Channel Relay Swim

Imagine the scene. It is 3am on the morning of Sunday 5th August 2018, and you, a 68-year-old retired IT Quality Consultant, have just arrived at Dover Marina. You look out through the gloom, across a seemingly foreboding English Channel, and think that, in a few hours, you will literally be in the middle of that, ‘in’ being the operative word. An hour later, having met up with the other members of your six-person relay team, and your Team Captain, and having safely stowed all your kit on board the ‘Anastasia’, (and, most importantly handed in your passport to the Pilot of the boat - no passport, no swim) you are motoring out of the harbour, with the boat heaving up and down, and from side to side, and into what is evidently quite a choppy sea. After a further few minutes, our first swimmer, Annie, a newly qualified doctor, and the youngest member of the team, with a flashing light on her head and another light on her bottom, dives off the boat and swims towards the small beach at Samphire Hoe, guided in only by the pencil light of a search beam. Once there, she climbs up onto the beach, raises her arms above her head to denote she is ready, and the boat’s horn is sounded. It is 4:15 am, and we are off.

The first swimmer successfully away in the water, the pilot of the boat now sets a course for Cap Griz Nez, which, as the crow flies, is a distance of about 22 miles, and the shortest distance across the Channel. However, the crossing will be done on three tides, the first which will initially take us ‘up channel’ for six hours, and the next ‘down channel’ for six hours, and the last again ‘up channel, to hopefully land on the Cap, a total actual distance travelled of some 35-40 miles. That was the theory - the actual practice proved to be somewhat different, but more of that later.

Each swimmer takes it in turn to swim for an hour. Once the first rotation is completed, that same order must then be maintained for the rest of the crossing. If, for any reason, a swimmer is not able to take their turn, in the correct order, the team is ‘disqualified’ and the swim abandoned. There is an Observer on board to ensure that each swimmer is properly attired (one swim cap, a pair of goggles and a normal swimsuit - nothing else allowed that might aid buoyancy or warmth), that the team swims in the correct order and for the correct amount of time, that change-overs are conducted properly, and that at no time does the swimmer in the water touch, or receive assistance, from the boat, or indeed from any other swimmer. Other members of the relay team may accompany the person in the water, but must swim alongside or behind them, but not in front - to prevent aiding the swimmer by ‘drafting’.

As well as a choppy sea, we had to contend with jelly fish and floating debris. When we reached the ‘separation’ zone, which is about half-way across, the currents there are such that the ‘flotsam and jetsam’ naturally tends to collect, and it was sad to see the amount of plastic floating on or just below the surface. We were told by our Observer, who has been doing the crossings now for a number of years, that each year it seems to be getting worse. Also, as a consequence of global warming, the sea is now getting a lot warmer, a lot sooner. Our ‘cold water’ qualification, where we have to swim for two hours in Dover Harbour when the sea temperature is 16℃ or less, now has to be done in June, whereas, several years ago, it would be done in July, but by then the sea temperature is too high.

Before, and after, our swims, we had several hours onboard ‘Anastasia’, with the chance to just relax and to take in our surroundings. We could see the ferries plying backwards and forwards, more or less along the same path we were initially taking, and then the great oil tankers and container ships cutting across our path. We were assured that, with modern navigation, every vessel in the Channel was aware of our presence, and indeed our exact location, and that any chance of a collision was very, very unlikely.

I must admit, there is a certain beauty to behold out there, in the middle of this vast expanse of water. It was a beautiful clear sunny day, and as we watched the sun rise just after 6am, and the gloom lift, the coast of France became clearly visible in the distance, though somewhat still far off. Apart from the steady beat of the boat’s engine, there was a peaceful sense of tranquility in all that vastness, which left an indelible memory that I will forever savour and cherish.

I was fifth swimmer, so just after 8am I got myself ready, which included applying vaseline to those parts that might chafe owing to the salt water, i.e. under the arms and, for men with beards, around the neck. The Observer then instructed me to lower myself down onto a board at the back of the boat. At this stage I had no idea how warm or, more importantly, how cold the water was. I was instructed that, as the swimmer before me, Ruth, a Surveyor, touched the board, I had to jump over her, into the water behind, before then turning and resuming the swim. The sea temperature was just below 18℃ (a public swimming pool is normally 29-31℃) and it was, to say the least, a bit of a shock to the system as I entered. I quickly composed myself, and got into a good rhythm (54 strokes per minute), with the intention of hopefully covering at least 3 km in the next hour.

You have to decide before you enter the water whether you will swim on the port (left) or the starboard (right) side of the boat. I naturally breathe to the left, so opted for the starboard, and which, because the wind was coming from the north-east, had the added advantage of providing me with a bit more shelter from the wind, and the seemingly ever increasing resultant swell.

You are advised, by use of large boards, when you have completed 30 minutes, 45 minutes and then 55 minutes respectively. After 55 minutes, you are continually watching for the Observer to instruct you to move round to the rear of the boat, and then to be ready to touch the board at the back of the boat when your 60 minutes is completed to allow the next swimmer, in our case Ian, a Personal Fitness Trainer, to take over.

Once out of the water, the important thing is to get some warm clothing on, particularly on the head and feet, and then to get your wet costume off. As we learnt during our training weekends in Dover, you have only five minutes to accomplish this. After that, you start to shiver as blood returns to your extremities, and your hands shake so much that you are incapable of doing up zippers or buttons. Hence a ‘buddy’ system, whereby one of the other swimmers is nominated to help you prepare for your swim but, more importantly, assist once out of the water and with getting dressed, before then providing you with a hot drink. All the other swimmers were perfectly alright after a further five to ten minutes, but it took me about half-an-hour to fully recover.

A particular problem I had when we went out for six hours into the Channel on the ‘Anastasia’ in June was sea-sickness. However, I learnt my lesson, and realised I needed to start taking the Stugeron tablets a lot earlier, and to ‘up’ the dosage (I’m a big chap). In the event, I had no problems in that quarter.

In between swims you keep yourself amused by chatting, eating - ginger biscuits, porridge pots, pot noodles, jelly babies, Mars bars, peanut and jelly sandwiches, and anything else you can scrounge from the other swimmers that takes your fancy - and by giving encouragement to the person in the water. Otherwise, there I was, splayed out on a towel at the front of the boat, in my red speedos, basking up the sun, looking like something out of St. Tropez. As my wife later remarked, a sight guaranteed to frighten the fish.

Just after 2pm, I was back in again. We could clearly see Cap Griz Nez just ahead of us, and it seemed very near, but we were still going ‘down channel’, towards Boulogne. The Pilot told us not to worry, and that the tide would soon turn and sweep us back up to the Cap before you could say “Jack Robinson”. So I started swimming, but all the while aware that I was swimming parallel with the French coastline, in seemingly the wrong direction, and with the Cap steadily receding into the distance behind us. I don’t know if the Pilot got it wrong, but the tide did not turn. After a further three swimmers, instructions were given to the final swimmer, Neil, the retired Headmaster, just to head directly for shore, which was now just over 800 metres away.

The majority of crossings will either end on the Cap, or else will overshoot and have to land on the beach at Wissant. In our case, Neil landed on the beach at Wimereux, just above Boulogne, 14 kilometres (nearly 9 miles) south of where we were supposedly headed. As our pilot later put it, “the team are pulling on a bit of a strange tide”. I will say no more on the subject.

Since it becomes too shallow for the draught of the boat as you approach the French coast, Neil was guided into shore by a small dinghy with an outboard motor that had been towed behind the ‘Anastasia’. He eventually emerged from the water, stood with his arms above his head, and the boat’s horn was sounded to mark the successful end of the relay. It was now 6:44 pm. The Observer told us that, according to his watch, the crossing had taken 14 hours and 29 minutes, but that this would be subject to ratification.

The dinghy then returned, with Neil now onboard. It is a tradition to collect pebbles from the beach as a souvenir. Neil had put seven pebbles into a small pocket he had in his trunks, but when he was back on board, he discovered he had a hole in the pocket and only one remained. He duly presented it to Kay, our Team Captain. However, I like to think that at some point she surreptitiously gave it back to him, because he had literally given his all. Neil, the retired Headmaster, in his early sixties, had been ‘as sick as a dog’ during the whole crossing (and would continue to be so for the return journey) and, as a consequence, had not eaten or drank anything all that time, and to say that towards the end he looked like ‘death warmed up’ would be an understatement.

Everyone safely back on board; the dinghy tied up behind; Kay, the Team Captain, having handed out medals to mark the occasion, we set off back to whence we came. The return journey takes just two and a half hours. We all got ourselves wrapped up in the warmest clothing that we had, and hunkered down at the back of the boat to get some well earned rest and, if possible, a little sleep. Remember, at this stage most of us had not slept for over 36 hours. As we approached the entrance to Dover Harbour, the sun was setting. What an ending! What a day! What an experience!

We discovered afterwards that a solo swimmer was actually booked to make the crossing on ‘Anastasia’ on the day that we did. However, the weather prospects, particularly the amount of swell, were such that it was decided that, though not conducive to a solo crossing, they were ‘acceptable’ for a relay team. It was Kay, our Team Captain, who had to make the final call as to whether we went, or instead waited for hopefully more favourable conditions. She decided to go, and I am glad she did, for conditions in the Channel only worsened after that, and we might have been waiting for weeks, with all the added mental turmoil that that ensues.

Why did we do it? To be honest, primarily because of the challenge it posed, and the opportunity of taking ourselves out of our comfort zones. But secondly, to raise monies for the Aspire Charity, which provides much needed support to people with spinal injuries, and which, since 2009, has been organising these channel relays. Between the six of us, we will have raised over £20,000 for Aspire.

It is likely that most of us, now ‘buoyed’ up by the experience, will consider undertaking a solo crossing at some stage, and indeed Ian and Juliet, a Speech Therapist, are already planning to do theirs next year. I know I have a problem with acclimatising to cold water, and so intend to continue open water swimming throughout the year, which, during the winter months, may involve breaking the ice at Great Frensham Pond. My personal goal is now to complete the six hour qualifying swim in Dover Harbour sometime next summer. After that?

Well, the oldest person to successfully complete the crossing was a 73-year-old South African heart surgeon. So, in 2023/24, God willing, I may attempt to enter the record books. Watch this space!

Update 25th March 2023

Juliet has since attempted a solo crossing, but had to abort about 6 hours into her swim due to sea-sickness.

Annie has successfully completed her solo crossing.

Ian unfortunately took his own life in 2021, and is affectionally remembered by all of us.

I will be starting cold water acclimatisation in May this year, swimming at The Quays, Mytchett. If I can swim right through to the end of December without any mishaps, then I intend to make an attempt at a solo Channel crossing in 2025, when I will be 75, and if successful will then be the oldest person to have completed the crossing.