We made it!! Steve reflects...
Most of the time, it simply doesn't feel real. And then, out of the blue, something jolts you back into either the harsh reality of the dark moments of 'The Swim' or - more commonly - back into the utter relief and elation of seeing rocks and sand after thirteen hours of nothingness, and suddenly I'm pinching myself, questioning whether after all that training and thinking and preparing and planning, whether we really did swim to France.
One of those moments was with my GCSE French class last week. As a first-lesson warm-up, we were discussing in French where we'd been for the summer. I gave an example, explaining that I'd been to Spain with my family. A boy put his hand up: 'Sir, didn't you also go to France?' For a split second, I thought he was wrong, then saw he was smiling slightly, and I remembered again that I had indeed been to France, albeit just for the shortest of visits.
To be precise, I stood on the rocks of Cap Gris-Nez for no more than a minute. Then it was back in the water, swimming over the jagged rocks again towards the little dinghy which had accompanied me for the final stretch. For months, I'd imagined standing there with Graham, but due to the rather overly-strict CSA rules not allowing every member of the relay to do the last stretch (understandable for the 6-man or 4-man relays, but for a 2-man?) he had to wait on the boat and our joint celebrations took place on board Rowena, with our incredible support crew and the pilots, Peter Reed Senior and Peter Reed Junior; in many ways, it was such a team effort that it probably was fitting that we all enjoyed the moment together.
Much of the crossing now blurs together, and I'm already not completely sure which hour it was when certain things happened. But so many memories are still wonderfully, painfully sharp, etched in my mind as an experience, an adventure I hope I'll always remember.
After a quick journey by people carrier from Brighton, full of laughter and dodgy Scottish pipe music, I remember arriving in Folkestone, pulling up by the harbour side and seeing the moon's reflection glistening on the black water. There was no one else around. It was quiet and still, and we were all juggling a funny mix of nerves and excitement; as we waited for our pilot and observer to arrive, I remember thinking that there really was no going back now. I pulled on a warm coat, looked out beyond the harbour wall and wondered what would lie ahead of us in the pitch dark of the night.
The quiet was broken by a car pulling up, and Steve the Observer appeared. Looking for reassurance, one of us asked him if he did lots of these crossings. 'Not so much', he replied. 'I always get incredibly sea sick.' For poor Steve the Observer, this again proved to be the case; having been left dangling on the harbour wall ladder, Rowena pulling away just a little too early as he boarded, he then proceeded to spend large chunks of time during the crossing curled up at the back of the boat, trying not to be sick. As meticulous as we had been in our planning, we definitely hadn't expected this.
I remember vividly chatting with Graham as we chugged out of Folkestone harbour towards the beach of Samphire Hoe, and seeing our breath as we chatted. GK was already in his swimming trunks and a big coat, goggles pulled up on the bright yellow CSA swimming hat. It struck me that it was very odd to be seeing our breath in the middle of August, even if it was 1.30am; at that point, I didn't realise that the worries I'd had about the cold were about to come even more sharply into focus. Graham bounced over the side of the boat, lit up by the boat's huge spot light, swimming to the beach for the official start. It was incredible to see him briefly illuminated on the deserted beach, then disappearing once more into the dark of the water. Against the backdrop of the huge white cliffs, someone called out that it was 1.48am. The boat's engine chugged into gear, and we were off; the journey we'd spent so long planning and imagining and dreaming about had finally begun.
In that first hour, watching Graham swim through water that was definitely rougher than had been forecast, I tried to switch off, listen to some music and do what I could to relax. As Mandy called out to Graham that 25 minutes had passed, I remember him calling back '45?' - as Mandy and Paul shouted back 'No, 25 minutes!', there was a bit of laughter, but deep down, I suspected that this meant it was harder going than Graham would have liked. That definitely proved to be the case, and for me, that first hour felt to me like the hardest. We'd swum in the sea in the dark before, but we'd been told by the pilots to stick within a few metres of the boat, and as a result, the waves bounced and sloshed off the boat, hitting us in a way that felt totally unpredictable. I remember battling for any sort of rhythm, trying to relax and then getting hit in the face by a big load of water, just as I went to take a breath. The boat's speed seemed to surge and then stop, surge and then stop, and at times I moved ahead, only to then feel as if they were bearing down on me; other times, the blazing light from the deck disappeared as the boat surged ahead, and I worried that I was too slow, getting left behind in pitch darkness, struggling to keep up. As that first hour ticked slowly - painfully slowly - by, my confidence took a dent, I started to doubt if I could make it, and with the doubt and the worries, so the sense of cold intensified. Every set of two or three strokes felt like a fight, the agreed time markers of 10, 25, 45 and 55 minutes seemed as if they would never come.
Back on the boat, the first effort at getting dressed also didn't really go to plan - trying to use my favourite blue poncho towel led to me staggering around the lurching deck, towel stuck over my head, getting colder by the second. Once dressed and firmly sat in the army-issue sleeping bag, the after-drop shivering really kicked in, and although I was nicely in my own little world, I was definitely aware of an anxious-looking observer and an unusually silent support team busying themselves around me. Little did I know that in his first two hours, Graham had a brutal bout of D and V, having also taken on huge amounts of water in his first stints. Had I known that he was also not in a great place, I'm quite sure I might have spiralled even further into self-doubt and worry.
As it was, our amazing team just got on with it. If they were really worried, as I sat shivering uncontrollably, they didn't show it; if they feared the worst, they didn't say it. Rafa said nothing other than to make a bold statement that it was without doubt going to be the hardest hour, and after that it would get lighter, warmer and easier. At the time, I had no idea if it was true, but it was a great and powerful thought which I gladly took to heart. Without saying anything, Paul had grabbed an extra hat, switched the Maxim drink to a warm mix and had the hot water bottle stuffed down the sleeping bag for good measure. Mandy kept a close eye, made a series of reassuring and confident statements and made sure I was getting enough food in me. Looking back, it was one of my most humbling experiences having my brother, wife and colleague fighting my corner, seeing what needed to be done to get me through it, and simply getting on with it. In their matter-of-fact dealing with it, I knew it would all be fine.
I'm sure there is something significant about the fact that Graham and I both had to face our greatest fears in those first hours of the swim. If people asked me beforehand how I was doing, I was upbeat and confident, but nagging away in the back of my mind had always been a definite worry that I didn't really like the cold and I wasn't really sure just how cold I would get in the course of the swim. For Graham, he had confessed early on in training that he could get motion sickness from pretty much any movement, whether on a car, a gentle fairground ride or the swings in a park. As he was hit by vomiting and diarrhoea, he too was battling not only the physical effects of the sickness, but the mental demons of also having to face up to the one thing he really didn't want to happen.
My second hour began just as the glimmers of first light were appearing. For me, that was evidence enough that Raphael's bold statement was true - I'd done the hardest hour, and could now put that behind me. Still shivering with 15 minutes to go was not quite how I'd planned the first hour of 'recovery', but I remember feeling bizarrely good about getting in again - I knew with just a little more light I could move further from the boat; I'd switched to my clear goggles (schoolboy error not to have started with them) and I was looking forward to actually swimming the way I knew I could. I also clearly remember thinking about a quote from Bear Grylls, in his epic adventure across the frozen oceans in the north in a RIB - facing gale force winds and wildly dangerous seas in the dark, as they saw first light he said to his crew: 'The sea has just lost its greatest weapon - the darkness - from this point on, we're going to make it." The idea that it was a fight, and the biggest punch had been thrown already undoubtedly filled me with confidence. Whilst none of the hours ever seemed to go quickly, I felt so much better, so much stronger in that second stint, and as I got out and sat down back on board, I remember looking around, noticing a CSPF support boat in the distance, and immediately being able to converse with Steve the Observer about it - that in itself was a good sign, having not done that at all after my first hour, and I suspect the crew were just as relieved as I was in that moment.
There are a few other very strong memories from the next chunk of the swim: I remember looking across from the sea as I breathed to the right, over at the boat and seeing the crew with their coats and hats and layers of clothing on, and for some reason, as I was trying to forget the cold, their appearance kept reminding me of the cold. At some point back on the deck, I mentioned it to Paul, and later found out that for my next hour of swimming, he was deliberately wearing a t-shirt and shorts, freezing cold but happily doing so to take away any sort of hinderance for me. I remember some rare feedback from the pilots: namely, that for the next 2-4 hours, we would have the tide sweeping us south, and if we didn't want to miss the Cap Gris-Nez, we had to 'push much harder'. When you're already trying to manage energy levels and muscle fatigue, going as hard as you can without going too far into the red zone in each hour, being told that you have to go faster is not necessarily what you want to hear. But, in fact, I also remember it being a huge motivation - effectively, they were saying that if we went fast enough, we would hit the earliest possible tip of the French coast, and we would have made it; a choice between spending 12-13 hours crossing, or 16-17 hours; more speed equals a shorter crossing equals everyone wins; all obvious, but in the middle of the channel, wanting so badly to get to France, it was just the spur I needed. Getting out and being told that the target distance of 3 miles had been surpassed felt brilliant, although the core message from the pilots remained consistent: we need to go faster if we're going to make the Cap. Only afterwards did we really appreciate just how crucial this message was - and in the weeks afterwards, we saw so many attempts, both solo and in relays, miss the Cap and then get swept north by the in-rushing tide away from the French coast, leading either to many more hours in the water or, in many cases, the end of the attempt.
In those middle hours, it was incredible how the small things were so accentuated, so magnified in the Channel: a niggly elbow dominated my mind for one section of a swim; if felt like a constant mental battle to ignore the feeling of cold and concentrate on the stroke and the rhythm; the cramp through the top of my legs came out of nowhere, tiny muscles around my hips which suddenly made it unbelievably hard to kick properly - surely, having swallowed so much water in the first two hours a salt tablet wasn't needed? Incredibly, the cramp persisted until I thought I may as well pop a salt tablet anyway, and within minutes, it seemed, the cramp had gone, although not before a rather humbling moment when both legs cramped just as I was on deck taking my wet trunks off!
For some of the stints, I seemed to be obsessed by the white board, the magic means by which Mandy and the crew would hold up our pre-agreed time markers. From the sea, if I saw Mandy moving on the boat towards where I thought the white board was kept, my hopes soared - '25 minutes passed already', I would think to myself; 'you're doing so well'. But then, no board was held up, Mandy simply moved further round and carried on with something else. In one stint, I remember thinking that they had surely forgotten the 10-minute marker, and swam on, thinking that it would be nice to see the board held aloft with an apology for forgetting, but congratulating me on doing 25 minutes. Instead, after a little while longer, Mandy appeared with the 10-minute sign, and I retreated into my mind games, wondering how time was moving so slowly, and hoping that the next stint would fly by more easily.
In those middle hours, there was an incredible tension between the good and the bad, the wonderful and the worrying: the water felt cold, and yet was crystal clear, as clear as I had ever seen the English sea. Each time I got in, I marvelled at the clarity and colour of the water, and for those first ten minutes, when I felt strong and warm and confident, I tried to take in how beautiful it all was; on a number of occasions, that remarkable visibility meant that I saw large jellyfish, just below me, and I remember feeling a surge of adrenaline, excited that I could see some quite beautiful, remarkable creatures, but fearful of exactly what the sting might feel like; looking back, I still don't quite know how I didn't get a single sting. Looking up to breathe and seeing a huge P and O ferry just off to the side triggered a similar rush of mixed emotions: fear, and initial panic, quickly followed by a strong and abiding elation that I was actually swimming in the English Channel, doing what I remembered dreaming about when I was much, much younger; on one occasion having seen a ferry close by, I swam on and reminisced over the next series of strokes how as a young boy, returning with my family on a ferry, I had looked down at those same waters, wondering what it would be like to swim in there. It felt more incredible than I had dared to imagine being there, swimming well and making good progress.
In the hard times, when my legs were cramping and I felt colder than I wanted to be and I worried if we would really make it, time and again the same things got me through and gave me genuine, tangible shots of determination and resolve: I pictured my three girls back at our house, sat - as they said they would be - watching the boat's tracker and following Mandy's updates on Twitter; I imagined them sitting with my parents, and I said their names as a set of three as I got into a bilateral rhythm of breathing. I looked over at Mandy, working away on the boat; always my biggest fan and greatest supporter, her belief in me and confidence that we would do it was utterly relentless. And I thought about Pete, my great friend and colleague, without doubt one of the kindest, most humble people I have the privilege of knowing. His diagnosis of Motor Neurone Disease had shaken us all, and yet his courage and determination and gentle trust in the midst of such an awful situation had profoundly inspired us all. I knew that the few hours I was having of tiredness and shaking limbs and fears and doubts and worries were as nothing compared to the day-after-day struggle that Pete now took on with such grace and good humour. Pete, my daughters, our families and friends: they were our unseen crew, so many of whom had stayed awake all night, praying, cheering, sending messages of support. We later learned (and saw on our swim chart) that the boat's tracking had gone down for a chunk of time, right in the middle of the main shipping lane. As we swam on, oblivious to this, those cheering us on remotely had to endure a time of uncertainty, even worry, as the signal simply stopped and it must have appeared as if the adventure was over.
By the time we had covered ten hours, the sea and weather had settled into the most serene, perfect conditions imaginable, precisely the sort I had hoped for as we trained through those brutal, freezing winter months. I remember for the first time since we left Brighton, I started to physically relax and felt confident that we were definitely going to do it - we were tired, and weary and probably not going as quickly, but we couldn't have wished for better conditions: the sun was warm, the crew were all now in shorts and t-shirts, slapping on sun cream, and the water was still, calm and as flat as a lake - it was all a far cry from the early hours of the night, when the cold and waves felt utterly overwhelming, and we reflected later that we were so glad to have had it that way round. As Graham ploughed forward, now in hour 13, I was convinced that he was going to reach France in that slot. We started to discuss whether I could get in and land with him; but deep down, I realised I wasn't really that bothered. If we could finish it, not have to swim anymore, then it felt like that would be more than enough, and all I really hoped for in that particular moment.
For a very brief time, I had to slap myself back into the zone, as the pilots declared - again, completely accurately - that Graham wasn't going to make it in his stint, and they thought the tide was already starting to turn. Suddenly, from sitting, basking in the sun, laughing and chatting with Paul and Mandy, I had to get myself geared up to go in again, to swim hard. 'It could be 10 minutes, it could be 40 minutes' the pilot rather solemnly announced. 'But if you can get beyond where the waves are building up, you're through the tide, and you'll make it.' Just before I jumped in, I looked up, and saw pleasure boats, people on holiday, figures on the cliff - all so close, and yet still, even then, the uncertainty remained. As I started swimming, I remember resolving that this would be the last time I swam that day, and gave it everything I had - driven by the motivation of beating the tide, getting past the waves and finishing things off. Peter Reed Junior had fired up the dingy, but there was a blissful few minutes when he hadn't yet left Rowena, and I was all on my own; Rowena couldn't come closer to the cliffs, there wasn't anyone else around, and for those precious moments, I was all alone in the channel. That sense of calm, the desire to savour it all evaporated at the sight of countless large blue jellyfish, gently bobbing around in the warmer, more shallow waters I was trying to plough through. I had an absolute conviction, a resigned certainty that I had got this far, only to now be stung multiple times in the last few hundred metres. Somehow, again, it didn't happen, despite them being all around me as I edged closer towards the Cap.
One of my strongest memories from the whole crossing was when - for the very first time in the whole attempt - I saw far down below me some rocks, and sand and then some of the larger rocks of the Cap. I remember seeing one large rock, and wondering whether I could stand on that, and finish it all there. But with direction from Peter Reed Junior in the dingy, I swam the final short stretch, allowed the sea to float me over some sharp, jagged rocks, towards a big flat one, and I rather gingerly pulled myself out on top of it. As I stood, I looked out towards Rowena, along the coast and out, far out to sea. With arms aloft, I closed my eyes, took some very deep breaths, and tried to take in that we had done it. I was standing in France. We had done it. We had actually done it.
Back on the boat, there were hugs, a few tears, and before we knew it, Rowena was already set and chugging back towards England. Even at full throttle it took us 2.5 hours, and in that time, Graham and I sat, still in our warm coats and layers, but finally warming up in the glorious sunshine, and we chatted and learned how it had been for the other one; it's perhaps the strangest element of a 2-man relay, that having trained for months with each other, planned it all together, taken every step of the journey together, the actual attempt leaves you both isolated from each other, cut off, unsure how the other is doing. It was incredible to hear about how Graham had found it, what he'd enjoyed and what he'd found most difficult, what he'd managed to get through; I don't think I know anyone tougher and yet more ridiculously positive than him. As the rest of the crew crashed out, falling almost immediately asleep after being on their feet and working on our behalf since 1.30am, Graham and I chatted, and laughed and repeated, like a broken record, that we couldn't believe how far it is - it is something that only really sinks in when you're on a small fishing boat, in the middle of the English Channel, going as fast as she can go, but still not feeling as if you're getting any closer to England. We realised that we had never once allowed ourselves to think of the enormity of it all; instead, you just deal with one hour at a time; and even that hour was broken into manageable chunks of time, so that we were only ever dealing with what was immediately in front of us. I guess that's true of lots of the most difficult things in life; one stroke at a time, one hour at a time, no more; don't stop and think too much about what lies ahead; just deal with this hour, this moment, this challenge.
At one point, Graham also fell asleep, and I remember thinking to myself that it was over. It was all over. I felt relief, initially - the pain, the cold, the doubt, the intensity of the crossing was over. I didn't need to be cold anymore; no more acclimatising to cold seas, or worrying about spending too long in a warm shower. It was over. And yet - as with so much of the crossing - that profound sense of relief was blurred and bound up with a different emotion, one of deep sadness. It was over. The dream, the project, the 'thing' that had so dominated my thinking, my sleeping, my free time was now over. I had found fresh purpose; new drive to train; greater discipline and focus; a deep love and appreciation of the sea, the joyful freedom of simply being in the sea. From that decision, last September, to send off for an information pack, so many things had changed: 'all manner of things' as WH Murray puts it had been shaped and influenced, the journey had been even more wonderful, even more demanding than I could have imagined. So much of that, I knew, would leave a lasting effect on me. But now, as I sat on board Rowena, the only person awake, and with the white cliffs finally coming into view, I understood that it really was over.
One of those moments was with my GCSE French class last week. As a first-lesson warm-up, we were discussing in French where we'd been for the summer. I gave an example, explaining that I'd been to Spain with my family. A boy put his hand up: 'Sir, didn't you also go to France?' For a split second, I thought he was wrong, then saw he was smiling slightly, and I remembered again that I had indeed been to France, albeit just for the shortest of visits.
To be precise, I stood on the rocks of Cap Gris-Nez for no more than a minute. Then it was back in the water, swimming over the jagged rocks again towards the little dinghy which had accompanied me for the final stretch. For months, I'd imagined standing there with Graham, but due to the rather overly-strict CSA rules not allowing every member of the relay to do the last stretch (understandable for the 6-man or 4-man relays, but for a 2-man?) he had to wait on the boat and our joint celebrations took place on board Rowena, with our incredible support crew and the pilots, Peter Reed Senior and Peter Reed Junior; in many ways, it was such a team effort that it probably was fitting that we all enjoyed the moment together.
Much of the crossing now blurs together, and I'm already not completely sure which hour it was when certain things happened. But so many memories are still wonderfully, painfully sharp, etched in my mind as an experience, an adventure I hope I'll always remember.
After a quick journey by people carrier from Brighton, full of laughter and dodgy Scottish pipe music, I remember arriving in Folkestone, pulling up by the harbour side and seeing the moon's reflection glistening on the black water. There was no one else around. It was quiet and still, and we were all juggling a funny mix of nerves and excitement; as we waited for our pilot and observer to arrive, I remember thinking that there really was no going back now. I pulled on a warm coat, looked out beyond the harbour wall and wondered what would lie ahead of us in the pitch dark of the night.
The quiet was broken by a car pulling up, and Steve the Observer appeared. Looking for reassurance, one of us asked him if he did lots of these crossings. 'Not so much', he replied. 'I always get incredibly sea sick.' For poor Steve the Observer, this again proved to be the case; having been left dangling on the harbour wall ladder, Rowena pulling away just a little too early as he boarded, he then proceeded to spend large chunks of time during the crossing curled up at the back of the boat, trying not to be sick. As meticulous as we had been in our planning, we definitely hadn't expected this.
I remember vividly chatting with Graham as we chugged out of Folkestone harbour towards the beach of Samphire Hoe, and seeing our breath as we chatted. GK was already in his swimming trunks and a big coat, goggles pulled up on the bright yellow CSA swimming hat. It struck me that it was very odd to be seeing our breath in the middle of August, even if it was 1.30am; at that point, I didn't realise that the worries I'd had about the cold were about to come even more sharply into focus. Graham bounced over the side of the boat, lit up by the boat's huge spot light, swimming to the beach for the official start. It was incredible to see him briefly illuminated on the deserted beach, then disappearing once more into the dark of the water. Against the backdrop of the huge white cliffs, someone called out that it was 1.48am. The boat's engine chugged into gear, and we were off; the journey we'd spent so long planning and imagining and dreaming about had finally begun.
In that first hour, watching Graham swim through water that was definitely rougher than had been forecast, I tried to switch off, listen to some music and do what I could to relax. As Mandy called out to Graham that 25 minutes had passed, I remember him calling back '45?' - as Mandy and Paul shouted back 'No, 25 minutes!', there was a bit of laughter, but deep down, I suspected that this meant it was harder going than Graham would have liked. That definitely proved to be the case, and for me, that first hour felt to me like the hardest. We'd swum in the sea in the dark before, but we'd been told by the pilots to stick within a few metres of the boat, and as a result, the waves bounced and sloshed off the boat, hitting us in a way that felt totally unpredictable. I remember battling for any sort of rhythm, trying to relax and then getting hit in the face by a big load of water, just as I went to take a breath. The boat's speed seemed to surge and then stop, surge and then stop, and at times I moved ahead, only to then feel as if they were bearing down on me; other times, the blazing light from the deck disappeared as the boat surged ahead, and I worried that I was too slow, getting left behind in pitch darkness, struggling to keep up. As that first hour ticked slowly - painfully slowly - by, my confidence took a dent, I started to doubt if I could make it, and with the doubt and the worries, so the sense of cold intensified. Every set of two or three strokes felt like a fight, the agreed time markers of 10, 25, 45 and 55 minutes seemed as if they would never come.
Back on the boat, the first effort at getting dressed also didn't really go to plan - trying to use my favourite blue poncho towel led to me staggering around the lurching deck, towel stuck over my head, getting colder by the second. Once dressed and firmly sat in the army-issue sleeping bag, the after-drop shivering really kicked in, and although I was nicely in my own little world, I was definitely aware of an anxious-looking observer and an unusually silent support team busying themselves around me. Little did I know that in his first two hours, Graham had a brutal bout of D and V, having also taken on huge amounts of water in his first stints. Had I known that he was also not in a great place, I'm quite sure I might have spiralled even further into self-doubt and worry.
As it was, our amazing team just got on with it. If they were really worried, as I sat shivering uncontrollably, they didn't show it; if they feared the worst, they didn't say it. Rafa said nothing other than to make a bold statement that it was without doubt going to be the hardest hour, and after that it would get lighter, warmer and easier. At the time, I had no idea if it was true, but it was a great and powerful thought which I gladly took to heart. Without saying anything, Paul had grabbed an extra hat, switched the Maxim drink to a warm mix and had the hot water bottle stuffed down the sleeping bag for good measure. Mandy kept a close eye, made a series of reassuring and confident statements and made sure I was getting enough food in me. Looking back, it was one of my most humbling experiences having my brother, wife and colleague fighting my corner, seeing what needed to be done to get me through it, and simply getting on with it. In their matter-of-fact dealing with it, I knew it would all be fine.
I'm sure there is something significant about the fact that Graham and I both had to face our greatest fears in those first hours of the swim. If people asked me beforehand how I was doing, I was upbeat and confident, but nagging away in the back of my mind had always been a definite worry that I didn't really like the cold and I wasn't really sure just how cold I would get in the course of the swim. For Graham, he had confessed early on in training that he could get motion sickness from pretty much any movement, whether on a car, a gentle fairground ride or the swings in a park. As he was hit by vomiting and diarrhoea, he too was battling not only the physical effects of the sickness, but the mental demons of also having to face up to the one thing he really didn't want to happen.
My second hour began just as the glimmers of first light were appearing. For me, that was evidence enough that Raphael's bold statement was true - I'd done the hardest hour, and could now put that behind me. Still shivering with 15 minutes to go was not quite how I'd planned the first hour of 'recovery', but I remember feeling bizarrely good about getting in again - I knew with just a little more light I could move further from the boat; I'd switched to my clear goggles (schoolboy error not to have started with them) and I was looking forward to actually swimming the way I knew I could. I also clearly remember thinking about a quote from Bear Grylls, in his epic adventure across the frozen oceans in the north in a RIB - facing gale force winds and wildly dangerous seas in the dark, as they saw first light he said to his crew: 'The sea has just lost its greatest weapon - the darkness - from this point on, we're going to make it." The idea that it was a fight, and the biggest punch had been thrown already undoubtedly filled me with confidence. Whilst none of the hours ever seemed to go quickly, I felt so much better, so much stronger in that second stint, and as I got out and sat down back on board, I remember looking around, noticing a CSPF support boat in the distance, and immediately being able to converse with Steve the Observer about it - that in itself was a good sign, having not done that at all after my first hour, and I suspect the crew were just as relieved as I was in that moment.
There are a few other very strong memories from the next chunk of the swim: I remember looking across from the sea as I breathed to the right, over at the boat and seeing the crew with their coats and hats and layers of clothing on, and for some reason, as I was trying to forget the cold, their appearance kept reminding me of the cold. At some point back on the deck, I mentioned it to Paul, and later found out that for my next hour of swimming, he was deliberately wearing a t-shirt and shorts, freezing cold but happily doing so to take away any sort of hinderance for me. I remember some rare feedback from the pilots: namely, that for the next 2-4 hours, we would have the tide sweeping us south, and if we didn't want to miss the Cap Gris-Nez, we had to 'push much harder'. When you're already trying to manage energy levels and muscle fatigue, going as hard as you can without going too far into the red zone in each hour, being told that you have to go faster is not necessarily what you want to hear. But, in fact, I also remember it being a huge motivation - effectively, they were saying that if we went fast enough, we would hit the earliest possible tip of the French coast, and we would have made it; a choice between spending 12-13 hours crossing, or 16-17 hours; more speed equals a shorter crossing equals everyone wins; all obvious, but in the middle of the channel, wanting so badly to get to France, it was just the spur I needed. Getting out and being told that the target distance of 3 miles had been surpassed felt brilliant, although the core message from the pilots remained consistent: we need to go faster if we're going to make the Cap. Only afterwards did we really appreciate just how crucial this message was - and in the weeks afterwards, we saw so many attempts, both solo and in relays, miss the Cap and then get swept north by the in-rushing tide away from the French coast, leading either to many more hours in the water or, in many cases, the end of the attempt.
In those middle hours, it was incredible how the small things were so accentuated, so magnified in the Channel: a niggly elbow dominated my mind for one section of a swim; if felt like a constant mental battle to ignore the feeling of cold and concentrate on the stroke and the rhythm; the cramp through the top of my legs came out of nowhere, tiny muscles around my hips which suddenly made it unbelievably hard to kick properly - surely, having swallowed so much water in the first two hours a salt tablet wasn't needed? Incredibly, the cramp persisted until I thought I may as well pop a salt tablet anyway, and within minutes, it seemed, the cramp had gone, although not before a rather humbling moment when both legs cramped just as I was on deck taking my wet trunks off!
For some of the stints, I seemed to be obsessed by the white board, the magic means by which Mandy and the crew would hold up our pre-agreed time markers. From the sea, if I saw Mandy moving on the boat towards where I thought the white board was kept, my hopes soared - '25 minutes passed already', I would think to myself; 'you're doing so well'. But then, no board was held up, Mandy simply moved further round and carried on with something else. In one stint, I remember thinking that they had surely forgotten the 10-minute marker, and swam on, thinking that it would be nice to see the board held aloft with an apology for forgetting, but congratulating me on doing 25 minutes. Instead, after a little while longer, Mandy appeared with the 10-minute sign, and I retreated into my mind games, wondering how time was moving so slowly, and hoping that the next stint would fly by more easily.
In those middle hours, there was an incredible tension between the good and the bad, the wonderful and the worrying: the water felt cold, and yet was crystal clear, as clear as I had ever seen the English sea. Each time I got in, I marvelled at the clarity and colour of the water, and for those first ten minutes, when I felt strong and warm and confident, I tried to take in how beautiful it all was; on a number of occasions, that remarkable visibility meant that I saw large jellyfish, just below me, and I remember feeling a surge of adrenaline, excited that I could see some quite beautiful, remarkable creatures, but fearful of exactly what the sting might feel like; looking back, I still don't quite know how I didn't get a single sting. Looking up to breathe and seeing a huge P and O ferry just off to the side triggered a similar rush of mixed emotions: fear, and initial panic, quickly followed by a strong and abiding elation that I was actually swimming in the English Channel, doing what I remembered dreaming about when I was much, much younger; on one occasion having seen a ferry close by, I swam on and reminisced over the next series of strokes how as a young boy, returning with my family on a ferry, I had looked down at those same waters, wondering what it would be like to swim in there. It felt more incredible than I had dared to imagine being there, swimming well and making good progress.
In the hard times, when my legs were cramping and I felt colder than I wanted to be and I worried if we would really make it, time and again the same things got me through and gave me genuine, tangible shots of determination and resolve: I pictured my three girls back at our house, sat - as they said they would be - watching the boat's tracker and following Mandy's updates on Twitter; I imagined them sitting with my parents, and I said their names as a set of three as I got into a bilateral rhythm of breathing. I looked over at Mandy, working away on the boat; always my biggest fan and greatest supporter, her belief in me and confidence that we would do it was utterly relentless. And I thought about Pete, my great friend and colleague, without doubt one of the kindest, most humble people I have the privilege of knowing. His diagnosis of Motor Neurone Disease had shaken us all, and yet his courage and determination and gentle trust in the midst of such an awful situation had profoundly inspired us all. I knew that the few hours I was having of tiredness and shaking limbs and fears and doubts and worries were as nothing compared to the day-after-day struggle that Pete now took on with such grace and good humour. Pete, my daughters, our families and friends: they were our unseen crew, so many of whom had stayed awake all night, praying, cheering, sending messages of support. We later learned (and saw on our swim chart) that the boat's tracking had gone down for a chunk of time, right in the middle of the main shipping lane. As we swam on, oblivious to this, those cheering us on remotely had to endure a time of uncertainty, even worry, as the signal simply stopped and it must have appeared as if the adventure was over.
By the time we had covered ten hours, the sea and weather had settled into the most serene, perfect conditions imaginable, precisely the sort I had hoped for as we trained through those brutal, freezing winter months. I remember for the first time since we left Brighton, I started to physically relax and felt confident that we were definitely going to do it - we were tired, and weary and probably not going as quickly, but we couldn't have wished for better conditions: the sun was warm, the crew were all now in shorts and t-shirts, slapping on sun cream, and the water was still, calm and as flat as a lake - it was all a far cry from the early hours of the night, when the cold and waves felt utterly overwhelming, and we reflected later that we were so glad to have had it that way round. As Graham ploughed forward, now in hour 13, I was convinced that he was going to reach France in that slot. We started to discuss whether I could get in and land with him; but deep down, I realised I wasn't really that bothered. If we could finish it, not have to swim anymore, then it felt like that would be more than enough, and all I really hoped for in that particular moment.
For a very brief time, I had to slap myself back into the zone, as the pilots declared - again, completely accurately - that Graham wasn't going to make it in his stint, and they thought the tide was already starting to turn. Suddenly, from sitting, basking in the sun, laughing and chatting with Paul and Mandy, I had to get myself geared up to go in again, to swim hard. 'It could be 10 minutes, it could be 40 minutes' the pilot rather solemnly announced. 'But if you can get beyond where the waves are building up, you're through the tide, and you'll make it.' Just before I jumped in, I looked up, and saw pleasure boats, people on holiday, figures on the cliff - all so close, and yet still, even then, the uncertainty remained. As I started swimming, I remember resolving that this would be the last time I swam that day, and gave it everything I had - driven by the motivation of beating the tide, getting past the waves and finishing things off. Peter Reed Junior had fired up the dingy, but there was a blissful few minutes when he hadn't yet left Rowena, and I was all on my own; Rowena couldn't come closer to the cliffs, there wasn't anyone else around, and for those precious moments, I was all alone in the channel. That sense of calm, the desire to savour it all evaporated at the sight of countless large blue jellyfish, gently bobbing around in the warmer, more shallow waters I was trying to plough through. I had an absolute conviction, a resigned certainty that I had got this far, only to now be stung multiple times in the last few hundred metres. Somehow, again, it didn't happen, despite them being all around me as I edged closer towards the Cap.
One of my strongest memories from the whole crossing was when - for the very first time in the whole attempt - I saw far down below me some rocks, and sand and then some of the larger rocks of the Cap. I remember seeing one large rock, and wondering whether I could stand on that, and finish it all there. But with direction from Peter Reed Junior in the dingy, I swam the final short stretch, allowed the sea to float me over some sharp, jagged rocks, towards a big flat one, and I rather gingerly pulled myself out on top of it. As I stood, I looked out towards Rowena, along the coast and out, far out to sea. With arms aloft, I closed my eyes, took some very deep breaths, and tried to take in that we had done it. I was standing in France. We had done it. We had actually done it.
Back on the boat, there were hugs, a few tears, and before we knew it, Rowena was already set and chugging back towards England. Even at full throttle it took us 2.5 hours, and in that time, Graham and I sat, still in our warm coats and layers, but finally warming up in the glorious sunshine, and we chatted and learned how it had been for the other one; it's perhaps the strangest element of a 2-man relay, that having trained for months with each other, planned it all together, taken every step of the journey together, the actual attempt leaves you both isolated from each other, cut off, unsure how the other is doing. It was incredible to hear about how Graham had found it, what he'd enjoyed and what he'd found most difficult, what he'd managed to get through; I don't think I know anyone tougher and yet more ridiculously positive than him. As the rest of the crew crashed out, falling almost immediately asleep after being on their feet and working on our behalf since 1.30am, Graham and I chatted, and laughed and repeated, like a broken record, that we couldn't believe how far it is - it is something that only really sinks in when you're on a small fishing boat, in the middle of the English Channel, going as fast as she can go, but still not feeling as if you're getting any closer to England. We realised that we had never once allowed ourselves to think of the enormity of it all; instead, you just deal with one hour at a time; and even that hour was broken into manageable chunks of time, so that we were only ever dealing with what was immediately in front of us. I guess that's true of lots of the most difficult things in life; one stroke at a time, one hour at a time, no more; don't stop and think too much about what lies ahead; just deal with this hour, this moment, this challenge.
At one point, Graham also fell asleep, and I remember thinking to myself that it was over. It was all over. I felt relief, initially - the pain, the cold, the doubt, the intensity of the crossing was over. I didn't need to be cold anymore; no more acclimatising to cold seas, or worrying about spending too long in a warm shower. It was over. And yet - as with so much of the crossing - that profound sense of relief was blurred and bound up with a different emotion, one of deep sadness. It was over. The dream, the project, the 'thing' that had so dominated my thinking, my sleeping, my free time was now over. I had found fresh purpose; new drive to train; greater discipline and focus; a deep love and appreciation of the sea, the joyful freedom of simply being in the sea. From that decision, last September, to send off for an information pack, so many things had changed: 'all manner of things' as WH Murray puts it had been shaped and influenced, the journey had been even more wonderful, even more demanding than I could have imagined. So much of that, I knew, would leave a lasting effect on me. But now, as I sat on board Rowena, the only person awake, and with the white cliffs finally coming into view, I understood that it really was over.
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