Swimming, alone, in the lake
Shepperton Open Water Swimming Lake. Saturday 17 August.
It’s 7.30am. I park my car in the makeshift car park next to the lake, lock up, strip off hurriedly. I leave my bag and clothes in a neat pile on the wet grass next to a picnic table. I can’t help it, but whirring around my head are recent — and not so recent — social media stories of swimmers disappearing while swimming: slipping quietly under water, drowning, nobody noticing until there is one solitary car left in the car park at the end of the day; one bag left on the side. So I wear a pink swim cap, a red swimsuit and my pink tow float for extra visibility. I chatter, too cheerfully, to the man sitting under the awning who takes my money to pay for the swim. I want to make an impression, for him to remember me. He’s not really interested, quickly turning his attention to the next person in the queue.
I’m not alone, there are many others here, but I feel very much alone. There are dozens of other swimmers, mostly in groups or pairs. I envy their camaraderie. For once I fancy some company. There are safety kayakers on the water too, strategically placed, sitting in their kayaks peacefully, eyeing us all as we swim past in a strange aquatic parade. I’d like to wave at them as I swim by, to have some human contact, but waving at a kayaker could be interpreted as signalling distress, so I ignore them pointedly, and swim past.
The lake is beautiful — clean and warm and big enough for all who want to swim. We swim clockwise, a 750m loop, a designated route mapped out by big red buoys that more or less follow the circumference of the lake. Despite the comfort to be gained by being close to land, and an easy exit if need be, I don’t hug the banks. The edges of any lake are to be avoided: swans lurk, gliding under the drooping willows, watching, ready to pick an argument if need be. Reeds and weeds are there too, to brush and prickle and alarm; and light filled water suddenly becomes freakishly dark and mysterious as the sun’s rays are obliterated by the trees. I give the edges of the lake a wide berth and swim in the deeper water.
Swimming obediently from buoy to buoy to buoy it’s not that long before I have completed a circuit and am back at the start. I tread water silently relishing the company of being in a crowd for a couple of minutes as other swimmers who have just arrived wade into the water and adjust goggles and watches and set off on their swims. I try to talk to another swimmer but she can’t hear me: she’s got earplugs in. I give up. I set off again, feeling slightly less uneasy. The laps go by. I do some sprinting. 4 laps, 5 laps, 6. Going past the ‘start point’ is always cheery. Some sections are friendly and calm, others feel less so: some sections feel, inexplicably, intimidating. The sun comes out, I watch vapour trails and twinkles as I swim. I do some bi-lateral breathing. 7 laps. The wind picks up a bit and then dies down. Swimmers come and go, the number of people in the water thins out. Only the stubbornest are still around by this time. My last lap is my 8th. I’ve finished. It’s 11am and the supported lake swimming is over for the day.
I swim to the shallows and then up the little bank, to my bag which is sitting just where I left it. As I head to my car, a smiling kayaker with long flowing hair waves and says hello and asks how many laps I did. “Eight” I say proudly. “I was watching you in there” she says. “You kept coming past me and I noticed you in your pink hat and tow float, coming round again and again.” I smile to myself. I wasn’t alone after all. Jo was there with me all along.
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