Back on dry land after challenge of a lifetime

ON September 23,
at 3am the alarm went off. By 4.50am I was on the boat with my support crew: my
wife Mags, my brother-in-law Paul Hickey, school friend Michael Gartland, and
Channel swimmer John Daly.

Round the back of
Dover Port, greased up like a Christmas turkey and off the boat to swim in to

‘Shakey’, Shakespeare Beach, the traditional starting point for England to
France Channel swims.

At 5am I waved to
the crew and started the swim. Initially I felt great. The water was warm and I
got a great cheer as I passed the boat. My heart lifted hearing messages of
support being texted in from friends, swimming colleagues and famous swimmers.

The previous day,
a British Army relay swim team had been only a few hundred yards from Cap Gris
Nez when they were turned North by the tide and swept up the French coast for
several hours. I was conscious of this when I started.

It is hard to
predict a time for the Channel. My guesstimate had been in the region of 14-17
hours. But I was determined to get beyond the point the relay team reached the
previous day within 12 hours.

More Channel
swimmers and Liffey Swim champions passed on best wishes. It’s unbelievable the
bounce I got from their messages, and seeing great friends watching over me,
and Mags at the rail of the boat blowing:

? throughout the day.
There wasn’t time on breaths to blow the same back.

But I couldn’t
settle. Coming up to the feed at five hours I was tired, overstretched and
distinctly short on confidence. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t make it.

Since I started
distance swimming I have called on my parents’ divine intervention for
assistance. They had a direct line to God when they were here (via St Rita).
Five hours into the swim I was calling on the multitude to push. I was saying
enough prayers to get me into the Jesuits.

At six hours Paul
held up a sign that read:

?. My spirits soared. I knew I was on
target to beat the 12 hours for the change in tide. All I had to do was to
continue this sprint I was on.

If someone had
asked me in my youth if I would swim in the sea at sprint pace for 15 minutes I
would have laughed them to the change in tide and back. And yet, here I was,
pushing at an unsustainable pace. I wanted to stop. I wanted to get back in the
boat.

At eight hours I
had swum further, longer and harder than I had ever swum before. But it wasn’t
enough. I had come to swim the Channel.

Another part of
the arsenal was that I had originally set out to raise money for Cystic
Fibrosis research. I knew Professor Gerry McElvaney, who leads the CF research
unit at Beaumont Hospital.

So here I am
mid-Channel, heading south west into a south-westerly breeze and swallowing sea
water. I keep telling myself:

?

Eight, nine, 10
hours into the swim and I am working for other people. If I succeed, friends,
relations and complete strangers will throw a few bob in. And yet, exhaustion
is knocking on the door.

I am punching
through the wind-racked swell and now thinking of the horrid statistic: 90 per
cent of swimmers who fail to complete the Channel swim do so in the final mile.

I can see the
French coast for a considerable time but it’s not getting any nearer. I’m being
swept South and the coast is East. It’s frustrating. The boat is passing me and
I’m sucking in diesel from the exhaust. At 10 hours I tell the team:

?

One final push. I
am racked with tiredness and the fear that the tide will catch me. I call for
an extra-strength drink and a half a banana. Over the course of the swim I had
a sports drink after the first and second hour and every 45 minutes thereafter.
I supplemented this with one banana.

I am working
furiously and after 12 hours the windswept swell abates. I’m in the cover of
Cap Gris Nez. John

‘Danger’ Daly is on the stern of the Anastasia waiting to
swim in to the finish with me.

He tells me to
head for the boulders at the foot of Cap Gris Nez.

We reach the
rocks. The observer on the boat calls the swim. It’s over. I’ve swum to France.
I get back on the boat, but not before taking the time to thank a phonebook of
saints, departed friends and relations and the Ma and Da.

I climb the
ladder. I am surprised. I feel fresh. My throat is very sore. I am
congratulated by all. A squeeze
from Mags. Ah, now it’s all worth it!