My social media feed is full of swimmers. The ones that I identify with, connect with, engage with. The well-being water tribes and the wear whatever you want communities. But it’s also full of elite swimmers and endurance athletes who, until recently, I thought are nothing like me. They still got double click likes from me but I didn’t always read the words that accompanied the images and I certainly did not comment.
Visibly, what they all have in common is their swim smiles. Less visible, and what I have recently come to learn, is they also have their fears, worries and anxieties when they swim in common. It is not just swimmers that swim like me, that are like me. It’s all swimmers. We’re all the same inside. When you listen to swimmers share their fears they are nearly always the same. A fear of the deep, of jellyfish of buoys. And I find this very reassuring in a perverse way. Their fears just haven’t stopped them from swimming in events.
I’ve always avoided swim events. Stories of goggle pulling and ankle grabbing at the start line filled me with horror. My claustrophobia and fear of being surrounded by other swimmers in a pack. That was until I did my first one last year. And I loved it. Maybe not at the time but upon reflection. I also realised that because I am not an elite swimmer, in fact I’m rather slow, I will never be overwhelmed by goggle grabbing swimmers swimming on top of me. What’s more likely is they’ll be wearing their medals at the finish line whilst I’m plodding along at the back. Got to love an irrational fear when you place yourself at the front of the pack with world class medal swimmers. Anxiety with an ego.
So why did I eventually enter an event. The truth is I’ve entered lots but just not turned up. A fictitious sore shoulder or tummy bug has always stopped me from making it to the start line. The reason I entered them was to go the distance. I can swim forever, albeit slowly, but I don’t. I get bored so I stop and I float and I do handstands and I dive through waves and I explore under piers. I needed the motivation of an event to see what my old bag of bones was capable of. Problem was, until last year my noggin wasn’t capable of it. Every time I started training for it and the date got closer I just shut down.
So what changed?
I honestly don’t know. I’ve wondered a lot about what got me to that start line and it can only have been an infectious positive laid back attitude. Not mine. I, as ever, had a stream of negative narrative playing on repeat in my head. My swim mate Jess had entered for a laugh and was upbeat and excited all the way to the start line. And although it didn’t stop the constant ‘ you can’t do it’ dialogue in my mind it did distract me and lift me just enough to don a wetsuit and wander down the river bank.
The day of the event and getting there did not go smoothly AT ALL. Jess drove and there were roadworks and we were late. Still she smiled. Fortunately the bus to ferry us to the start line was also late so we had some hanging around to do in our wetsuits on Littlehampton sea front with the other swimmers. She nipped to the loo and I stood frozen staring at the ground on the outer edges of the congregated swimmers avoiding eye contact with familiar faces. Finally we got on the bus only for it to breakdown and have to get off the bus again. We then had to wait some time for another bus. This swim is tide dependant so my mind was already racing through calculations about the impact a delayed start would have. At least I wouldn’t get swept out to sea I supposed – another irrational fear that had a hold. Jess got out the hobnobs and shared them with any swimmer within earshot. Socially at ease she chatted to those around her. Oh the chasm between our reactions to the same situation now has me in stitches. But it’s why she was exactly the person I needed to be with that day. How I feel about Jess and our friendship is a story for another day but suffice to say she now holds a revered place in my heart.
So our bus finally gets us to the river entry point. We line up in our different coloured finish time hats and start the single file walk to the river bank. Now I’m questioning the colour of my hat. It’s pink and indicates how long you estimate the swim will take you. I look at the other pink swimmers in their very expensive swim wetsuits and beeping watches and think I must be in the wrong group. My wetsuit is over a decade old and has holes in it. Then I’m recognised by a swimmer from up the coast. She’s a customer and has read some of my blogs so we begin to chat all things Seabird. Damn it my ‘no eye contact’ attempt has failed. According to my public life I am a swimmer. A swim coach. A swim shop owner. A swimming community admin. And someone here knows it and so now there is an expectation that I can swim this with ease. But she’s lovely and I’m enjoying our conversation as we meander along the footpath. Turns out she’s just had a baby and she’s as nervous as me but she is also excited.
Finally the river. The elite swimmers are already in and warming up. We enter on a wide bend and I stay in the shallows away from the flow and the throng of bodies. I’m temporarily distracted about how far we are from the sea yet there is seaweed in the water. It’s a comfort to me, like seeing a familiar face in a crowd. I tell Jess that I’m going to hang back from the start and not to wait for me I’m just going to put my head down and get on with it. I’ll likely wait right until the last minute to start when the pack have disappeared around the first river bend. I make her agree to my terms so I know whatever happens to me it won’t prevent her from having a lovely swim and finishing the course. We arrange to collect our bags at the finish line and call each other to find each other at the end. With that said the event started and there was a massive flurry of of limbs and splashing and a nauseas feeling in my stomach. I wait as I said I would, but not for as long as I expected. The competitive in me suddenly had an opening and before I knew it I’d started swimming. I’d not even said bye to Jess or that I was going – just a push and glide and I was gone. I have since apologised profusely to Jess for this but she gave no shits. Again demonstrating why she was my perfect partner that day.
So the swim. The first 15 minutes was crowded. Not that crowded but out of proportion exaggerated crowded to a person that craves wide open spaces. All of my worst fears. I can’t sight for toffee and if left to my own devises I will swim in circles. My wetsuit was uncomfortable and I was hot. I normally swim in skins so the added buoyancy was unusual. I hadn’t practiced in a suit as I assumed I’d drop out again. I tuned in to every part of my body that was rubbing or aching whilst swimmers around me closed in making me claustrophobic. I remember looking both ways and seeing swimmers penning me in and beating down on me. I was not grateful that I find bilateral breathing easy at this point as it just meant I could see more swimmers on both sides in close proximity. In reality they were likely swimming in a straight line and it was me with my malfunctioning steering swimming towards them. I wanted to cut corners as the river bent to reduce the swim distance but it just wasn’t possible at this point.
And then it thinned out. I have no idea of time as I had no watch. I began to pass people doing breaststroke who would then over take me when they reverted to front crawl. I can remember this from running events when people walk to catch their breath and then speed up again only to get fatigued and walk once more. The same seemed to be true for some swimmers with their breaststroke front crawl river medley. My eyes were constantly searching for the nearest safety boat when I turned to breath so at any point I could raise my arm in the air and say enough, I’m done, get me out. One safety boat seemed to stay close by forever. I wondered if they were watching me, waiting for me to stop. Or were they the mop up boat at the back and I was miles behind all the other swimmers. Or were they looking at my technique and placing bets on whether I’d finish it not. My rational mind knows they were doing no such thing but my irrational mind had decided a river was no place for a seabird. But still I kept swimming. A constant one arm after the other and a Dory mantra of just keep swimming.
With no watch I had no concept if time. It felt like forever and no time at all before the river began to narrow and flow faster. Swimming over seaweed that was going in the same direction as you but slower was a really weird experience as it looks like it’s moving against the flow. House boats moored on the sides began to appear and people on decks and balconies smiling and cheering. I must be near the end. So I began to look for the RNLI and slipway and head towards it – still convinced I’d be swept out to sea. And then there was an arm under my shoulder lifting me up and I was standing on slippery concrete with a volunteer marshal beaming at me and congratulating me on my swim. Just like that I was done.
My time and where I finished were and are important to me. For lots of reasons that are too long and too complex to unravel in this writing. All part of the imposter syndrome and paranoia that accompanies my mental illness and plagues anything I may go on to achieve. But I am bloody chuffed I did it. I had a wee discreet cry while I waited to find Jess. A mixture of relief and pride tears. Yes fucking pride – I was and am proud of myself. I know physically I can do distance events but mentally I’d never made to a start line let alone a finish line. It may not have been the perfect swim but it buoyed me up for weeks afterwards.
We finished the hobnobs with a cup of tea on the beach before we headed back to Brighton. We said we’d love to do it again but there needs to be food and beer afterwards and a few more salty swimmers to join us so a bit more planning on our part. It was a really well organised event. Even the curve ball broken down bus was handled well. Really friendly and kind volunteers and all the other swimmers were also super nice. Even the ones in expensive wetsuits and bank breaking watches. They all remained at the finish line clapping in the rest of the field.
If I hadn’t done this event there is no way I would have signed up for my second. Not an event as such. In fact there won’t be any other swimmers in the sea with me when I am swimming it. I’m not sure how it happened but I have signed up for a Channel Relay. The disparaging internal dialogue is on repeat and deafening at times. But the rest of the team are more than aware of my mental illness. An incredible bunch of women that I was able to be honest with right from the offset. They are witness to my training tantrums in the pool and provide a huge amount of support with a touch of silliness and sarcasm.
The thought of swimming the channel, to me, is less daunting than entering an event. I am not concerned about the cold, not afraid of the dark and I’ve been known to chase jellyfish for fun. It’s an hour in the water for each swimmer in rotation which I know I can do. Not fast or pretty but I can do it. But I am afraid of smelly diesel boats, being alone with my thoughts for an hour, letting the rest of the team down and having no place to escape on the boat.
Part of my preparation is not to prepare. I’m ignoring all the stuff I’m meant to read. I rarely set my super expensive beeping watch off before I start swimming. My goggles are practically falling apart. I am avoiding all channel swim forums and social media groups. But I have been reading the words that accompany the images of ‘proper’ swimmers on my social media feed now. And listening to podcasts. And reading blogs. And this is how I discovered that there is a parallel to our fears and that this fear never goes away no matter how amazing you are at swimming. This has allowed me to sit with my fear and accept it is never going away but that it is possible to push past it. I live with constant anxiety, a type of fear, and every day, well most days, I push past it.
So I need to keep swimming that hour alone with my thoughts and make sure I spend time in the water next to smelly diesel boats as much as possible. This is how I plan to overcome my fear and swim the channel. And I hope, when it’s done to enter some more swim events. As long as there are hobnobs.
Pass the Salt 