Downstream by Caitlin Davies Read Free Book Online Page A

follow the curve of the river – and I frequently find myself in the middle. Ahead of me a woman is doing backstroke straight into a bunch of reeds. Then along comes another swan, the small support boat is in front of me and I can’t remember what hand signal to use. I try a full wave, then I shout, ‘help! Swan!’ The boat turns and comes back but the swan has decided it’s in charge and so it leads us majestically, carrying twelve swimmers and two boats in its wake until eventually it glides off to the right. Now we’re at a bridge and a mooring point. I approach the smaller support boat and ask for some water, only to be told there are just 500 metres to go. I’m ecstatic. I can’t think how long this will take but, incredibly, our first and longest swim of the day is nearly over.
    We get out near the Kelmscott landing stage and as we walk to the inn for lunch I ask the others what they most feared. ‘I was worried about death,’ says Kate May, ‘and drowning. But it was an amazing experience, it was so relaxing. The river carries you and the scenery is lovely.’ Kate Beevers, who has never swum in a river before, says she had a moment of panic: she didn’t want to put her head in the water, so she did side stroke for a while until she managed to overcome her fear. We talk about our families and our jobs: our group includes a civil servant, a local authority public heath official, a clinical psychologist and an adult education tutor. We chat about what other people think of our swim and one woman explains that her friends generally say, ‘you’re doing what? The Thames? Ugh!’
    Our Australian guide says the English like organised adventure holidays – stressing the word ‘organised’ – and that we like rules and we’re obsessed with Health & Safety. I ask about the training programme and everyone says they did no training at all; you just need to be someone who swims regularly. As we walk back to the landing stage two women drive past. ‘Are you going to William Morris’ manor?’ asks the driver. ‘No!’ I say, ‘we’re going to swim.’ ‘Well, the manor is closed,’ says the driver, not reacting to what I’ve said at all.
    Swim number two starts well. I’ve had lunch and I’m warmed up, but I also feel a little lazy and that quickly turns to feeling very tired. I trail at the back, my shoulders seem to be made of metal and urgently need oiling. In the first swim I was somewhere in the middle, now I’m second from last. ‘Try some side stroke,’ says Kate Beevers kindly. Then I see another group of swans and cygnets almost hidden from sight, nestled on the bank. Our guide thinks she recognises one of the swans from the day before and she instructs us all to group together and swim to one side of the boat. This doesn’t deter the swans; they are both in the river now, and they’re following us round the boat. At this point I put my head down and swim as fast as I can.
    Travelling down the Thames with SwimTrek, where the river is lush and the water is clean.
    But soon I’m exhausted again, my arms and shoulders ache and I can’t swim breaststroke because of my wetsuit. The river seems to just go on and on. Unlike in a pond or a pool, there is no end point, no markers to swim towards, and I don’t know where we’re heading because every view is new.
    I feel cocooned in the water, but at the same time oddly exposed. There is a huge gap between me and the swimmer in front and, behind, just a wide expanse of river. I try to swim on my back, then on my front; I feel as if I’m on a long plane journey and I can’t get comfortable and I can’t get out. I want to relax and enjoy where I am, to remember this journey down the upper Thames. I think of Charlie Wittmack explaining how he tried to enter a meditative state and spent much of the first day of