The Dover Swims and Scooba

Since May 1st a handful of people have been meeting at Dover beach for the weekend swim camp sessions managed by Freda Streeter. It's only been a matter of 2 months, but I've been constantly surprised.

First surprise was the incredible pace at which things have changed since we started. For the first few weeks, the idea of being able to swim back-to-back swims of 6 hours or more each (never mind the Channel attempt itself), was simply not forseeable; the water was too cold following the abnormally long winter and the pace everyone seemed to be swimming at (and which seemed to be needed to have a chance of breaking through tides and currents), too fast to maintain. But here I am at the end of June with 4 such swims under my belt from the last 2 weekends.

Second surprise was how much good it would do to my confidence.

But the third and biggest surprise is the speed at which new friendships with other first timers have assumed an importance way beyond that which their brevity should merit. It's undoubtedly a lot to do with the fact that each new swim has increased in duration at a frightening rate, providing a nerve wracking journey in to the unknown in the hope of success but carrying the fear of gut-wrenching disappointment if not.

And so it came as an unimaginable shock to hear that just a few hours after chewing the fat with good new Antipodean friend and fellow first timer, Steve "Scooba" Driver, that he had died at his B&B on Sunday night.

Scoobs had been his usual perceptive generous self in terms of his praise and support for each of us and, in turn, with much relief we had delighted in being able to heap praise on him after his non-stop efforts to conquer the cold water and stay in for the full duration of the swims, had finally worked. A beautiful and fast swimmer, I was envious of his ability and saw it as cruel fate that his struggle with the cold had, in the prevous weekends, invariably forced him to retire for his own safety well before the end. Yet he never stopped coming back and, at last, with back-to-back 7 hour and 6 hour swims under his belt from the weekend, he was understandably and justifiably elated.

No one knows how much he put in to those swims, particularly the Sunday one, but he seemed fine and we both enjoyed chewing the fat and the food which Clodagh had brought to the beach, as the news filtered through of England going 2 down against Germany and we decided to take our time before wandering across to the town square to watch the rest of the match.
debacle .