Читать книгу The Art of Resilience - Ross Edgley - Страница 8

PROLOGUE

It’s 10.00 a.m. on 31 January 2018 at the Royal Marines Commando Training Centre in Lympstone, Devon. I had just completed a 48-hour training swim (covering 185 km in the centre’s training pool) in preparation for my quest to set the record for the world’s longest current-neutral swim in an ocean, sea or bay. I was planning to take on this challenge around Bermuda where the waters were warm, the food was great, and I knew lots of people with boats so plenty of support would be at hand.

Entering the officer’s mess (an area where military personnel socialise and eat) I sat down with my good friend Ollie Mason, a Royal Marine Captain, head rugby coach and my temporary training instructor, to reflect on the last few days. Perched on a couple of grand leather sofas, we drank tea and spent the first few moments in silence.

Looking around it always felt like such a privilege for me just to be here. Hundreds of officers would have passed through these doors over the years. Yet this place still possessed a kind of timeless, old-fashioned opulence and came complete with solid-oak bookcases, polished brass door frames, a grand piano in the corner and a huge painting depicting a group of commandos receiving their green berets and becoming fully-fledged Royal Marines.

The silence was broken as we were joined by one of the older officers.

‘You boy,’ he said pointing at my shrivelled feet and hands. ‘I heard about your 48-hour training swim. What is it that you are training for?’

He was tall with massive hands that made the teacup he was drinking from look comically puny. He also had an equally impressive moustache. You couldn’t have designed a better Royal Marine Officer if you’d tried.

‘I’m possibly training for the world’s longest current-neutral swim,’ I said.

He paused and sipped his tea, looking pensively into the bottom of the cup as if searching for clues before giving his verdict.

‘Can I be honest with you, young man?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please do,’ I replied, intrigued as to what he could possibly say.

‘That just sounds a bit shit.’

Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting this response. Nor did I actually ask for a response. In fact, I was still yet to introduce myself and learn his name. But it seemed the usual pleasantries had been forgotten and we’d gone straight into an impromptu brainstorming session.

Ollie then intervened. ‘I’m going to be honest, mate. I think you should just man up and swim around Great Britain.’

‘Why would I do that?’ I asked stunned at the scale of his proposed swim.

‘Well, I can think of at least three reasons,’ he said. ‘It’s about 1,800 miles so would be the longest staged sea swim in human history. You’d be bringing that record back home to British waters. And it doesn’t sound as shit as a current-neutral swim in Bermuda.

I paused to consider his logic.

At first, I dismissed the idea. Sipping my cup of tea in a semi-conscious and heavily-chlorinated state, I laughed, shook my head and shuddered at the thought of spending my summer ploughing through some of the most treacherous currents in the world up and down the coast of Britain.

But as the night wore on, and the tea supply ran low, I have to admit it no longer seemed like the worst proposition in the world. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight due to sleep deprivation, but as I sat there comatose in my giant leather chair the thought of swimming around this big rock we call Great Britain continued to play on repeat in my head. I began to think about the Great British adventurers of old, from Captain James Cook to Ernest Shackleton; it seems adventure and exploration are engrained in our British DNA, and the idea of following in their footsteps (in my own smaller way) had now lit a fire under my belly that even an energy-sapping 48-hour, 185-km training swim couldn’t extinguish.

~

It’s 7.00 p.m. on 3 August 2018 and we’re 63 days (and over 800 miles) into the Great British Swim. We’ve reached the Gulf of Corryvreckan, a narrow strait between the islands of Jura and Scarba off the west coast of mainland Scotland. There is no doubt this is the wild, wild west of Great Britain. In the summer, the towering mountains plunge into the glens below among scattered collections of pine trees. But in the winter, those same mountain ridges become shrouded in white as Arctic blizzards leave a crystalline layer of shimmering snow on their peaks.

At the moment, we are somewhere between summer and autumn. Mile after mile of gnarled, wet heathland across the firths and fells is turning a golden brown in the ever-weakening sun. All of which you can enjoy as an incredible and unique spectacle if wrapped in a thick coat, woollen hat and warm thermal gloves.

None of which you can enjoy if you find yourself submerged in 8°C seawater, midway through an attempt to become the first person to swim around Great Britain, the ninth-largest island in the world.

Which is exactly where I currently find myself. Some 856 miles into what will be known as the Great British Swim. Far from happy and far from healthy.

After swimming through treacherous storms, pounding waves, constantly changing tides and polluted shipping lanes, my lungs and limbs no longer function like they used to and have been plagued by fatigue for twelve hours a day for the past two months straight. But this was a fatigue unlike any I’d experienced before …

Exhaustion was essentially deep-rooted within my ligaments and tendons. What’s more, my tongue was shedding layers from chronic salt water exposure as I gasped for air with every stroke. (This was a condition known as ‘salt tongue’ where all moisture from the mouth is lost and the first few layers of your tongue begin to erode away.) To top it all off, the Scottish waters were showing no mercy as the very tides themselves felt angry and venomous.

As for my other body parts, my shoulders had been relentlessly contorted by the waves for so long, while my skin had been tormented by chafing, sea ulcers and the bitter cold. In fact it was so rough, discoloured and a strange blend of blue, purple and grey that I no longer looked like I belonged to this world. Finally, my nose and cheeks had swollen so much from the constant battering of the waves that I struggled to fit my goggles over my increasingly painful eye sockets.

But despite my long list of ailments I did consider myself lucky to still be on the surface of the water (rather than below it). The local coastguard had told us that the waters are so treacherous and the death toll so high, its place is forever cemented in Scottish folklore. Local fishermen speak of a mythological Hag Goddess who governs the lochs and pools of Scotland.

I must point out that, before arriving at the Corryvreckan I would not have considered myself very superstitious, but that would quickly come to change. As the howling winds funnelled through the islands, the haunting sound which seemed to echo across the coast led me to believe that something in Scottish mythology was insulted that I would even attempt this.

The wildlife of Scotland seemed to agree too. Gathering to enjoy the spectacle, birds began to circle overhead and a lone seal watched from afar – none of them were quite sure what they were witnessing. That’s because my shoulders had been relentlessly contorted by the waves for so long, my swim stroke was dogged and cumbersome and I didn’t look like most humans they’d seen before.

Keeping a safe distance from this half-man half-beast, the crew on our support boat, the Hecate, decided it was time to prepare me for more torture ahead. Matt (the captain of the Great British Swim) and Taz (Matt’s son and chief crew) shouted clear and precise instructions from aboard the deck.

‘You’re going to have to sprint at full pace for the next three hours,’ Matt said with a hint of empathy, knowing he was asking a lot from my bruised and battered body. ‘If you do that, we’ll be clear of the whirlpool.’

Given the current state of my body, a three-hour sprint was ambitious. Unfortunately, I knew he was right; this was the only way to swim through this seething stretch of water known as the Corryvreckan whirlpool. At this moment in time, pacing strategies, rest and recovery simply didn’t exist. You either swam hard or you didn’t swim at all.

I signalled to Matt and Taz that I was ready. Carefully positioning my goggles around my swollen eyes, I set the three-hour countdown timer on my watch and promised myself I wouldn’t stop swimming until I heard the alarm. Neither whirlpool nor fabled water spirits were going to distract me from the task at hand.

Stroke after stroke I battled between the extremes of bravery and common sense. My arms ached and my lungs complained, but I knew this was better than the alternative fate that lay at the bottom of the ocean bed, so for the first 40 minutes I pleaded with my body to keep the impossible pace as we continued our attack on the Corryvreckan. But after an hour or so, the Scottish waters – also known as the mystical washtub of the Hag Goddess – had other ideas and delivered a ‘curve ball’ I never saw coming … a giant jellyfish swimming straight into my face.

There was not just one, but a whole army of them in the water. Known as lion’s mane jellyfish, their tentacles can grow up to 6 ft long and they can weigh up to 25 kg. But while I had been hit in the face by jellyfish tentacles many times before, this particular group was different. That’s because, despite trying to swim through their initial stings, I could still feel a burning sensation across my nose and cheeks.

After two hours, the pain was excruciating … it felt as if someone was pressing a hot poker into my face that was searing into my flesh with such intensity, I could feel the blisters forming with every mile that passed.

After two hours and thirty minutes, the pain became paralysing … I began to feel that I no longer had any control over the left side of my face as the toxins from the jellyfish seeped into my skin in the most painful form of paralysis I’ve ever experienced. No longer the manager of my own mouth, I was dribbling, but thankfully still not drowning.

After two hours and forty-five minutes, the pain became blinding … the paralysis had spread to my eyes and was now causing tears to fill my goggles and impair my vision. Trying to adjust my goggles mid-stroke, I quickly discovered this final jellyfish blow had stung my face so badly that my eye sockets had become inflamed and the seal of the goggles to my face was no longer watertight.

‘Keep swimming!’ Matt shouted from the boat.

With 40 years’ experience of sailing, he knew better than anyone that we were still uncomfortably (and dangerously) close to one of the world’s largest and most deadly whirlpools.

As my vision became increasingly impaired by my own tears and the salt water, I was now semi-blind … in the sea … with no sense of direction … so in desperation I punched the goggles into my face. Somehow (painfully) securing a watertight seal around the rims again, I regained some vision and was able to sprint in whatever direction Matt told me to.

After three hours, the pain became worth it … the alarm on my watch had never sounded so sweet as it signalled I had swum clear of the whirlpool. But with no time to celebrate, my focus immediately shifted to the pain of the jellyfish stings now plaguing my face, neck and arms.

‘I’ve been hit by a jellyfish!’ I shouted to the crew.

Taz rushed over to the side of the boat to assess the situation.

‘My skin’s still burning,’ I said wincing from the pain.

As Matt focused on maintaining a strict course through the perilous waters, Taz looked down at my face and saw immediately what was wrong.

‘Yes, I know,’ he said now visibly wincing too. ‘I can see the tentacle still wrapped around your face.’

Unbelievably, I had been WEARING A JELLYFISH TENTACLE all through the Corryvreckan.

I unpeeled the fat, thick, toxic tentacle that had somehow threaded itself through the goggle strap and around my face, and felt a momentary sense of relief as the bitter Scottish breeze cooled my skin. Now free to continue the swim, I covered three more miles before I was clear of the Corryvreckan’s clutches.

Climbing into the boat I collapsed onto the deck, mentally and physically spent. I now understood that the rules of conventional sport didn’t apply out here. In this wild and untamed corner of Britain, swimming technique was not going to be the limiting factor. Instead, adventures such as this one would be won or lost based on a person’s ability to summon every ounce of physical and mental fortitude they have in their arsenal and overcome chronic, crippling fatigue.

That night I came to realise this was much more than a swim … it was a form of extreme research into the art of resilience.

~

It’s 7.45 a.m. on 13 August 2018 and we’re (still) among the Inner Hebrides of Scotland.

‘Once you go under that bridge everything changes,’ said the fisherman in a thick Scottish accent that made everything he said sound even more ominous.

He was old, maybe north of 70 years old, and had been sailing these waters for more than half a century. You could almost see the wisdom and seafaring expertise etched into every line of his heavily wrinkled and weathered face, and the years spent hauling in the daily catch frozen into his deeply callused and hardened hands.

‘Up until now Scotland has been gentle with you,’ he said.

‘Really?’ I exclaimed.

I pulled down the neckline of my jumper to reveal my battle wounds that consisted of sea ulcers from the wetsuit chafing and jellyfish stings and scars from my time spent in the Corryvreckan with the Hag Goddess.

‘If that’s gentle, do you want to tell me what you’d classify as rough?’ I asked.

‘Oh, lad,’ he said with a concerned smile. ‘You’ve been swimming in the Inner Hebrides between the islands off mainland Scotland. These are close together, sometimes only a mile apart, and so offer some shelter from the wind and waves. If a storm comes in you can easily pull into a harbour for food and supplies and maybe even sample some famous Hebridean hospitality and a local single-malt whisky.’

As he said this he turned towards Kyle of Lochalsh, a place where you could hear the ancient Gaelic language being spoken and sung by folk musicians in the local pub.

‘You won’t find any of that once you swim under the Skye Bridge,’ he warned. ‘Once you pass under there, you’re heading to the Outer Hebrides and beyond. With nowhere to hide or shelter from a storm, it’s over 30 miles wide. You won’t be welcomed with whisky up there. Instead you’ll find 50-knot Arctic storms and 20-ft waves. Jellyfish might be the least of your worries.’

We all stood in silence for a moment and looked at the Skye Bridge. Spanning less than a mile across, it connects the island of Skye with mainland Scotland and the village of Kyle of Lochalsh over water that, prior to 1995, was only crossable by boat. Now it would become a pivotal landmark in the Great British Swim.

I had been on our boat this morning doing a round of interviews with the media along with some local fishermen intrigued about my round Britain adventure. The tide had begun to turn, which signalled the media interviews were over and another swim was about to begin. As the journalists and fishermen left the boat, I sat in silence with Matt as I delicately attempted to put on my cold, clammy wetsuit over my tender and raw wounds. As I did, one lone writer lingered on deck and plucked up the courage to ask three final questions that would become integral to both the swim and this book:

 ‘Why are you doing this?

 ‘Why doesn’t your body break?’

 ‘How does your mind not quit?’

In truth, I was still trying to answer these questions for myself.

Fatigue and pain were deeply entrenched in each and every cell of my body, and as I sat there they were threatening to bring a stop to the swim. In front of the journalist, even though I was still not 100 per cent sure of the answers, I tried my very best to articulate the conclusion I’d come to so far after 74 days at sea.

‘I think the reason my body hasn’t broken and my mind hasn’t quit (yet) is because I’ve been able to fuse the teachings of ancient Greek philosophers with modern sport scientists to form my own form of philosophy called Stoic Sports Science.’

The journalist appeared puzzled at first but then nodded with his pen and notepad poised as if eagerly anticipating my next answer, hoping I was about to dispense some profound, deep and spiritual seafaring wisdom. But unfortunately, I had nothing else for him. Since I still had over 900 miles left to swim, my newly found philosophy was far from proven. But I told him if I completed the swim, I would finish my study and the book.

‘Then I’ll have to wait to buy a copy,’ he said laughing.

I smiled as we sat there taking in the vast expanse of our surroundings while pondering what had brought us together in this unlikely gathering.

‘Okay, why are you doing this then?’ he asked.

I looked at Matt. He looked back at me with knowing eyes. Nothing needed to be said.

The memory of the start of this journey (and life back on land) seemed like a lifetime ago. Many miles, tides and sunsets had passed since that day. But to understand why we were doing this, you must understand we as humans have been practising the art of resilience for centuries. It’s the one key trait we possess over all other species. Therefore, in many ways, what began on 1 June 2018 on the sands of Margate beach in southeast England was just an exaggerated expression of our unique human ability to find strength when suffering.