On the morning that we left for the final leg of our journey to Dover, Sarah Thomas completed her incredible 4 way crossing of The Channel. The newspapers carried this cartoon.
Clearly I am not the only one thinking about the implications of Brexit for Channel Swimmers.
Back home in Oz, our Can Too pod of would be marathon swimmers were fixated by Sarah’s tracker, willing the little dots closer to Dover and the history books. An inspiration to cancer survivors everywhere and an incentive to raise more funds for cancer research. Surely swimming just one way in a team of 5 should be easy by comparison?
Just 36 hours after arrival in Dover and a mere 44 minutes after the beginning of our window, we motored out of Dover Marina bound for Samphire Hoe on board the Viking Princess accompanied by the Brickell brothers and our CSA observer, Phil. Phil said the CSA had simply told him that he was observing Can Too. He didn’t know we were a relay. He said he was expecting a China man. Before we could orientate ourselves or recover from Phil’s sense of humour, the White Cliffs rose eerily out of the watery blackness and the crew asked brave and pioneering Grant to step into the IRB. Just moments later, the klaxen sounded in the darkness signalling the beginning of our epic swim.
Dark
Nothing had prepared us for how hard it was to swim so close to the boat in the currents and the darkness. One minute she was in front, another behind. The darkness of the hull felt like a vortex that could suck you under the moment focus drifted away from the spotlight of light over the cold washing machine. One by one, we tried to swim farther away from the Princess to buffer the bodily thrust of the current and swell but the shrill sound of Phil’s whistle summoned us urgently back to the bosom of the hull.
On board, anything that wasn’t tied down or otherwise secured, slid relentlessly and precariously across the deck in a violent pendulum motion.
Bilateral breathers fared so much better than our unilateral team mates who were forced to adapt or swim on the side of the boat most buffeted by the wind and current.
Sun rise brought more reference points and made it easier to swim beside the Princess. Meanwhile, we marvelled at the busyness of the shipping channel as passing container boats and ferries sped across the horizon as if they were subjects in time lapse photography.
The skies were alternately black and gloomy and the trio of our handlers talked in hushed tones among themselves about the wind front that was forecast to arrive. Phil regaled us with stories of jelly fish alley but then reassured me that they stayed at least 1m down in overcast weather.
As we approached France, and the dreaded graveyard of dreams, the sun came out. True to Phil’s prediction, the very welcome warmth brought unwelcome adversaries. John battled through a swarm of stinging blue jellies. Also as Phil predicted (proving himself a very capable fortune teller), the French Coast current swarmed the boat and the tide argued with the prevailing wind. I was the one whose destiny it was to do battle. Underneath me, in between slaps, thrusts, swallows and summits, I could see the jellies float idly by. And then in one moment, my hand was on top of one, like a smooth and clammy alien scalp nuzzling menacingly in the palm of my right hand. I yelled out. Maybe even swore. Four anxious faces stared into the watery abyss, willing me to just keep swimming and not to let us slip round the point, doomed to a fourth rotation of swimmers. In jumped brave Captain Cook and our handlers beamed. We had turned on the tide and they had calculated Glenda’s time and speed. She would swim into Wissant and make land fall between the horizontal trunks used as breakwaters against the violent tides.
As she swam in, a large seal formed an unannounced and subversive honour guard (fortunately unknown to Glenda).
Welcoming French passers by were sent on a desperate search for pebbles on a sandy beach while Ray urged Glenda to get back in the ducky.
We huddled at the back of the waterlogged deck like penguins in the Antarctic until 3 hours later, we arrived, frigid and triumphant in Dover Marina.
Grant was drug tested (he passed!) and CSA official Keith declared conditions average for 2/3rds and rough for the last 1/3rd.
Meanwhile, Reg has sold the Princess. She only has 3 channel swims left in her for the season and then it’s back to full time trawling with another owner while the Brickell brothers look for a boat more comfortable for swimmers. No CSA boats went out for a fortnight as the promised front arrived. We cannot believe how lucky we were.
We had a celebratory day in Dover including the massive honour of meeting Sarah Thomas and signing the successful relay team book at Les Fleurs. 
Then life returned to normal. Sort of. A week later, my cousin’s grandson thought I had swum all the way to Surrey, UK from Australia and wondered if I would still be wet when I arrived for lunch.
What’s next, I wonder…..
lizziecantoo 