“Islands in the stream, this is what we are …” Three women in a Golf doing karaoke sounds like the nightmare version of Car Share. “No one in between. How can we go wrong?” Being driven to the start of the Dart 10k swim, we were painfully harmonising. “Sail away with me, to another world.” “I must say,” said John, my friend’s husband who was driving. “I wasn’t expecting it to start like this.”
At registration the day before, we’d met some swimmers whose nerves were unhelpfully jangling. “Don’t even think about doing it without earplugs” said one. “I’m probably going to get hypothermia,” said another. “I don’t know if I can do it.” “Positive mental attitude,” I countered, because shut up, “will really help”. Then we met Jo, whose advice I liked. “If you’re having a moment,” she said, “stop, float on your back, have a little sing and think of Beryl Burton who beat all the men in a cycling race by just keeping on going”. I needed, “Keep on going,” much more than, “I can’t do it,” and I already knew the song I’d sing.
Saturday at noon, last-minute bananas shovelled in, we were ready to undertake the swimming version of the marathon. Watching a stream of yellow-capped swimmers not breaking step as we walked from jetty into water was apparently quite a sight. “That was you at your bravest,” John said. As the 13C water hit my face and I got that first cold sloosh down the neck of my wetsuit, I didn’t know we looked brave. I didn’t feel it, I felt stupid. I’d worried so much about whether I could do it, I’d forgotten to worry about the cold. I can’t do it, I thought, it’s too cold. Typical – NOW I wanted to swim, now I thought I couldn’t. “Islands in the stream,” my brain quietly nudged. Sometimes it’s good to stop thinking and start singing.
The first feeding station, between 3km and 4km, came surprisingly quickly. I pushed a handful of jelly babies into my mouth and went on, feeling not a scrap cold or bored. Training swims had been so boring, so boring was what I’d been expecting – but already today I’d invented bacon fudge. This was scenic and flowing full of friendly strangers just keeping going with the task and oh, there’s Meg, hi Meg, how you doing? “I’m OK. You OK?” she asked. “Yeah, thanks, I’m great,” I said.
About an hour later maybe – I had no idea of time – I wasn’t so great. Some faster, bigger red-hatted men barged into me and I had a flash of, “Do you MIND?” I know when people swim over you, they mostly don’t mean it, but it momentarily felt inconsiderate and macho. But moods and feelings moved fast as the river. Round the corner, trying to figure out the way, two other red-hats stopped and pointed. I could a see a pontoon ahead, swimmers hanging off it like tadpoles clustering round a piece of bacon. “Next feeding station!” they said. “OH, BRILLIANT,” I replied. “BRILLIANT!” and set off towards it.
The river got strong, the pontoon came up on me too fast. I tried to grab a handle, but it was hard. Swimmers flew in, everyone wanting the same hold. “I can’t do it,” I thought. “I’m going to get pushed under the pontoon.” The Fear was trying to get a grip, but I couldn’t give it room. “I’m off,” I said to no one in particular. Ten minutes later, I started to feel hungry and regretted not getting some sweets. I flipped onto my back for a few seconds. I thought of Beryl Burton and bacon fudge. “That won’t happen to us and we got no doubt,” I sang, maybe aloud. Sorry, if so.
That final km was long. I took a too-wide arc but eventually saw a white marquee on a field, and sighted that. How I loved you, white marquee, though you came near slow. Ten minutes later, I was wading through thick sludge, and there was John with my warm swim coat. How I loved you, John with my warm swim coat. I pulled my timing chip off, and was handed a cup of hot chocolate, best I’ve ever tasted, in a souvenir tin mug.
If you want to see happiness, look at the Outdoor Swimming Society’s photo stream for the weekend. Look at our faces – muddy, smiling, open, relieved, fatigued, proud. (Look, there’s one REALLY proud. Oh hey, it’s me.) The photos show a community forged by shared endeavour and emotion; our common denominator not age, shape, size or ability but those great feelings. Bonded in effort. I’m glad now I did all the boring training – it was much harder than the swim. I’m lucky to have my training friend, she kept me sane. It was great to have support from John and my swimming pals. And I’m a genius to have invented bacon fudge. What a journey.
As we trailed home full of cake and weary euphoria, a voice came crackling out of a helper’s radio. “Last swimmer out of the water,” it said. “Well done, everyone.” Really well done, Outdoor Swimming Society. Thanks for such a great adventure, for putting us at the heart of it. Last swimmer out of the water, well done everyone. Just one final chorus: “Islands in the stream, this is what we are …”
Source: Read Full Article