I said it I thought what an insensitive thing it was to say. I just wanted to share how bad I was feeling. Maybe it was my brain trying to find an excuse in case the swim didn’t go my way, or it w
as the devil on my shoulder slowly trying to break me. I had a little sip of the drink, but by now, like in the Molokai swim, I was beyond wanting to drink and take nutrition on board.

  I carried on through the washing-machine waves, breathing to the boat and watching John continue to smile. I went through so many emotions, from feeling sad to pleading with the ocean to subside and calm down. The ocean wasn’t listening: there was no sign of it calming down and the more it went on, the more frustrated I became. At one stage I fist-punched the water whilst in mid-stroke, which served no purpose apart from hurting my hand for a few seconds. I had to keep focused, conserve as much energy as possible and switch off mentally, as I had done so many times before. Frustration and anger were only wasting energy and serving no purpose or benefit.

  After one and a half hours, I finally accepted the conditions and tried to look at the positives. I said to myself, ‘Now, think about this, Adam: with every arm stroke you’re getting closer. It may be slow going, but you are edging towards land.’ It certainly was slow going: I apparently covered 800 metres in an hour through the worst waves and at other times I was averaging over 4 kilometres an hour.

  Two hours later, the sun began to fall behind my destination, creating a silhouette of land, which helped me to see it more clearly. Finally the water began to settle, feeling calmer, and the tension in my body eased. I became more relaxed. It felt like I was on the final straight home. I convinced myself that I had gone through everything the ocean could throw at me for one day and finally it was time to do the last part and finish it. I had made this mistake before, thinking I was near completion and having to face the disappointment of carrying on. I was experienced in what could happen so it wouldn’t be as much of a shock to the system this time, but I had burned through most of my energy and I prayed I had now done enough.