February
Fifty strokes don’t sound like a lot if you are swimming in an indoor heated pool. One length of a twenty-five-metre pool or thereabouts, depending on how long your strokes are, how much power you can put into each stroke, whether you sustain the power and momentum as your arms grow more tired, and how much you use your legs. But add in the outdoor factors, which all impact heat retention and energy consumption: water temperature 4°C; keeping your head just above water; waves, even small lumps and bumps in the water; and a chilly breeze that strips heat from your body in a second. Suddenly, every stroke feels like fifty and you have no idea whether or not you’re cold, warm, happy or sad – you just are on automatic pilot, silently counting.
As Stevie disrobed, she was mentally going through anything she needed to warn Chris about before they swam this morning. It would be his first fifty-stroke swim, which meant that although they could stay within their depth as they were swimming along the lakeshore towards the boathouse from Lanthwaite Woods, technically it was further than he’d swum before, so he would be in the water for at least five to seven minutes. That was a long time, really, considering the water temperature. However, she knew he was acclimatised now and so long as he was mentally prepared and physically relaxed, he would be fine. She hadn’t failed to notice he swam really strongly and, combined with his wide and well-developed shoulders, it made her think What utter bollocks he’d been talking that day down at the lake when he had taken their photographs. Not a swimmer? Maybe not in the lake, but she bet he put in a few lengths at a pool somewhere. He had a cyclist’s well-developed legs, from his backside to his calves, but she wondered what he did to keep his back so muscular and flexible. Not that she’d been staring at him or anything, but it was becoming increasingly hard not to notice how attractive he was.
He didn’t appear to be worried about the championships now; in fact, his enthusiasm amazed her. Such was the power of the cold-water buzz, but, more importantly, the regular four times a week swims she’d insisted he commit to in order to acclimatise properly.
She looked across to where he was bent over his clothes, checking everything was ready to put on in the correct order when he came out. There was a strength to his body that matched her own, just naturally toned with enough of everything in the right place. Good grief, she thought, imagine if he could hear my thoughts!
She knew he had been glancing over at her too while they were changing. She’d caught him looking at her legs when she’d peeled off her leggings. It made her feel a bit giddy. Then she watched as he checked his tow float was secure around his waist and goggles were pulled down over his eyes. Only then did he turn and nod at her. Was that the signal? She couldn’t resist a quick giggle at how seriously he was taking this, but stopped herself before he noticed. That would be grossly unfair of her.
‘Ready when you are.’ He gave her another quick nod.
Together, like a strange couple about to engage in a serious ceremony somewhere near the horizon, they slowly stepped across the leaf and twig-strewn beach, silently hating every second of the uncomfortable, wince-inducing crossing. It was worse once they were ankle deep in the water when the cold bit into already over-stimulated soles. Neither of them uttered a word, but just silently mouthed a few suitably vigorous expletives.
Nothing was forcing them to do this on a grey, blustery winter’s morning. Apart, that is, from loyalty to each other as part of a winter swimming team. They strode forwards together, step by step moving from comfort to discomfort.
Stevie knew that he was now experienced enough to be left to do this on his own. She now wanted him to experience this part of the journey into the chilli-prickle world of cold-water swimming in a solitary, but supported, way. He had said he trusted that even if he just waivered or paused, hesitated or uttered the words, ‘No, I can’t do this,’ she would be there: physically, emotionally, and mentally. It was as if that unspoken relationship between two winter skin swimmers bound them together until such time as ‘normality’ brought them release from each other once again. Then boundaries would re-emerge in the same way that armrests are pulled down between air passengers, providing accepted division and definition between two strangers.
Normally, the bubble of selfhood and self-protection would have burst as each of them swam through ‘the change’ and the corners of their mouths would have turned up into a smile. However, today was fifty-stroke day and you can’t count at the same time as grinning.
* * *
‘Fifty!’ called Chris as he reached the limit of his outwards swim. Then treading water briefly and catching his breath, he turned and started the long, cold swim back. It did feel colder and it did feel longer. His stroke started to lose speed and strength. A moment of panic flitted across his face and instantly Stevie’s voice broke into his feelings of fear.
‘Ten. Keep counting. Keep going. Pull through, breathe, keep that rhythm, work those legs. And that’s twenty; you’re nearly there. And off you go again, don’t stop, pull down through the water and kick, chin under and breathe out.’
She was right next to him, about a yard of dark, cold water separated them and he could see her out of the corner of his eye, while also keeping his sight pinned on the tall tree that stood on the beach. It was known locally as the Sighting Tree: it held power and reassurance.
‘And you’re there! You’ve done it!’
His feet touched down and he felt the tension in his neck and shoulders begin to slide away, but it wasn’t over yet. Not until he had got himself out, dried, and dressed. Then would come the next stage of every winter swim: sipping hot tea, pacing up and down, and moving through the different stages of the body coming back to life, from the feelings of chill up the back to the tenseness in the arms, legs, and lower back to the warm afterglow, which made this discomfort all worthwhile.
‘Ouch, ouch!’ They both swore out loud this time because of the slippery stones on the lake bed. He grabbed her hand so that they could help each other balance.
Even so, it was an awkward walk with goose-bumped arms bashing together and half-numb bodies leaning against each other as gravity threatened to plonk them back in the shallows. Their hands remained in an unbreakable knot of white knuckles and pink pads and they didn’t let go until they were both at their respective piles of kit.
Never before had he dried himself so quickly. He stripped off his trunks, not giving a hoot about exposing everything to the wind that had now started to really pick up. On with everything he’d brought, layer after insulating, protecting layer, until he was standing fully clothed, his hands beginning to shake slightly as he tried to pour sweet hot liquid from his flask. Splashes everywhere, but eventually, he had himself under control enough to bring the mug up to his lips, then swear as it burnt them and then, finally, take a sip or two. He could feel the hot goodness run down inside his gullet and drop into his cold stomach. Everything felt cold now, but he knew it was better to keep sipping and move around.
* * *
Stevie was now dressed and in need of a hot drink. There were no shakes as she poured out blackcurrant juice into her enamel mug. Those first few sips started the warming up process.
The shivering continued for Chris. She could tell from how his fingers were now turning pink that he could probably feel his hands and feet again, but only just. And there was no doubt that words were moving from his brain and out of his mouth.
‘Wow! That was hard,’ he managed.
His tin mug was jerking around, orange and raspberry tea slopping out of it as the shivers took over his whole body. He laughed and tried to hold his mug arm down with his other arm. It worked for a while, at least enough to get the mug to his mouth and take a sip. Then he had a sudden shiver and, with a jerk, his arm shot up to his nose and he got coated in hot liquid.
‘You did really well,’ reassured Stevie. She knew if she hadn’t coaxed him back to the beach, his arms would have moved more and more slowly as hypothermia crept in. They were within their depth the whole time, but even so, with that cold wind, trying to stumble back along the rocky shore might have been equally risky. She knew he had the necessary grit to keep pulling his arms through and keep kicking his legs. After all, he did cycling events, so he knew how deep you had to dig when you felt like throwing up, getting off your bike, curling up, and crying.
‘You’ve done it. You know what it is going to feel like now, only that was far worse as you swam double what you will on the day.’
‘Plus, on the day, I guess adrenalin of the event carries you through to a certain extent,’ responded Chris. It was what he’d always found when he trained for a sportive. The actual event was usually so buzzy that even if you’d trained just short of the distance, your natural high would take you over the line.
‘Hmmm, not quite,’ Stevie corrected him. ‘Although it’s not competitive, you will naturally want to do your best, so you’ll push yourself to the limit. But factor in the cold water and exposure. That’s why if we train to swim further, there should be no problem.’
‘Phew, I’m quite glad that’s over. At least I know I can do it now.’ Chris smiled and realised he must have started to warm through just a bit because the shivering had slowed down and become less violent. ‘Did you say Holly’s gone down to London? Sorry, I was concentrating so hard earlier on getting in that water and not dying!’ He laughed.
‘Yeh, I could tell!’
‘It’s her fiftieth, isn’t it?’ he added.
‘Finally, yes. Her husband has organised a swim thing for her at Parliament Hill Lido, a kind of pool party tomorrow. I’ve had to keep it quiet though as he wanted it to be a total surprise.’
‘Sounds good. Although I’m guessing it’s a darn sight warmer than Crummock?’
‘Actually, no, probably as cold, if not colder. They keep it open all year now, but don’t heat it.’
‘Oooh, it’s not going to be much of a party then, is it?’ He laughed. ‘More time out of the water than in, I reckon?’
‘There’s a band, dancing, buffet – all sorts, she’ll love it! Plus, Simon’s taken on the challenge of learning how to do butterfly stroke, but he wanted to do it just for Holly. I don’t know anything else about it. He wouldn’t tell me. But he did tell me about what’s being built in her garden while they’re away.’ She saw Chris’s brow furrow and she knew the irony of Simon and the lido had become apparent.
‘So, he could have done this?’ He waved his free hand across the view of the lake and back to where they were sitting. But then, for the first time since getting involved with this team of women, he felt protective of his role as their ‘man’. He couldn’t imagine giving it up now, or not having ever been a part of it. He looked at Stevie. She too was staring out at the lake, so her profile was all he could see. The strong line of her nose, those lips that made him feel like kissing her, and a chin that suggested she’d not give up easily on anything or anyone.
She turned her head to look at Chris and smiled to herself. He’d been staring at her. And he was still looking at her with a strange expression on his face. She never knew that brown eyes could twinkle as much as blue ones, or was it just the light playing tricks? No, it was because he was smiling, just a small smile, but it felt intimate, as if it was just for her to see – and feel. Serendipity had brought her ‘man’ and she was pretty glad it was Chris. How different he was to John; there was something very gentle in his manner with everyone, mixed in with a hint of playfulness. She wondered whether he got angry easily or just let things wash over him. He seemed fairly easy-going and keen to fit in with the swimming team, but not try to take over any training plans they had. She liked his sense of humour and commitment to what they were doing, as if now he had decided he was part of the team, he wanted to make it the best team it could be. In a way, it felt like he was championing and supporting her. The feeling was an unfamiliar one, given how John had been so domineering in every aspect of their lives, or simply just not available. He hadn’t exuded warmth and compassion like Chris did. Somehow, although she really hardly knew him, Chris made her feel safe.
‘How long is it now until the championships?’ Chris broke the moment.
Stevie had to think for a minute or so before answering. ‘Two weeks? Yes, that’s right. Another eight swims, or so? But you seem to be doing really well already.’
‘All we need now is another female swimmer,’ said Chris, pouring himself another mug of hot tea.
‘Do we?’ Stevie was having to work really hard to get her brain back where it needed to be and away from those brown eyes: the team, February, Scotland. ‘Yes, Angela. I’m not worried about that at all though. We’ll find someone up there on the day.’
‘I feel rather exclusive.’ Chris laughed, preening himself like a prize cockerel, but with his eyes on Stevie. ‘Perhaps you could hire me out at the championships?’ It was a question directed at her and said in a tone that almost suggested he was throwing down a challenge: if you don’t want me, I’m sure someone else will. Or was that just her imagination going crazy?
Stevie’s face betrayed her awkward surprise and then real amusement at this man who somehow had found a place in her world. He was ‘her man’ and the thought of him swimming with any other team of women made her feel all funny inside. Was she growing attached to him? Was that why she’d secretly been really looking forward to this morning’s fifty-metre swim, just the two of them?