We’d stopped rowing after a tough, one-kilometre ‘piece’. My
mop of unruly hair was annoying; it tickled my face and was in my eyes and
mouth. Finally I had a chance to show it who was boss – tame it with a bungee.
I took off my glasses to polish off the steam. They caught awkwardly in my wild
hair and I saw them catapult into the river. I lunged for them but all I
achieved was to rock the boat. ‘My glasses!’ I shrieked. C at stroke tried to
grab them too but they sank amongst ribbons of long green weed. ‘I’ll go in!’ C
said, but cox forbade her. I considered disobedience. I could feign a swoon and
tumble into the river. Or stand and dive in. While I was dithering, they disappeared
into the murk.
Cox sympathised but said, ‘It’s really deep here. There’s no
chance of finding them.’
That was a challenge I couldn’t resist. I was a SCUBA diver.
I was a cave-diver. I’d swum across a fjord. I’d find them, even if sometimes I’d
temporarily lose them when I put them down on the bed at home.
We stacked the blades and eight in the boathouse and while still
steamy from the row, C & I returned to the site of the sinking. We knew
where my glasses were, but they were light, and could have floated away from
where I’d dropped them. The river on the Stourbridge Meadow side was thigh deep
where I slipped into the water. I’d kept my trainers on for fear of broken
glass and hypodermic but could still that the bottom was squidgy. The water was
colder than I expected. Much colder. This was summer, for heaven’s sake. Why
was it so cold?
I allowed myself to fall forward. Sheesh, it was f-f-freezing.
The cold made me gasp and pant however hard I tried to slow my breathing. How
was I going to be able to hold my breath and search the river bottom while I
was gasping and spluttering? Then there was the issue of brain freeze. I tried
to get all the pain over in one go and dipped right under the water. I was
assaulted by pain in my scalp. This was daft. C was shouting encouragement from
the bank. I had to do a few dives at least.
‘Two-thirds of the way across. There! You’re in the right place,
Jane! Try there!’
I did. Head down, legs in the air to take me down. It was
deep. Brain freeze. I grabbed my nose to clear my ears. Further down. It was
about three metres deep here. Who’d have guessed the sleepy old River Cam at
Cambridge is three metres deep? I couldn’t see much. I reached the silty
bottom. Quick feel around. My hand closed around a shell. Out of breath. Swam for the surface. More
gasping and panting. Breath back. ‘Anything?’ C asked.
‘A freshwater mussel shell!
‘Can you see anything?’
‘Yes. More than I was expecting – even without my glasses
on.’
‘You’re opening your eyes?’
‘Yes... but it’s sooo cold.’
Brain aching, I surface-dived again. Managed to feel around
on the bottom for a second or two. Found a lager can. Saw the red of a Coke
can. A silt-covered wine bottle. A hunk of wood. Searching raised the sediment
and made it more difficult to see. Need air. Up to air. I surfaced, spluttering
and disorientated, in the middle of the river. I swam back to the place of
sinking. Dived down. Gulping. Anxious not to swallow any Weil’s-laced water. Cleared
my ears. Not much time searching.
‘I’m coming in!’ C shouted from the bank.
‘Wow! Really? You don’t have to.’ And she was in, gasping. Fighting
the cold.
A few dives later, with C trying to convince herself the
water temperature was ‘refreshing’, we concluded we needed masks. C had a wetsuit too. ‘Yeh but I’ll do a few
more dives. I’m getting used to it. A bit.’ My scalp wasn’t aching any more and
I had better breath-control. And I’d found a bit of river with long ribbons of weed
just like where my glasses had sunk. I dived down, swimming between the clingy Carlsberg-green
strands, searching. The glasses could be caught amongst the weed. I found a
traffic cone, a bit of fence, a fishing weight, and various unidentifiable
items. I needed a mask. Up for a breath.
Down again, I reached a patch of cabbagey plants, and a big
block of concrete.
A different kind of cold was getting to me now and I needed
to get out. I was grateful to C for helping me out of the water. My muscles
were seizing and it was hard to clamber onto the lovely soft grass of the
meadow.
Next day, Sunday morning, I’d unearthed some past-their-sell-by-date
contact lenses and was back with mask snorkel and fins, with A this time. I
thought of David Walliams and others who promote ‘wild swimming’. They’re
clearly tougher than me – although lots wear wetsuits, I guess. After my fjord
swim this summer I’d even thought of trying a long swim in the Cam, but now I
knew this was utter madness. I’d wondered about the temperature. If the river was
mostly ground water unheated by the sun, it would be not much more than ground
temperature which at this latitude in England must be around 12◦C.
It felt that cold. I was surprised to discover that the Olympics pool is kept as
cold as 25 but most of us swim in indoor pools kept around 29◦C.
Wild swimming info implies that 15◦C is likely in English rivers. Does
anyone know?
I slipped in watched, without interest, by several well-fed
fishermen. It wasn’t any warmer. There hadn’t been much sun all summer. While I
was standing unenthusiastically in the thigh-deep water before that first unappetising
plunge, a cruiser came by. The engines were quiet, but I was surprised just how
much it unsteadied me. It – and others – would churn up the water and my lightweight
glasses could have floated anywhere.
I had to get in. I felt like I was drawing attention to
myself. I swam two-thirds of the way across the river and made my first brain-freezing
dive into murky greenish water. Even with the fins on, it was a long way down.
I’d dropped my glasses into the very deepest part of the river. My antics made
scullers uneasy. Disapproving oarsmen were perhaps thinking of anarchists in
the water. A joined me in the river for a short while. Our attempts to search
were interrupted by passing boats. I chatted briefly to people from my rowing
club.
A quad approached. The cox asked ‘Lost something?’
‘My glasses!’
‘They’re on your head!’ His whole boat liked that quip.
One of the oarswomen asked, ‘Why’s your son on the bank
while you’re doing the searching?’
‘He’s needs more subcutaneous fat,’ I said pompously.
A heard the cox translate, ‘He’s too skinny!’
I continued diving until I started recognising the jetsam I
encountered – the same drinks cans, that concrete block, pieces of water-logged
tree... I was ready to quit, but A suggested searching downstream.
The cold was starting to get to me again. ‘Three more dives.’
I spluttered.
My left calf started to cramp. Time to get out. Not so easy. Limbs not working any more.
A – now warmed again by the sun – took photos. He didn’t
help as I thrashed around trying to get out of the water. I thought of the
Ulster dialect word – to sprockle. My Belfast-raised Dad used the word to mean
floundering about in an ungainly and ineffectual manner; often people are
laughing at you as you get up and try to regain your dignity. That was me on
the bank – sprockling. A took more photos to prove it. And I hadn’t even recovered
my glasses.
