CHANNEL RELAY REPORT
 
3am on a Monday morning, a time in my experience best enjoyed, a) in bed and 
b) very soundly asleep. But in a departure from my usual Monday morning 
routine, myself and the other 5 members of the relay team Grand Boucle 
(henceforth ‘Team GB’) had decided that this would be the perfect time for a 
bracing early morning dip. I should just clarify, by ‘bracing’ I mean 15 
degrees and by ‘dip’ I mean swim to France.
 
Who goes first?
 
On boarding our pilot boat, Suva, our official observer asked: ‘So, who’s 
going first then?’ I think all of us harboured secret ambitions of standing 
below the majestic White Cliffs looking out to sea with nothing but 21 
watery miles separating us and France. However, in order to avoid 
unnecessary exposure of my unusual ‘getting in cold water routine’ (think 
dipping a toe in, going ‘it’s a bit cold’ and running out again) I curbed my 
enthusiasm and agreed to go third.
 
At 4.58 am, Ed or ‘Steady Eddie’ as he came to be known bravely pulled on 
his Speedos, donned the grease and plunged Captain Webb style into the icy 
depths of the English Channel. Team GB were off!
 
…‘but I’m normally such a good sailor!’
 
We had been warned about the perils of seasickness. Stories of relay 
swimmers unable to get back into the water having spent the previous 5 hours 
with their head wedged in a bucket revisiting the contents of last night’s 
dinner, were part of Channel swimming folklore. But we knew the drill – take 
the Sea Legs, keep taking the Sea Legs, have a few more Sea Legs for good 
measure and you should be OK. And I was so sure I would be fine – I mean – 
there was the P&O school trip to France, the storm force gale family holiday 
to Skye when even the dog was struggling to keep its dinner down and the 
refugee sailing experience in Thailand. Sick? No, not me I’m normally such a 
good sailor…
 
‘I AM a good sailor’, ‘I AM a good sailor’, (and now in more frantic voice 
in head) ‘I am not going to be sick before we get out of Dover harbour’ or 
(more realistically) ‘at least until we leave Shakespeare beach’.
 
20 minutes in and this sickness business was really getting a little old.
 
Me: ‘Roly (lovely team doctor), you know those special drugs you said you’d 
brought with you. You know, the ones you give to cancer patients undergoing 
chemotherapy… the really strong ones… well, they’re not performance 
enhancing are they because I think I need some. Preferably now.’
 
My first leg
 
Buoyed by the drugs and excited by the opportunity of getting off the boat, 
I hopped in for my first leg. Whether it was the ‘eating the equivalent of a 
small cow regime’ I had been enthusiastically embracing in the run up to the 
swim or the relief of finally being in the water, I don’t know, but the 
temperature felt really quite comfortable. I was finally off. Swimming to 
France! How exciting!
 
Stroke’s feeling strong, I still have sensation in my toes and after a 
marginally too close encounter with the propeller I’ve even got the hang of 
swimming with the boat. This is fine. I’m definitely going to do the solo 
next year. In fact why stop there; maybe I’ll do a 2 way. Must keep my 
stroke long and strong, long and…. wait…what’s that greyish looking thing in 
the water next to me? That thing with the pointy looking fin? No, it can’t 
be: a shark? You almost never get those in the Channel and I haven’t even 
finished my first leg yet. Excellent.
 
Me: (in head) ‘Mustn’t touch the boat. Cannot touch the boat or the whole 
team will be disqualified but then again if I don’t touch the boat there’s a 
very real possibility of being shark sushi. Oh no, what a dilemma: death or 
disqualification? Oi! Support crew! Over here! Yes, that’s all very well 
telling me I’ve got 30 minutes to go but look, there’s a shark over here. 
Could you kindly do something about it and stop taking photos?’
 
Before I knew it I was handing over to Kevin, my first leg was over and I 
was back on the boat.
 
Team: ‘How did you find it?’ Did you enjoy it?’
Me: ‘Yes it was great, except for when that shark swam past’
 
Puzzled looks all round.
 
Team: ‘Shark?!’
Me: ‘Yup, big one, right next to me. You were all taking pictures of it.’
 
Andrew is now looking slightly concerned and checking me for signs of 
hypothermia.
 
Him: ‘Do you mean the seagull?’
Me (adamant): ‘No, it was definitely a shark. Right next to me it was.’
Him: ‘No, that was definitely a seagull. It kept trying to land on your head 
– look I think I caught it on camera.’
Me: ‘Right. So definitely not a shark then.’
Him: ‘No’.
 
Note to self: really must defog goggles before next swim.
 
A new approach
 
Strong swims by Kevin, Roly, Andrew, Ed and Rob followed with not a shark 
sighting between them. Soon it was time for me to get back in the water. I 
couldn’t wait!
 
Must adopt new mental approach to this swim – no more imaginary sharks. OK, 
so if I do 60 strokes in a minute that’s 3600 strokes in an hour. I’ll just 
spend the rest of my swim counting my strokes. One… two… three… Now, was 
that 400 or 500? Perhaps I should just go back to 1. So now the total is 
3600 minus either 400 or 500. If I get to 3000 then I should pretty much be 
there. One… two… arrgh!!! Big gulp of salt water. This leg is much choppier 
than the first one. Now, where did I get up to?
 
Different strategy. How about some singing? (Start singing in head): ‘Chim 
chiminey chim chiminey chim chim cher-ee! A sweep is as lucky as lucky can 
be ... Chim chim cher-oo!’ Not quite the mood I was going for and I now 
appear to have Dick van Dyke’s dodgy cockney accent going round and round in 
my head. This really won’t do. No more singing – Mary Poppins on loop really 
isn’t the best accompaniment to Channel swimming.
 
The end is in sight
 
We throw Ed in for what looks like the final leg. France is really close 
now. We can see the Cap and people are clearly visible on Wissant beach. The 
chop has really got up; everyone is feeling seasick and no-one feels like 
going in again. Come on Ed, you’re almost there!
 
The final half hour is very frustrating. We can all see where we’re meant to 
be it’s just we don’t seem to be getting any closer. It is also becoming 
apparent that we’ve now entered the graveyard zone. Pilot Neil goes for a 
different approach. Instead of heading for the Cap he steers us to Wissant 
beach. It’s a bit further but the current is kinder and it makes for a 
softer landing – no clambering over rocks David Walliams style. What is more 
irritating is that we are going to have to do a changeover metres from the 
shore. The official observer consults the rules. They are clear – swimmers 
must change over every hour until the swim is complete. Rob has to go in and 
swim the final 100m. We scramble to get our kit back on so we can join him 
on the beach.
 
Rob gets in. He is within spitting distance of France. Ed just can’t stop – 
he’s obviously spotted the ice cream van on the beach. They’re both swimming 
for France (in completely different directions) and the rest of us are hot 
on their heels. 6 brightly coloured hats are bearing down on the French 
mainland much to the amusement of the German family building sandcastles on 
the beach. After 13 hours and 3 minutes of swimming, seasickness and 
shark/seagull attacks, we’ve finally made it. We’ve swum to France!
 
The way back…
 
…was choppy. Notable events included the pilot’s chair shearing off (twice); 
me trying to climb up the ladder in a storm force gale, falling off, 
squashing the observer and acquiring a rather fetching heart shaped bruise 
on my leg (available for viewing at Queen Mother sessions for the next few 
weeks); more sickness and a dress rehearsal of the capsize drill.
 
The solo
 
According to the statistics, 2 /6 relay team members come back to tackle the 
Channel on their own. On the journey home I vowed that I would not be one of 
them but the bruise is fading, the seasickness is subsiding and I’m 
beginning to think I just might have a go…

Reporter : Katie Goodall