A Boy in the Water by Tom Gregory

Author:Tom Gregory
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141988764
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2018-07-05T16:00:00+00:00

4. Windermere

10.15 a.m., 6 September 1988 – 5 hours, 14 miles off the French coast, English Channel

‘How are you feeling?’ came the question some time later, same as before. Time had passed. I did not know how much. The signal to approach the boat was new: John held up a fat stubby glass bottle. It looked like a Schweppes tonic bottle from the shape. The sort Dad would have in his drinks cabinet, maybe for ginger ale. John waved it gently from side to side until I noticed, and reacted. I had not done this before but the plan was obvious. He reached down precariously over the side of the boat as I approached, holding the bottle in one hand and the rail with the other. I swam gently towards him and held out an arm, with open hand in front of me. Both of us moved up and down with the sea so it took some thought. His grip on the bottle was by his fingertips, just on the neck. We had to avoid physical contact with one another at all costs. There was a fat, hand-sized glass body for me to grab, and so I grabbed it. It reminded me of the air-to-air refuelling process for war planes I had seen on the TV, where the nozzle and probe finally connect. Instantly I felt the warmth of the liquid through the glass in the palm of my hand. No mistaking the deep red content. My fuel was soup. Heinz tomato soup.

‘Not too bad,’ I said in reply. I had been in the water for some time now, maybe five hours, and my body knew it. My shoulder muscles were beginning to ache. My legs, at the join with the hip, the bit that always hurt on a long swim, were sore. My mind had wandered off into many different corners in the time since our last encounter. Suddenly I couldn’t recall what I had been thinking about. Time had vanished.

It took me a moment to come round. It can become hard to really feel the surface world when swimming for a long time. The motions of the body and the water itself combine to shut off other senses; the relentless noise of the splashing around the ears, the constant turning of the head, rolling of the body and the oscillating view of light and dark cast their own spell. You have to stop swimming to notice how things really are. I held the bottle out of the water and swigged. ‘Slowly, Tefal,’ I thought I heard from a voice other than John’s. The conditions seemed benign; the water was pretty flat – rolling rather than choppy. There was swell, and occasional big waves from the passing tankers and ferries somewhere in the vicinity, but things were calm. I had swum through much worse in the lake and on the coast. The sun was out. In fact, there was not a cloud in the sky. The lack of chop suggested barely any wind.

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