Leap In

by Alexandra Heminsley

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Alexandra Heminsley

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part 1

  Chapter One: From the Shore

  Chapter Two: Summer

  Chapter Three: Autumn

  Chapter Four: Learning to Exhale

  Chapter Five: From Pier to Pier

  Chapter Six: Down the River

  Chapter Seven: To Ithaca

  Chapter Eight: Winter

  Chapter Nine: And to Spring

  Part 2

  Chapter Ten: A Brief History of Swimming

  Chapter Eleven: The Basics of Front Crawl

  Chapter Twelve: Your Body, Swimming

  Chapter Thirteen: Swimsuits and Beyond

  Chapter Fourteen: Leaping In

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Alexandra Heminsley thought she could swim. She really did.

  It may have been because she could run. It may have been because she wanted to swim; or perhaps because she only ever did ten minutes of breaststroke at a time. But, as she learned one day while flailing around in the sea, she really couldn’t.

  Believing that a life lived fully isn’t one with the most money earned, the most stuff bought or the most races won, but one with the most experiences, experienced the most fully, she decided to conquer her fear of the water.

  From the ignominy of getting into a wetsuit to the triumph of swimming from Kefalonia to Ithaca, in becoming a swimmer, Alexandra learned to appreciate her body and still her mind. As it turns out, the water is never as frightening once you’re in, and really, everything is better when you remember to exhale.

  About the Author

  Alexandra Heminsley is the author of Running Like a Girl, which has now been published in fifteen countries. She is a journalist, broadcaster and ghostwriter. She lives in Hove.

  Also by Alexandra Heminsley

  Running Like a Girl

  Ex and the City: You’re Nobody ’Til Somebody Dumps You

  For Lottie, the greatest

  sister of them all

  PART 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  From the Shore

  I thought I could swim, I really did.

  It may have been because I could run. It may have been because I wanted to swim. It may have been because I only ever did ten minutes of breaststroke at a time, or splashed and bobbed off a warm beach or in the pool at the gym.

  But I really couldn’t swim.

  I used to watch them, The Swimmers. I used to see them to my left when I got in the pool to do my three or four lengths after a session at the gym doing weights or trying to use the running machine. Or, even better, I’d see them in the sea when I was running along the beach. There was something other-worldly about them, as if by not actually being on the earth but being in it they had become somehow more than human.

  The pool swimmers always had a specific brisk walk as they came from the changing rooms. It just oozed ‘I’m not here to fuck about’. Their goggles would usually be on already, making eye contact with them impossible. Their gift, their glamour, lay somehow behind their rubber and plastic eyes, shielded like a superhero’s. Then they’d just slip in and … start. The transition from poolside human to slick, slippery silverfish took seconds. Their faces vanished beneath the surface, their arms pulled the water ahead of them away as their front crawl effortlessly propelled them forward. It was beyond me. Where was the bit where they emerged, panting and ruddy-faced, needing to break into breaststroke after three quarters of a length? Or hung around at the end of one of the lanes and stared into the middle distance, catching their breath and rolling their eyes at the unholy effort of it all?

  They never did. They’d just get in and get going. I would console myself with what I told myself was my strong breaststroke kick and glide along, the water dividing my face at my nose, leaving me looking and longing, a covetous hippo. My eyes swivelled and my heart yearned.

  The sea swimmers were another species altogether. I would only know them by the steady rotation of their arms and perhaps the neon of a swimming cap. Often they swam so far out that I could not tell if they were in a wetsuit or a regular swimming costume. They would slide through the sea, ageless, genderless, a part of the water, a part of the view. It seemed rigorous, but also peaceful.

  As the skyline bobbed up and down in my vision, bouncing with the gait of my run, the sea swimmers seemed to exist in a world somehow less aggressive than the one I ran in. I knew the ache of ankles, knees and hips after hitting pavement or tarmac for hours on end, and I had grown to love it – I associated it with warm baths after battles won, with the meditative state that running gave me and with the huge emotional lessons it had taught me. Within five years I had gone from someone for whom any sort of exercise was theoretical – a nice idea, but something for others, for the ‘sporty types’ – to someone who had run five marathons. Running had been my entry point into a world where I understood both my body and the elasticity of my limitations so much better. It improved my confidence, it improved my relationships, and it improved my body. But now I had grown a little impatient with the burgeoning running industry, with its endless heavily marketed events, its relentless reliance on technology that cost you a week’s salary to tell you that you weren’t quite as good as last week, and above all its obsession with time and distance.

  I began to wonder about the freedom, the less jarring tiredness, and the sense of well-being that swimming out there in the deep might give me. It looks wonderful, I’d think, but it can’t be that easy to become part of the ocean.

  It had always been there, the ocean. As a child, I’d stayed with my grandparents in Cornwall, or my mother’s family in Trinidad and Tobago. During the turbulent years of my twenties in London, when there was no ocean, I would console myself with long walks along the Thames, or the Regent’s Canal or around the ponds in Hampstead. Then, on moving to Brighton, the sea became a daily fixture in my world.

  I ran in Brighton. I ran in Hove. There was rarely a run that wasn’t at least partly spent watching the ocean melt into the sky at the earth’s curve. There were fast, angry 5K runs, done at a furious pace after a bad day at my desk. There were slow, anguished 10Ks, run straight into relentless winds coming directly off the Atlantic. And there were long, hot marathon runs, drenched in sweat and longing for the solace of seawater. Once, three years ago, I worried I was getting sunstroke and headed off the path and straight into the sea to cool off. But only as far as my hips.

  Even when I left the city and went night-running high on the South Downs, from the very tops of the hills I could still see the blackness of the sea. Without realising it, whenever I ran, I tried to run near water. I ran along the Hudson in New York, shrieking at the other side of the Atlantic during a rainstorm, exhilarated by the churning water as much as the bridges that seemed to be strutting from island to island. And I ran the bay in San Francisco, parallel to the sailing boats and the swimmers, one eye on Alcatraz’s moody shadow and the Pacific beyond. Whatever else I saw, wherever else I ran, however else I felt, the sea seemed to be alongside me, reassuring in the constancy of its presence.

  At home, it felt so much part of my experience that for a couple of years I neglected to realise that in all these years of watching the sea, being guided by its definite shoreline, pacified by its glacial calmness and lifted by its twinkling surface, I had never swum in its shimmering waters. Exactly the thing that had entertained me as a runner made me rigid with terror as a swimmer: up close, you never quite knew what you were going to get.

  When I finally grasped that looking at the sea a lot was not exactly the same as swimming in it, I felt i
ts urgent pull. I longed to feel surrounded by the salt water, to let it carry me along, to become part of it. I would stare at the horizon, dreaming, then take a huge breath of salty air and let my gaze drift from the swimmers to a boat turning or a dog barking, and think, But when do swimmers breathe? And with that question, the swimming dream would be over.

  I had lived in Brighton for nearly five years when I finally got into the sea. It was the morning of my wedding. A morning that, quite frankly, I had never thought would come. During those long marathon training runs, the early starts and the wind-beaten miles, I had made peace with the fact that perhaps marriage wasn’t for me. Through running I felt my body grow stronger and my self-reliance more robust. I actively forged the me I wanted to be, and I felt a weight lift as I grasped how much of my future was entirely down to myself alone. I didn’t have to keep internet dating if I didn’t like it. I didn’t have to keep going to parties just in case I met someone. I didn’t have to keep scouring my contacts for an old colleague with whom there was some unresolved sexual tension. I could let it all go and concentrate on running, my friends and my family. So I did, as relieved to have found my place in the world as I was to realise I didn’t have to keep waiting for someone to join me.

  Of course, with that realisation, it was only a matter of months before D, one of my favourite people on earth, a long-nursed and barely admitted crush, appeared on my doorstep, armed with the sort of declaration of love I had previously thought belonged firmly on the other side of my Netflix screen.

  It was as if a door had opened and there was an entirely new room in my heart. One apparently infinite and filled with potential. I was in love, and I realised that my interpretation of what that meant had always been wrong. It was no more restrictive than it was the answer to all my problems. Quite simply, I had found the person I had spent several years comparing all potential boyfriends to, and he was all mine.

  Two years later, on the morning of our wedding, I did something else I had never dreamed I would: I finally made it into the sea.

  The week that we got married, the sun came out. We had all just about given up hope, and then suddenly, the day that the umbrella to match my wedding shoes arrived, so did the summer. The night before the ceremony, I went out for dinner with my family and we walked back along the seafront to the B&B where they were staying, each of us lapping on an ice cream despite it being after dark. Over calzone and slightly too much red wine, I had joked with my brother that I should start my wedding day with a sea swim. Our sister, days from giving birth to her second son, goaded us, telling us to do it for her, then giggling at the ludicrousness of the plan. We laughed back. Of course it wouldn’t happen!

  I had forgotten all about it by the time I got home and saw my wedding dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door. Eight hours later, I woke up feverish with anticipation, unable to fathom how I might possibly spend the seven hours until it was time to walk down the aisle. No one was even supposed to arrive at our flat for another three hours. I texted my brother on the off-chance, and half an hour later he turned up in his swimming trunks, with his phone and his goggles in his hand.

  Within five minutes we had crossed the busy seafront road and were standing on the shore. Me, my brother and my fiancé. My dad, a little bewildered by the non-running turn of events, had turned up too – on the strict condition that he had to be back before his hotel stopped serving breakfast.

  The sea was smooth, calm and full like a bath. There were none of the feathery white peaks that alternately frightened and delighted me on breezier days. The sun was still struggling to ease its way through a gauzy layer of cloud, lending the view an Instagram-esque filter, and slightly muffling the noise along the beach. The water didn’t glisten; there was barely a horizon. An opaque greeny grey simply met a slightly glossy blue as the earth curved away from us. There was a boat far out where the two colours met, but it was early, so apart from that we had the sea to ourselves.

  My future husband and I stood on the beach holding hands while the others faffed with electronics and towels. It didn’t seem real, this idea that we might just go for a swim as the mist rose from the water and the sun burned through the cloud higher in the sky. It was a morning I’d never imagined I’d have; I was about to do a thing I had never believed I would do; I was a me I had never dreamed I would get to be. He squeezed my hand and nodded at the water.

  ‘We can’t stand by and watch, can we?’ he said.

  ‘Sometimes you just have to leap in,’ I answered, stripping off quickly and darting for the water, dragging him by the hand.

  My brother giggled. My dad fiddled with his camera, not wanting any part of the madness but not wanting to miss a moment of it either.

  We ran at the final few inches of shore, the pebbles of Brighton’s beach pinching and prodding the soles of our feet like a vengeful reflexologist. There was a second’s relief as we hit the water and the shelf of pebbles gave way to the sea. Another second and the temperature hit us like electricity. How did it do that? How could a ring of cold around your ribs hit you behind your eyes? We yelped, we splashed each other, we gasped as it reached our lungs, our hearts. I could hardly breathe, and I didn’t know if it was the excitement, the cold or the terror.

  Then, suddenly, we were in. We were swimming. The water was all around us and that electric charge had subsided. In its place was a coolness, a sense of invigoration, as if someone was somehow tweaking the focus on the day, making it sharper and more real. We seemed to be the only ones in the sea, and the sound of our breathing was all I could hear, apart from the odd muffled seagull that seemed cranky about an early start.

  We swam out, a cautious breaststroke, aware that we knew nothing of what the tides were doing or where we might be pulled, despite the apparent stillness of the water.

  ‘We’re in! We’re in! My first time in the sea after living here for nearly five years!’ I whispered.

  ‘Whaaaat? How could you not have done this before?’ asked my brother.

  And with that, he was gone, swimming front crawl into the distance. I glanced around and saw that D was doing the same. Both of them carefully but steadily looping their hands over their heads and pulling the water back beneath and behind them. I swam further out, then turned to look back at the shore.

  I thought I knew the seafront inside out. I’d seen it in rain, storms, glorious sunshine and at 4 a.m after ill-advised nights out and gut-wrenching arguments. But I’d only ever seen it from dry land. From the sea, it was as if my home town was in tilt shift. Where once I’d pounded the pavements in January, entirely alone, now I saw a hundred little figures, each making tiny movements of their own. There was our home, one small flat slotted into the buttercream Regency facade of the terrace we lived in. From the land it was huge and solid, but now it looked like a toy, a mere accessory for a doll’s game or the sort of thing you’d lay alongside a model railway.

  As I turned slightly, I saw the seafront square where I’d lived years before, and the front door at which D had appeared that happy summer before he even held the title ‘boyfriend’. I looked along the water and saw that he had waited for me a little way ahead, so we swam together a while parallel to the beach. We saw the bar where our wedding party would later be held, still shuttered against the elements. We lay on our backs, holding hands, supported by the salt water, and watched the seagulls overhead as we stared into forever.

  Where a runner sees the world in close-up, with time to view each passing tree’s leaves as they fall, each yellow road marking as it fades through the seasons, each dog truffling treats from the roadside, I realised that a swimmer sees the long shot. A ball thrown across a beach, a seagull swooping for an unwatched doughnut half a mile away, a rumbling lorry meandering by as if being pushed by a four-year-old.

  There was a coolness, a stillness to these moments as we felt the water lapping us and watched our city from afar. My breaths were still deep from the effort, and my skin tingled from the salt and the chi
ll. The sun began to break through the clouds, and after about half an hour, we realised we should be heading home. I stepped out of the water and gazed back at the scene laid out before me. I was glad it was today that I had made the leap. I had held my heart back for long enough. I now felt a visceral urge to seize everything life was throwing at me and live more intensely than I ever had.

  Days later, as my new husband and I sat in a Parisian bar, two glasses of pastis on the small circular table between us, we discussed that magical swim. It had felt so exactly the perfect thing to do at that precise moment. As we chatted with the confidence of the just-married, we decided we would keep it up.

  ‘We should become regular swimmers!’ I declared with the sort of elaborate hand gesture that four days on the Continent and just as many glasses of liquor can encourage. I could see it so clearly; we’d be that magical couple who swam in the sea every day. As the pastis fug thickened, I felt delighted with myself that our swimming plan was decided, and casually mentioned working on my front crawl with the same confidence with which I’d discussed how we’d never fall out over Christmas plans, never look at our phones in the bedroom and always chat about literature over dinner. I was going to be so good at being married.

  Days passed in a haze of museums, oysters and nauseating hand-holding in endless cafés. We kissed on the Eurostar home, and I told the bored taxi driver that we were on our way back from our honeymoon, trying to eke out every last minute of the magic. When we got home, we knew exactly how we wanted to begin post-honeymoon life: heading for the sea. Our suitcases were left unpacked, the salty butter and the bottle of Pernod we’d purchased that morning hastily chucked in the fridge, and we scampered to the beach to feel the water as soon as possible.

  But this time it was colder than before. Yes, the sky was blue over Brighton, but over us, in the sea, there were low, dark clouds gathering. We laughed with shock at how different, how much more hostile, it felt. Neither of us really wanted to admit that this wasn’t the homecoming we’d hoped for, so we stayed in the water trying to work out if the clouds were heading in or out. Wind whipped up out of nowhere, blowing my hair across my face.