They say that what doesn't kill you only
serves to make you stronger. It's probably very true, but for that
split-second in time when I turned that corner round the furthest buoy in
Hampstead Ponds, a calm serenity flooded over me. I'm at least 50 metres
from the nearest human being, I'm thinking, and my strokes are decreasing at an
exponential rate. If the old heart, as good to me as he's been over the
years, suddenly decided to pack it in now, I'll sink like a stone. And
there won't be a chance of finding me, in the middle of this lake, sleeping
with the fishes.
The freshwater weighs down on me, strangely viscous, like mercury. The cold seeps through my pores, biting its way into my very core. I've not got the shoulders for swimming, this much I know. For all the good the power in my arms does, it effectively becomes an albatross around my neck if it isn't transferred into a meaningful stroke, a thrusting of the hands first forward, then curving outwards in a smooth, sweeping arc. Sapping more and more energy out of me, draining my concentration. My movements becomes ragged, my head bobs from side to side as I desperately try to bring my stroke back in line to resemble some sort of semblance of technique. But to no avail; it only serves to quicken the heart-beat and shorten my progress to salvation. I twist my body and swivel onto my back in an attempt to reinvigorate my aching limbs. Backstroke! A new direction. Less strain on the lungs, lazy wisps of cloud drift across the sky. But the effort of forcing my arms up and out iof the water relinquishes the dulling throb of pain (my heart?), before this too becomes just another contributor to my downfall.
The extremities of my body are shutting down on me one by one. An iciness creeps up my fingers, tingling through my nerves, playfully, sending a shiver down my spine. It dawns on me that I've been thrashing around valiantly for maybe two minutes now since that first thought of not actually making it reared its ugly head. I roll over onto my front and look up; I don't seem to have gone far in that time, while my fellow competitors are way off in the distance, by the finishing pontoon. They seem to be gesticulating wildly at me. I can see their mouths frantically opening and closing, yet no sound reaches me. My ears have closed up; the cold water has made its way into my olfactory canals, my very essence.
I break into a crawl, perhaps now is the time to put on a grandstand finish for the cheering crowds! As I kick for home, my body tenses. A bolt of pain flashes through my chest, I'm paralysed through fear and agony. I go limp, losing all control over my limbs. My senses desert me in my hour of need, I'm helpless. I'm watching a shadow of my former self, trying to find my voice to shout for help, but plunging into the deliciously dark, icy abyss.
The freshwater weighs down on me, strangely viscous, like mercury. The cold seeps through my pores, biting its way into my very core. I've not got the shoulders for swimming, this much I know. For all the good the power in my arms does, it effectively becomes an albatross around my neck if it isn't transferred into a meaningful stroke, a thrusting of the hands first forward, then curving outwards in a smooth, sweeping arc. Sapping more and more energy out of me, draining my concentration. My movements becomes ragged, my head bobs from side to side as I desperately try to bring my stroke back in line to resemble some sort of semblance of technique. But to no avail; it only serves to quicken the heart-beat and shorten my progress to salvation. I twist my body and swivel onto my back in an attempt to reinvigorate my aching limbs. Backstroke! A new direction. Less strain on the lungs, lazy wisps of cloud drift across the sky. But the effort of forcing my arms up and out iof the water relinquishes the dulling throb of pain (my heart?), before this too becomes just another contributor to my downfall.
The extremities of my body are shutting down on me one by one. An iciness creeps up my fingers, tingling through my nerves, playfully, sending a shiver down my spine. It dawns on me that I've been thrashing around valiantly for maybe two minutes now since that first thought of not actually making it reared its ugly head. I roll over onto my front and look up; I don't seem to have gone far in that time, while my fellow competitors are way off in the distance, by the finishing pontoon. They seem to be gesticulating wildly at me. I can see their mouths frantically opening and closing, yet no sound reaches me. My ears have closed up; the cold water has made its way into my olfactory canals, my very essence.
I break into a crawl, perhaps now is the time to put on a grandstand finish for the cheering crowds! As I kick for home, my body tenses. A bolt of pain flashes through my chest, I'm paralysed through fear and agony. I go limp, losing all control over my limbs. My senses desert me in my hour of need, I'm helpless. I'm watching a shadow of my former self, trying to find my voice to shout for help, but plunging into the deliciously dark, icy abyss.
