Downstream by Caitlin Davies Read Free Book Online Page B

his world triathlon just floating. But, more importantly, I remember how he said he regretted he didn’t have time to appreciate where he was.
    So I tell myself: this is the Thames, this beautiful, clear, empty river, lined with weeping willows. I’m part of a tradition; I’m swimming in a place where for more than a hundred years women and men have bathed and paddled and raced. Then I see the nose of a crocodile peeping just above the water, disguised as a log. I tell myself I’m in the Thames, I must be going mad.
    I come to a white house on the right bank; we’ve been told this means we’re about three-quarters of the way. Yet still our swim goes on and on. I can hear a boat behind me but when I turn round there is nothing; instead it’s a helicopter in the sky. The few times a boat does pass, it is carrying day trippers, meandering downriver,just as in Victorian times. I call out, ‘which way is London?’ and a woman on board gives a tight smile.
    Then we arrive at Grafton Lock, a working lock since 1896, and I’m looking forward to having a rest; with two swims down there is just a kilometre and a half to go. This time when I’m offered tea I take it, with lots of sugar, then I accept a piece of chocolate, too. To make it worse I then drink some Coke. Now I’m not only tired but also feeling a bit sick. And I’m so dazed and disorientated that I’ve washed my hands with antibacterial gel, removed the top of my wetsuit, eaten the chocolate and then used the hand gel again.
    We walk to an iron jetty on the other side of the lock to wait for the boat. I look at the woman next to me: she seems a bit jittery. ‘Why am I doing this?’ she asks. At lunch she was one of several women who said they had young children and wanted the chance to do something for themselves, to have a challenge. I say I feel sick, and the guides ask if I want to get on the boat. I say no, because I’m expecting us all to have a nice lie-down. But several of the group are laughing and taking off their wetsuits for the final swim. That was my intention, to swim in the Thames as naturally as possible, but I think the wetsuit is the only thing that will keep me going. A man on the bank comes up to the fence and asks, ‘are you doing this for charity?’ ‘No!’ we shout in unison.
    Someone suggests I wear flippers but I haven’t worn flippers since I was a little kid and I’m feeling hysterical as I step backwards down a ladder and put on the fins, which takes me a long while. And then surprise! I’m as speedy as anything. I whip through the water. For one glorious moment I’m even leading the pack, a family of pink-hatted otters down the River Thames. I turn on my back and realise that with flippers on I can fold my arms over my stomach, lift my head up out of the water and just comfortably speed along. I see a pillbox left over from the Second World War, a concrete lookout post on the bank of the river, built to halt an anticipated German advance through the English countryside. As we approachRadcot Bridge, often said to be the oldest on the Thames and built in the thirteenth century, we’re told to swim together because there are lots of boats. I swim underneath the stone arch and then look up; there is a hotel to my left and people having a drink outside look at us as if we’re crazy.
    I don’t want to get out now. I peel off half my wetsuit, take off my hat and flippers, and have one final splash. Then Cliff, the boat driver, puts a long ladder into the water and one by one we haul ourselves up as he watches us, expressionless, not even a flicker of a smile. Sandra looks at her watch: ‘the total we’ve swum is less than four hours. Think how many days Walliams did.’
    I’m feeling triumphant, but there is no way I would do a two-day swimming trip, although two of the group will be swimming all day tomorrow and others are