In my youth, I secretly harboured a dream of swimming the Channel. When I was 20, I worked as a lifeguard and swimming teacher at the council-run swimming pool in Cambridge. There were some intriguing regulars. Prof Stephen Hawking would watch poolside as his nephews swam. There was also a smattering of ex-Olympic swimmers, including a Maltese guy who moved through the water with such precision and power that he barely made a ripple. Watching him was hypnotic.
One of the city’s swimming club coaches had competed at the Munich Olympics. I confided in her that I planned to swim the Channel. I knew it would take at least two or three years of hard training, I told her, but I was committed and time was on my side – I was only 21. She looked me up and down and told me that there were not enough geese in the world to render the fat required to insulate my skinny legs from 12 cold hours in the Channel. “Find another dream,” she said.
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