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