by Geoff Wolak
‘I’ve heard that tale a few times,’ I told him. ‘Kids?’
‘No, thankfully, but I have a nineteen year old daughter from a mistake, a girl at a party. She never told me it was mine till after the girl was born, then DNA tests, and I paid for it ever since. I can stop paying now, but I like to look after her. Tall girl, wants to be a copper.’
‘I was seeing a girl at the base, but then she got a posting to Scotland.’
‘Too long to visit. By time you get the train there it’s time to head back.’
I nodded. We strolled along the promenade, the crowds thick, and up onto a headland to peer down. I noted, ‘This country is great for trips to the coast, so long as you have the weather.’
‘So long as you have the weather,’ he scoffed. ‘All seven days a year.’ He pointed. ‘That’s where we stayed, bed and breakfast down there.’
From the headland we had a commanding view, and sat for a while sunbathing before we headed slowly back.
At 5pm the beach was still busy, but few people were in the water. I changed, greased up, and hit the water, now wary of people fishing. Beyond the pier I turned west and made a start, avoiding a few canoes.
With six miles clocked and I exited the water, changed, and we bought cod and chips, large portions, and sat in the sand, backs against someone’s huge abandoned sand castle, the air still and warm, people still on the beach, a few starting barbeques – despite the signs telling them not to, a few men using metal detectors for coins.
When one passed I called, ‘Hey, mate, you find much?’
‘This time of year, end of day, about three hundred quid a day. Saturdays are best, or get here early Sunday morning.’
‘Fucking hell,’ Trevors let out. ‘That’s fucking good money.’
‘We’re in the wrong job,’ I told him.
Sunday morning I clocked ten miles, feeling good at the end of it, and we drove back after lunch. But Trevors mentioned he was selling his old car, so I was interested. He showed me when we got back, and it was a silver Ford Cavalier, smart enough, 70,000 miles on the clock. He was after a second hand BMW.
We struck a deal, and I would buy the car with a fresh MOT and six months tax, £1,500. I was now a car owner, and made a lengthy telephone call from Transport to get the insurance. My certificate of insurance turned up a few days later, photocopied, and I kept a copy in the car along with a photocopy of my original driver’s license and Close Protection Certificate.
That Saturday I drove out in my own car for the first time, back to Bournemouth early, but got stopped on the way, sixty in a forty zone. ID shown, insurance shown, I accidentally deliberately showed them my Close Protection certificate. They saw me as a fellow copper and let me go, no points on my license.
Parked in Southbourne at 7am, I changed at the car and hit the water, the waves rougher today, but that was good – I needed to practise for such conditions. I swam out and back, then side-on to the waves, getting plenty of practise of being tossed around. I swam past the pier and on, past the second pier and on, turning back on a three mile course.
Getting back out the water at Southbourne the Lady’s Swimming Team, 1920, were getting into the water, all looking to be a hundred years old.
After changing at the car I drove to Swanage again, and found a Bed and Breakfast at the back of the town, parking at the rear. Luggage dumped, money handed over, I walked down to the promenade, now thronging with holiday-makers, and along to a cafe, cod and chips enjoyed.
Wandering off along the promenade I noticed a dive centre, and wondered about diving down here. But the water visibility was a bit crap. Up on the headland I sat in the sun and got a tan for an hour before strolling slowly back.
At 4pm I moved my car and found a spot, soon into my wetsuit and heading for the water, the day-trippers heading home for something to eat. The water had calmed before I swam out, straight for the mouth of the bay.
Five hundred yards out I saw something odd, and looking down I saw bubbles from divers. Lifting my head I saw the zodiac. I altered course to swim past them. ‘Nice day for it.’
‘You swimming to France?’ I man quipped.
‘Yes, end of August. How’d you know?’ I teased.
He stared back. ‘I was taking the piss. So you’re doing the Channel?’
‘Yeah, hoping to set a record for servicemen.’
‘What unit you from?’
‘RAF Regiment.’
‘Rockapes, eh. We’re SBS.’
‘Ah, from Poole. This your normal dive area?’
‘When we’re bored, which is most days. We go for lobster.’
A second man asked, ‘You think you’ll make it across?’
‘I swam thirty six miles the other week, Channel is twenty.’
‘Fit fucker, ain’t you.’
‘You remember the idiot shot in the London Marathon...?’
‘That was you?’
‘Yeah, but I stopped running marathons, too fucking dangerous.’
‘Meet us for a beer later, the Crown,’ he pointed. ‘It’s a small fucking place.’
‘What time?’
‘Say 8pm.’
‘8pm, salt water washed off.’
I swam out, turned around whilst feeling the current pulling me sideways, and as I came in their zodiac sped off. Washed and dressed, I strolled down to the town, in the Crown pub at 7.45pm, just before the same man arrived, now with four buddies, all with bulging biceps under their t-shirts.
Drinks ordered, we sat, soon chatting about the marathon running, now the swimming, and who held which kind of record, close protection and black druggies. These guys all drove government ministers, they informed me, after the SAS pissed off Margaret Thatcher. They travelled to Africa a great deal, some real shit holes, to protect Ambassadors when the threat level ticked up.
Their stories about submarine egress underwater would be giving me nightmares, and their time on oil rigs was not something I would ever want to try; a hundred and twenty feet of wet slippery ladder to climb up in full gear.
A few of the holiday makers got rowdy, but when this lot stood up and stared the holidaymakers shat themselves.
At last orders I was wobbly, little chance of swimming the next day, and amidst thick crowds of revellers I waved at my new buddies as they boarded a pre-booked mini-bus back to Poole. Nothing they told me would make me want to join the SBS, I would be having nightmares about watery deaths in black oceans.
I crept into my B&B using the key I had been given, and slipped quietly into bed, waking around 9pm and feeling rough. The landlady took pity on me and made me a light breakfast before I moved my car. I parked at the far end of the promenade and walked along, enjoying being here, and away from Brize Norton.
On a Tuesday lunchtime I drove to a bookshop in Oxford and picked up my pre-ordered book, “How to swim the Channel”.
‘Going to swim the Channel?’ the lady asked.
‘How the heck did you know that?’ I quipped, getting a look.
Back at base, and sat in my room whilst technically being AWOL, I started to read. Swimmers could try the Channel unaided, but it was not recommended, a few killed by ship’s propellers; the English Channel was the world’s busiest water way.
Most swimmers opted for a cover boat, flags and lights on it, plus a man with binoculars and a marine radio to warn ships. The RAF would be paying for my cover boat, four men onboard, radio to hand, no mistakes made.
Jellyfish were a problem at this time of year, and a big box jellyfish could kill me. There were no sharks to worry about, nor dangerous fish, but oil from passing ships was an issue. Someone had died after penetrating a fresh slick.
Weather was the biggest factor, in that it could never be predicted and could change quickly. A warm south westerly breeze could become a cold north easterly wind – waves picking up and temperatures dropping. Oddly enough, the French police had to be notified and would be there to check ID when I landed. That last part made me smile. “Do you have your
passport on you, sir?”
One problem was the odd passing of a larger ship, its wake producing large waves, and I could be spun around. There was also the problem of wood and debris in the water, and getting tangled in discarded rope was a real issue.
I would have a whistle and other things in a belt around my middle, just in case, a pen torch, and a small sharp knife in case of fishing line or rope.
Some woman had taken twenty hours to cross, and a few people had done it unaided. Some had done it without telling the authorities and were arrested and sent back. Some guy had done it in 1875, taking twenty one hours. Some mad woman had done it thirty times.
The record was eight hours, and the tide and currents were a problem in that I would not be swimming the straight line 22miles, but battling a rising tide and falling tide. If my team were any good then they would be steering me the right way left and right as the tides changed.
The average swim was around 12 hours, but I was not average, and I would not be plodding along. I had the fitness in my body’s organs, and I had the stamina in my head. But luck was a factor, luck on the day, tides and winds – and not being hit by a passing ship and sucked under.
I read the whole book, but then decided that the man who wrote it was a pussy and a bit of a twat.
Back in the pool on a “Cold Monday”, I swam for six hours straight, twenty-two miles, but felt like crap when I sat on the side of the pool. I also knew that the distance I would have to swim was not twenty-two miles thanks to the currents. It would be more like thirty miles.
With a boat booked for the first week of September, I spoke to the base commander and got permission to train in Dover, Trevors and one other PTI to be with me.
I was soon entering the water near Dover Harbour, the ideal training conditions, and swam out a mile and back several times, finding groups of swimmers in my way a few times. I also found the water colder here for some reason, especially a mile out.
I put a t-shirt on under my wetsuit, and there were no rules about that, and I hit the water in the afternoon, ten miles clocked going back and forth.
Seeing other swimmers in proper neoprene vests, we ventured into a shop in Dover to buy one.
‘Another Channel hopeful,’ the man noted.
I took off my top. ‘Not your average Channel hopeful, dickhead,’ I rudely told him.
With a vest that was snug, and 5mm, I tried it the next day, but greased myself up before I put it on, greased my knees, elbows and shoulders and around my neck. Wetsuit on, feet, hands and hair greased, cap on – now a 5mm cap, and off I went.
I was stung on the hands and feet by jellyfish but kept going, out two miles and back, six hours practise, and now I was warmer – as well as hurt from the damn jellyfish.
The next day was choppy, but ideal for rough-sea training, few others about, and I again swam for six hours, this time a little sick from being thrown around. Half the time I was going under the waves or through them instead of floating over them.
‘I can do this,’ I told Trevors. ‘More practise is pointless.’
We headed back.
With a week to go I was running in the mornings, two hours, swimming for two hours, and in the gym in the evenings, toned up to hell now.
The following Sunday we arrived in Dover and met our boat crew, RAF men yet sailors, and we would have three days in which to attempt it, all down to the weather. The first day was forecast to be choppy, so we aimed at the second day, 9am to get the maximum warmth from the sun. Most swimmers set off earlier, but I had no intention of hanging around for twenty hours.
The next morning I was awake at 5.45am, and from my window the Channel looked still and calm. A good breakfast, but nothing salty, and I drank plenty of water.
Down at the shore, the boat waiting half a mile out, I limbered up, two grey-haired men from some distance swimming association here to see me off, and to start the clock. Greased up, vest on, wetsuit on, feet and hands greased, hair greased, cap on, goggles on, and I was ready, my heart racing.
I was looking forwards to the challenge, but always nervous when an event was about to start. Today, the weather looked ideal, the Channel calmer than I had seen it so far. At least inshore.
With a huge ferry heading south to my left – holiday makers off to France at a faster pace than me, I glanced at the two grey-haired men and in I went, soon powering off towards the boat, which I would either follow or have on my right, in my two o’clock position, the boat handlers having done this a dozen times before – just not for anyone from the RAF they belonged to.
Fact was, most Channel swimmers were fat middle-aged ladies that looked like blubber seals. I was a fit young man, but with less fat to keep me warm. And not shaped like an adult Grey Seal.
But I was not cold in my vest and new cap, and with the water calm I put the power on, soon to the boat, and every time I looked they were in my 2 o’clock position, the quiet throb of the engine a reminder that they were there.
An hour in and I heard a louder throb, seeing a ship passing, and ten minutes later its wake lifted me three times in quick succession.
Another hour in and I tasted oil in the water and spat a lot, soon stung on the feet by jellyfish and cursing as I kept a fast pace, counting the strokes in my head, the same technique as for the marathons.
The throb of a ship’s engine came and went frequently, but after five hours they registered more frequency. If the lads on the boat were doing their jobs then they would be reading the ship’s names, radio messages sent, a polite request for five degrees starboard or port, please, idiot swimmer in the water.
I ignored the ships, and I was getting good at predicting when the wakes would hit, and most were not a problem. I then hit a log, literally, and hurt my hand a little. I pushed it under me and swam on, ignoring the pain.
I saw a bottle float by, a can of fizzy drink, some rope, and it was all as described in the book. I was cold, but not hurting, and I peed into my wetsuit twice.
‘Wilco!’ came a shout, and I looked up, suddenly doing breaststroke.
They pointed, and there was the French coast, looking very close. Head down, a smile on my face, I put the power on, determined, very determined.
No more throbbing engines, but lots more jellyfish, and I kept going, like a machine – on automatic. I hit a small piece of wood and ignored it, some paper stuck on my head for a few seconds, and on I went, now looking up and aiming for a beach – full of people. I could even see swimmers way out.
It was now a sprint. I felt OK, chilled and tired but OK, so raced for the end, the water getting warmer minute by minute, and soon my boat was behind me, the waves taking me in, and I hit sand. Standing, I ran to the water’s edge, goggles off, and looked back.
The boat was five hundred yards out, the plan to swim back to it and land at the harbour.
‘Wilco!’
I turned, seeing the Air Commodore and his wife, a few other officers. Surprised, I walked towards them, taking off my cap. ‘What you doing here, sir?’
‘We knew you’d do it, so we came across two days ago, bit of a wine tasting holiday, then got the call to say you were on your way and the time you might get here.’
‘A new record,’ a man I did not recognise told me. ‘Twenty minutes inside the record. But today was exceptional, weather wise, very calm.’
‘Come on, you must be chilled,’ the Air Commodore encouraged.
I greeted his wife, a towel handed over, and we drove to the harbour, police waiting, my passport shown and checked, soon to a nice hotel, all paid for by the RAF. With my bag in hand I showered and changed, downstairs to join the party, Trevors stood with a beer in his hand.
He told me, ‘Guy steering the boat reckons it was all down to his skill, guiding your through the currents.’
‘Might have been, those currents are more than three knots.’
‘A new record,’ the Air Commodore commended as he got me a drink of red wine. ‘So we’ll milk it of course, R
AF man. How’d you feel?’
‘Tired, but I could have done more, sir.’
‘Get some food, you must be starved. Grab a table, kitchen is open late, I checked.’
I sat with Trevors, but I was not keen on the fish. We had chicken. ‘I was stung a dozen times, hit a log, hit a pop bottle, bits of paper. Fucking litter in that water is a disgrace.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘A rest.’
‘What else can you tackle? Triathlon?’
I made a face. ‘I can do the running and the swimming. Might have a go at the Kung Fu championships.’
‘Boxing?’ he nudged.
‘I thought about it.’
‘You have the stamina, you’ll never tire out in the ring, you have the reach. Cruiserweight or light heavyweight, RAF championships. What do you weigh?’
‘Exactly fifteen stone right now. A bit heavy for marathons.’
‘Cruiserweight, or heavyweight.’
I made a face again. ‘It’s an idea.’
I tired quickly after a few beers, shown to my room, and palatial it was. I slipped between pristine white sheets, sea gulls calling out, and went out like a light.
I woke at 7.30am, stiff as hell and hurting in all sorts of places, a long hot shower needed. It helped, but I still felt like shit, and so stretched for twenty minutes. Tea made in my room, biscuits nibbled, I went down for breakfast at a respectable 8am, finding the Air Commodore and his wife and joining them.
‘How you feeling, my dear?’ Barbara asked.
‘Terrible, stiff all over.’
‘That’ll be the cold water,’ she suggested.
‘At least you don’t have to swim back,’ the Air Commodore noted. ‘Come back with us.’
‘You driving me, sir?’ I quipped.
‘You can take over in Dover,’ he offered.
After a big breakfast we wondered around the small town as a group, soon packed and in the cars, to Calais and the ferry terminal and its confusing traffic system, onto a ferry and up on the top deck.
It took far less time to get back, and I stared down at the water I had swum in, the white cliffs of Dover looming large. I took over as we left the ferry, driving his private BMW, an automatic, up to the M25 on poor roads, fast around the M25 and down the M4, and to their home, where an RAF driver waited to take me back – one of the Transport lads I knew well.
