Last summer, six swimmers from Virginia and Maryland swam the English Channel. The story of that swim was published in the Virginia Masters Swim Team December Newsletter. The author, John Shrum is a 50 year old physician from Charlottesville. He is a long-time VMST member. Here is his article.

On July 31, Shirley Loftus, Bob Lazarro, of the Terrapin Masters, my two older children, Mo, 19, and Joseph, 17, John Post and myself swam a relay across the Mecca of Open Water Swimming. The Straits of Dover, better known as the English channel, confront one with staggering obstacles. In a given season, from late July to late September, the tides prevent at least 20 days from being possible for attempts at crossing. Storms and bad weather may knock out another 15 to 30 days, even when the neap tide is acceptable. The logistics, the cost, the time away from work once conquered, the swimmer(s) then get to face what we did - 21 miles through 57 degrees Fahrenheit water and 8 foot swells, along with a head-dizzying, stomach-churning boat ride when not in the water.

The Idea

The idea began during a half-baked conversation between myself and John Post at Sloan's Restaurant during the late Fall of last year. I said I'd be interested, but actually thought it would be several years yet before I gradually got around to organizing such an expedition myself. But John Post is relentless, if nothing else. Shortly after the New Year he called one Sunday afternoon and queried, "What are you doing on July 29th, 1998?" "I have a feeling you are going to tell me," I replied.

"You are going to swim a relay across the English Channel. We have Reg Brickell lined up as our pilot from July 29 through August 2nd."

This sounded pretty serious, but I was still skeptical of luring four other swimmers into this possible misadventure. Well, my long time training partner, Shirley Loftus, was immediately aboard, and John had no trouble signing on Bob Lazarro, from Maryland, so now we were four. The next four months passed and our numbers did not increase. One day I asked my 19 year old daughter, Mo, if she'd "like to go to Europe." Much to my pleasant surprise she was enthusiastic; one week later, to my utter astonishment, 17 year old Joseph said he'd like to join us!

The Preparation

I still felt one dip in 60 degrees Fahrenheit water would scrap the plan for my children and in early May the moment of truth arrived. Shirley had discovered an excellent training spot near her home in Afton, Lake Sherando, where we could swim without restriction until Memorial Day. The first day out was raw, misty and windy. The air was about 55 degrees and when I read the water temperature at 56 degrees, I turned to return to the car. "We've got to get in," Shirley informed me. I looked to Mo for some support, but she gestured, to my chagrin, sympathetically to Shirl. I would still be standing there on the beach had not the girls plunged in. We went 25 minutes and survived. We returned the next day with Joseph and I was sure he'd balk. Forty-five minutes later the four of us emerged from the bone chilling water and I realized I was in with some pretty tough customers. We were going to England.

I felt like I was in pretty good company. Bob Lazarro had completed the Boston Light Race in the past, a swim I feel is the toughest open water race in the United States. John Post has two Iron Man Triathlons and one Manhattan Swim Marathon to his credit. Shirl, of course, besides winning 12 national Open Water Championships and being named to this year's All American All Star Team, is no less than a past World Open Water Champion. Mo had swum for the University of Virginia Women's Team this past year, surviving my former teammate, Mark Bernardino's, body crushing workouts for seven months. Joseph, who swam for CYAC and CHS, was the least experienced of our group, but he had one huge advantage. He is a seventeen year old male, and definitely the fastest pool swimmer of our group. We were a strong team, I felt, in spite of our wide range of ages.

On To England

We arrived in London on the morning of July 27th after a six hour flight that seemed to race by for me. We drove to Dover and got settled at our quarters. Within several hours we were training in Dover Harbor, that alone an experience that was like a dream come true. I was actually in Dover, training to swim the English Channel with my family and friends. The water was around 59 degrees which we all seemed to cope with. Shirley's discovery of Lake Sherando and her insistence that we get in, even at 56 degrees, was paying huge dividends.

The next day we trained again and explored Dover and Folkstone, just five miles away. The big event of the day was the rendezvous with our boat pilot, the incomparable Reg Brickell, Jr. Reggie's dad, who passed away seven years ago, had escorted Channel swimmers across the Straits for forty years. His swimmers included such notables as Abou Heif, the great Egyptian legend, Penny Lee Dean and Doc Councilman. Reg, Jr, who has now performed the same service for 28 years, and younger brother, Ray, have their own fishing business, so basically, the Channel is Reg's backyard, front yard and living room. He is a Robin Williams look alike with a pirate's ring through his right ear lobe. He has a quick laugh and an impish grin, but even in briefing us about our routine, demonstrated a very serious, experienced manner. We could not help but notice that on a day that we Virginians were bundled up in thick sweaters, overcoats and heavy sweatpants, he and Ray got off their boat, The Viking Princess, wearing blue jeans and tank tops.

Waiting To Swim

Reg was very clear. Call him at 6:15 p.m. each night and he'd tell us whether we were a "go" or not. "Yes, it was possible," he explained, "five days could come and go during our neap tide and bad weather in the Channel would prohibit an attempt." That day was so lousy he speculated that the next day, Wednesday, would be no good. Several hours later, he confirmed his prediction, so we were one down and four days to go. The weather remained grey, cold and windy, but we entertained ourselves with a training swim and more exploration of the town. The English were fun, great conversationalists, and I believe we all felt more and more comfortable with everything except driving on the left side of the road in vehicles that had the steering wheel on the right side. It was always a hellish experience to drive anywhere. It was great to get to know Bob Lazarro and his wife Roberta. Bob was a wonderful traveling companion. He's funny, amiable and a killer in workouts. I didn't even try to keep up with him and Shirley as they plowed the frigid Dover Beach water at a blazing pace every morning we trained. Bob was a tremendously confidence-inspiring teammate.

Wednesday night, Reg gave John Post the word, another poor day coming up; two down, three to go. The previous evening we met a Japanese team, two women and four men from Tokyo that had succeeded in their swim in 12 1/2 hours. They said it was very cold and very rough.

We were now resigned to the possibility that our opportunity to swim may come down to our last day. On Thursday, the 30th, we thought we'd take the Hovercraft across the Channel and visit Calais for several hours. The weather was so horrendous, white caps blanketing the water as far as we would see, that all boat traffic across the Straits was canceled. So there was little doubt in our thoughts that Friday, too, would prove to be unacceptable for a chance to cross, but our mood at dinner underwent an abrupt transformation when Dr. Post returned from the phone booth and informed us, "Reg says he'll meet us at Folkstone harbor at 4:30 a.m." Suddenly, things became very quiet.

Everyone's appetite suddenly diminished. My own mouth went dry, my heart rate skyrocketed. Having got all my gear ready back at our B&B, I slept like a rock ... for about 90 minutes. The rest of the night, I lay in my bed in a cold sweat.

Starting Off

We boarded The Viking Princess at 4:30 a.m. in Folkstone Harbor and began a 45 minute trip back to Dover, where we would actually start at Shakespeare Beach. The sun rises earlier in England and as we made our way down the coast a beautiful, orange sun illuminated the sky. It was 45 minutes that will forever remain in my memory, as I was apprehensive, exhilarated, joyous and terrified all at once

When The Viking Princess got as far as she could near Shakespeare Beach, our lead off swimmer, Shirley, was instructed to get on her cap and goggles and swim to the beach, walk "clear of water," and await the takeoff signal from Brian, our official observer from the Channel Swim Association.

As we all stood on the deck awaiting Shirley to get off her sweats, she suddenly realized that besides Mo, seven men were standing in a circle staring at her while she stripped down. She started to laugh and giggled that she had never had so much attention getting undressed. He remark made us all more relaxed and then she even went so far as to twirl her shorts in the air. There were several encouraging yells of "Shake it, Shirl," and with that, she donned her cap and goggles. She quickly entered the water and with her powerful, flawless stroke, quickly reached Shakespeare Beach. She kicked off an old shoe John had given her for good luck and waved at us that she was ready for Brian's signal. At that moment, 5:28 a.m., July 31st, my heart was in my throat. The sunrise by now was gorgeous, I was on a boat with two of my children watching Shirl getting ready to begin our odyssey to France. It was a great moment.

On Brian's signal, she gave us another wave, and better yet, a smile. She jogged into the water and quickly began the swim. The waves were already very choppy and within minutes Bob was seasick. Reg assured us that as the ocean literally bounces off the Cliffs of Dover at that location; it would become smoother further out.

Shirley, Joseph, Mo, & Bob Swim

Shirl continued to plow through the water but she bounced off very high swells. Brian, our observer, informed me the water temperature was 14 degrees Celsius, or about 57 degrees Fahrenheit, and I knew it would get colder in mid-channel. At 30 minutes we held up a chart signifying the time for Shirl and as she swam on, the sky grew lighter yet. It was going to be sunny; Reg was right, as always.

Joseph was our number two swimmer and as he stripped down, with virtually no attention compared to Shirley's disrobing ceremony, my heart rate approached levels unparalleled. He has virtually no body fat, and in spite of his youth and testosterone levels, I was frightened for him. The swells which had subsided somewhat during Shirley's second 30 minutes now seemed to be gaining again in height. On Brian's signal, Joseph climbed down the ladder a step or two, then jumped in behind Shirley, as the rules demand. Within moments Shirl was out, our first hour behind us. She joked about not getting very far, but already, England was several miles behind us. She had done remarkably well.

Joseph looked smooth and strong the whole hour while the rest of us were tossed about like rag dolls on the deck. By now Bob was flat on his back, the misery of seasickness overcoming him. After Joseph got out, shivering uncontrollably, he tried to choke down some heated water. He immediately leaned over the edge of our craft and "blew chunks," as he put it in a postcard he sent to a friend.

So as I looked around and saw Shirl bundled up, trying to keep from being thrown overboard, Bob lying flat out, turning green, my son, Joseph spewing over the bow, my daughter, Mo, fighting swells in 57 degree water and John Post waiting nervously for his turn still 3 hours away, I couldn't help but needle Joseph, "Are we having fun, yet?" He laughed and acknowledged the fix we had gotten ourselves into.

Joseph was still shivering so violently after he was dressed, under blankets and a sleeping bag, that I finally just lay on top of him and tried to rub his arms and legs. I wondered if he'd ever warm up. I worried that Bob wouldn't even be able to get into the water. Mo churned through her hour and as her final minutes zoomed by, Bob Lazarro arose from the dead. He simply willed himself from his queasi-ness and into the water where he took off with a fury. It was as courageous as anything I've ever seen in sports. Mo looked positively beatific when she climbed aboard with Brian and Reg's help. "Good swim. Ow wuz it, luv?" Reg asked.

"Better than being on the boat!" she laughed, drawing guffaws from the three Englishmen.

As Bob blasted onward, my wooziness began to dissipate and my nerves began to roar. Shirl and I had been exchanging Dramamine (hers) for Anti-Vert (mine) for four hours, so I was having much less trouble with seasickness.

John Shrum Hits The Halfway Point

Finally, my moment arrived. The water sucked the breath out of me, but my adrenalin was so high. I could have swum through an iceberg. (Well, at least I would have tried.) Reg wanted us to stay on the left side of The Viking Princess, so the boat would break the power of the wind sweeping over us. I am so poor at breathing on my right side, however, I took Tarzan-head out of the water-strokes when I tried to swivel my head towards the boat. Thirty minutes seemed slow in arriving, but after that, my 55 minutes signal came quickly. It was at times like any other swim, just colder and rougher, but I did think to myself several times, "Come on France, please get closer."

At one hour I was out, grateful for my hand warmers and my heavy "dork sweater," the kids called it. Shirl said Reg informed us we were at the halfway point while I was in the water. I suddenly realized that the coast of France was as visible as England, which was slowly shrinking out of sight.

John Post Braves Coldest Section

After 40 minutes, I had begun to warm up as Joseph and Bob had said I would, but I then noticed John Post was having a tough time of it. I don't know what the water temperature was at that point, but I'm sure it was the coldest section we'd encounter. John struggled for about five minutes and suddenly got cranking again as we all shouted encouragement from the side. While he ground toward our destination during his last 10 minutes, I began to realize, "we are going to do it!"

We cheered when he came aboard and Shirley, indomitable as usual, really poured it on toward France. As the coast became larger, the swells grew to 8 - 10 feet, tipping The Viking Princess over as far as it seemed she could without capsizing.

We were all thrown about on deck more violently, at times sliding from one side to the other. Attempts to move about were clumsy and lurching. One didn't descend the steps to the room below, but rather, one was simply thrown downstairs. Attempts to empty one's bladder were ludicrous. There was so much rocking, I could not even stand up when trying to relieve myself. I would have apologized to the girls for peeing on the rim of the toilet, but my aim was so errant I don't think I hit anything, except the walls, floor and my own shoes. The loads of food we unwisely brought went uneaten, washed overboard, spilled out of cups and crushed by sliding swimmers. Appetites vanished for the day. John ate some gingersnaps and Shirl got down one Power Bar, I think. The Shrums and Bob ate a total of two chocolate chip cookies.

Reaching France

Shirl, Joseph and Mo churned through their rotations once again and with 3 miles to go, Bob Lazarro again overcame his discomfort to pull us to within 1 mile of France.

The swells remained formidable but the water was warming up, possibly to a muggy 60 degrees Fahrenheit! When I hit the water, the adrenalin again swept me along. I don't know if anyone noticed, but it was hard to not swim and smile at the same time. As I got closer, The Viking Princess stopped and Reg Brickell got into a skiff, The Amy, and rowed along side me until I could stand up. I was still 100 yards offshore and learned later my teammates were snickering at my awkward, clumsy attempts to walk rapidly in thigh deep water. I got from Ray an empty tennis can that I could fill with rocks and sand from the beach at Cape Cris Nez. Finally, on getting "clear of water" as Shirley had been required to do 10 hours, 24 minutes earlier at Shakespeare Beach, I kissed the sand and then asked some French picnicers on the beach, "Ou est la France?" They laughed and said, "You must be an American." We had done it. I couldn't wait to get back to the boat.

The trip back was wet and rough, but nothing could dampen our spirits over those three hours. I just floated three feet above the deck. We all just kept reliving the day, smiling and joking in spite of our fatigue. I was so proud of all of us.

We chatted some more with Reg, Ray and Brian at their favorite pub in Folkstone when we got back, but soon we departed for a hot shower and dinner.

The last words I heard from Reg were his congratulations to Mo, "Good swim, Luv."

We spent one more day in Dover, reviewing our swim over and over and sending postcards. We made a trip out into the English countryside to the Channel Swim Association Secretary-Treasurer's house to pick up some booty and do some paper-work. We then had one full day in London to sightsee and finally headed home. I had mixed feelings, not wanting the trip to end, but looking forward to returning to Virginia.

Do It Again?

Of course, we've talked about little else since getting home. It's interesting how the English Channel lures swimmers like the Odyssey's sirens. Since returning, both Mo and Joseph have said to me, "you know, we need to do that again, we can break 10 hours." Definitely.

Shirley and Bob have mentioned the thought of trying solo to me.

I learned the other day that the water in the Channel was up to 64 degrees. It would sure be an adventure.