The Everest of Swimming

One of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, the English Channel spans 33.5 kilometres between England and France at its narrowest point. The average Channel swimmer, if there’s such a thing, will take 14 hours to complete the crossing. All you’re allowed is a swimming cap, goggles, speedos, nose or ear plugs and grease to prevent chafing. No wetsuit or flippers and if you touch the boat – the on-board observer will disqualify you immediately.

It’s often called the Everest of swimming - an apt likening. Neither are the most difficult or objectively dangerous choices in their sports and both are quite commercialised. It is still an immensely difficult undertaking, requiring extensive cold water training. The water temperature peaks around 17 degrees Celsius in the summer - the coldest Sydney beaches get during winter.

The Channel is split up into five sections; the first 8 km are English inshore waters, followed by 8 km of shipping lanes, a 1.5 km separation zone, 8 more kilometres of shipping lanes and then finally 8 km of French inshore waters.

Swimmers begin their journey just South of Dover and aim to finish their swim on the rocky cliffs of Cap Gris-Nez. The Cap is a headland with its northern and southern coastlines receding eastward. So if you miss it, expect to add a few hours to your swim.

Each swimmer organises their own support boat. These pilots are experienced sailors that dictate when the swim will take place. They navigate the busy shipping lanes, strong currents and ever-changing conditions so that all the swimmer has to do is focus on the swim. Only 3 to 4 swimmers are allocated to each week-long tide to allow for contingencies. My chosen pilots were the father and son pair, Fred and Harry Mardle of Masterpiece Charters. I was their 3rd swimmer on the second neap tide of August from the 20th to the 29th.

English Inshore Waters: Swimming in the Dark

Swims generally begin in the early hours of the morning in a bid to give the swimmer some momentum with the outgoing tide and mine was no different. We started at 2:30am in the morning and headed for Samphire Hoe.

Before I knew it I was in the brisk 17 degree water swimming to a pebbly beach in absolute darkness, getting ready to start the biggest swim of my life. There was a slight breeze, a little bit of chop and the water was an uninviting murky brown. Fred sounded the horn and the swim began! I waddled over the pebbles, wading into what seemed like an abyss and then swam up to the boat as quickly as I could.

The first hour went well and before long we passed the three boats ahead of us. But swimming in the dark had a certain uneasiness about it. I might’ve done a combined 4 hours of swimming at dawn and dusk to prepare, but nothing in complete darkness. The Masterpiece only had a couple of lights; one on the stern, one in the cabin and one pointed out to sea directing Fred. It was barely the well-lit beaches I had trained at in Sydney.

Breathing to my right and into darkness was completely disorientating, so I kept to two-stroke and only took breaths towards the dimly lit trawler on my left. But I couldn’t get comfortable and not being able to find a rhythm meant I started to notice other things – like the cold. I knew that if I didn’t find a rhythm to focus on, hypothermia would start to set in and I’d barely make it to dawn.

It’s crazy how much of an effect the mind has on the body. After singing countless songs and mantras in my head, the autopilot finally took over and I found my stride. Slowly, I forgot about the cold and my fears of swimming in the dark. Until I hit some seaweed. Then some floating rubbish and some driftwood.

One of the joys of night swimming is that you can’t see anything in the water or what’s floating on it. Over the next three hours I ran into a variety of unidentified floating objects, along with some jellyfish that thankfully only produced mild stings. It was a constant struggle to keep focused and ignore the elements. Somehow I managed to get through the night and the reward that came was well worth it.

The First Shipping Lane: Swimming Into A Painting

Sunrise in the middle of the ocean was something I’d never experienced, not even on a boat. What made it more surreal was the fact that I’d swum to that point in the middle of the ocean. Experiencing the water begin to turn an amazing purple and the skies orange-pink was such a special moment. For a brief period I forgot I was barely 3 hours into what I’d hoped to be a 12 hour swim.

I’d made it to dawn. The first milestone had been hit and now it was time to focus on the next – the 6 hour mark. Here my training partner Dave would jump in for his first hour long support swim. Channel swimming regulations allow for a total 3 hours of support swimming separated by at least an hour between each swim.

I’ll be honest, my first thought at another three hours of swimming wasn’t a positive one. But if there’s one skill you need to be successful in endurance events, it’s the ability to ignore the bigger picture and focus on small goals.

Enjoy the glimpses of the golden sky as you turn with each breath and just think about the stroke. Somewhere during that process, the mind wanders into thought and converges towards a flow state. Then a niggle hits you and you’re back to square one. That’s all I really remember about this part of the swim. Hours of continually telling myself to ignore everything, focus on the next stroke, the next feed, and try to find my flow. I’m sure there’s some big life lesson there, but in the moment it was just a survival strategy. One that helped the next three hours of freestyle blend into one.

Before long, Dave’s first support swim had come and gone. There wasn’t much talking, just some words of encouragement then getting on with it. Anything else would have made us both realise how cold the water really was.

Separation Zone: The Ice Bucket Challenge

Six hours in and we’d reached the separation zone – the mile long region separating the north and southbound shipping lanes. Think of it like the divider on a dual carriageway. In the shipping lanes, the cargo ships would cause massive swells after they’d pass. The mild oscillations of the water that I’d use all my focus to try and tune into would become short, sharp waves without warning. The Masterpiece would violently rock sideways and I’d almost always take cupfulls of salt water to the face. In the separation zone, I figured I’d get half an hour of respite.

If you’ve ever stood in the middle of a road, you’d know it’s not that calm when there are cars going past. The gargantuan 200 metre long ships travelled in opposite directions on either side of the separation zone, likely forming eddy currents. This made it much choppier and caused huge variations in the water temperature.

Every hundred metres or so ice cold water would gush over you. Then moments later a surge of warmer surface water would stop the shivering. In reality it was probably only a two or three degree variance. It might not sound like much but in open water swimming that is huge.

Water is a really effective thermal conductor and the colder it is the better it draws heat away from your body. It’s hard to articulate what that three degree difference felt like, but I’ll try. Imagine a cold winter day in Sydney that you’ve spent most of without a jacket on. Then someone pours a bucket of ice water over you. Repeatedly. Every couple of minutes for about half an hour. Suffice to say, I did not enjoy swimming through the separation zone.

The Second Shipping Lane: Swimming In A Cloud

After getting through the separation zone, the water calmed down and the weather conditions became pretty close to perfect. The water came back to a consistent 17 degrees, the wind started to settle and the sun was beating down beating down on my back. With the conditions easing up a little, Dave jumped in at the 8 hour mark like we’d planned and things seemed to be going steady.

Around this point the tide changed and the prevailing current shifted from northward to southward; I began to be carried south-east towards the Cap. Over the next hour the wind stopped completely. Things seemed to be going quite well and we couldn’t have that. So once again, the conditions began to change.

The early afternoon sun had warmed up the air nicely. The air temperature was warm 28 degrees but the water was still a cool 17, which caused sea fog to form. The lack of wind meant the fog sat on the horizon rather than be blown away. It was like swimming in a cloud. A beautiful experience that I couldn’t appreciate because I kept trying to look through it.

A huge mental milestone that I’d visualised for this point of the swim was being able to see the French coast. I thought seeing the coast would be a fantastic motivator to dig in and finish the swim. At 9 hours in, I was hoping to be closing in on the French inshore waters. Only France was nowhere to be seen.

My longest training swim in Sydney was 9 hours long, so I was also now literally in uncharted waters and the fatigue was starting to set in. With each stroke I became more tired and the effect of the current more prominent. Even though I was swimming East, I was moving further South. I kept looking for the coast, but still struggled to see it through the fog.

I began to think I wasn’t going to make it and everyone on the boat could see my body language change during the next few feeds. That’s when Dave told me that Fred’s thinking we’ve got at least another 4 or 5 hours to go. What?! I’d been in the water for almost 10 hours already. How was I supposed to do that?

French Inshore Waters: That’s When They Came

One thing I hadn’t discussed with the team (my mum, dad, sister and Dave) was swim strategy. We went over feeding options, what to do if I got sea sick or couldn’t keep my feeds down. But we never talked about what to do if I missed the Cap. I didn’t think it would happen, that surely I’d finish in less than 12 hours.

As I approached the French inshore waters, I hadn’t made it as far East as I’d hoped to. I was still around 6km due West of the Cap. You might think “oh 6km, that’s doable.” But it wasn’t as simple as swimming straight to the Cap. The currents were too strong for me that late in the day and I’d have to swim with them further South of the Cap. Then once the tide changed again, swim with them North East back towards the Cap. Check out the last portion of my swim track if you’re not following along.

Since we hadn’t discussed strategy, the team was scared to tell me this was going on. They were worried that I’d be further demoralised. Running on empty, I swam through the next two hours looking for the French coast every five minutes. Only to be yelled at by Dave to keep my head down. It was like swimming on a treadmill with no end in sight.

Swimming close to the boat meant I also had been inhaling diesel fumes from the Masterpiece’s exhaust. For the last 10 hours. Horrendous nausea and no coast to be seen - my morale was on the sea floor. At each feed between the tenth and twelfth hour I called it quits, but would get told by Dave to shut up and keep swimming. Stretched thin, I didn’t have the energy to argue so I just kept swimming. Maybe deep down I didn’t want to quit.

Eventually, the tide changed, the wind picked up and I began to be pushed back up North towards the Cap. Most importantly, I could finally see the French coast. What I didn’t know was that I was swimming sideways, so the next two hours were still just as annoying. I kept cursing the coast for not getting closer and my team kept telling me it was only two feeds away.

As we approached the twelfth hour, the Captain’s son Harry, told me I had to sprint or we were going to miss the Cap. Uncharacteristically, I swore. I swore a lot and loudly. In front of my parents and to the whole Channel. I quit again. Then swiftly got told to shut up and keep swimming so I obliged.

I didn’t have it in me to swim another 2 or 3 hours if I missed the Cap. So I sprinted, as hard as my drained body would allow and that’s when they came - the jellyfish. First only a few, but before long there were hundreds of them. The next 45 minutes I must have swam through thousands and been stung by every fourth one. Like the swim wasn’t already hard enough.

Slowly I began to reach the other side of the smut and as their numbers began to dwindle, I realised I could see the sea floor. I looked up and the cliffs now had distinct features. I’d broken through the current. I felt relief and emotion like never before. I was going to do it. Soon I left the trawler behind and swam to the cliffs with the safety boat. The sea floor got closer and closer. I could make out rocks and coral on the bottom, a welcome change from the dark blue abyss I’d been gazing into for the last 14 hours.

Finally it became too shallow to swim. I dragged my exhausted body through the shallows to try and make land. I clambered onto a boulder, my legs struggling to find the energy to hold me up. Fred blew the horn. I did it. England to France in 14 hours and 32 minutes.

Then it was back in the dinghy and back to England. The boat ride back to Folkestone took three hours - I was asleep less than twenty minutes in. I had nothing left. The next few days were a haze; lots of food, naps, gratitude but mostly a massive sense of relief. I had no business swimming the Channel with no open water experience and only a year and half to prepare but somehow I’d done it. Maybe I’m stronger than I thought. Maybe we’re all stronger than we think.

Swimming the English Channel