The Art of Resilience. Ross Edgley

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      LOCATION: Margate

      DISTANCE COVERED: 0 miles

      DAYS AT SEA: 0

      The clock strikes 2.00 p.m. on Margate beach and signals my final three hours on land.

      I spent these last precious moments bouncing between the local patisseries and pizza parlours along the seafront, as a generous portion of scones, doughnuts and an 18-inch stuffed crust helped to calm my nerves. Not knowing when I might get a freshly cooked pizza again, I ate what I could and then put the rest in my pocket as I headed to the beach to meet the Mayor of Margate who’d kindly agreed to say a few words to me and the local media before we set sail.

      Her name was Julie and she was lovely. Impeccably dressed and wearing a huge traditional gold medallion (known as a chain of office), she and her husband Ray had already met my mum and dad who’d arrived earlier that day. So, we skipped the formalities and instead spoke about scones and swimming and I ate pizza out of my pocket as they proudly told me about the history and heritage of their beloved town.

      ‘How long do you think it will take you?’ Julie asked.

      I paused for a moment, since I really had no idea. All I knew was the waves, wind and weather would decide if and when I would finish. But as a very rough guess I replied, ‘Maybe a hundred days, but likely more.’

      ‘Oh dear,’ she said disappointed and looked at Ray with concern. ‘He’ll miss our food festivals in August if he doesn’t hurry.’

      That one moment is why I will forever love Margate.

      Marvellous Margate. Traditional and welcoming, but entirely unpretentious and down-to-earth. Whereas everyone else was concerned with the start, Julie was already (ambitiously) planning the finish to coincide with scones and jam at her local food festival. This is why I will be forever grateful to the town who waved me goodbye on my voyage.

      But worth noting is that not everyone shared Julie’s optimism and there weren’t many people in attendance that day other than those who lived locally. Sponsors had tried their very best to get the national media to report on the start, but few were taking it seriously. Just months before, another swimmer had attempted the swim but quit after a week due to bad conditions. As a result, most journalists believed this was an equally ill-fated attempt at an impossible adventure.

      Also, social media was rife with people posting why they thought this would fail.

      Many believed the mind would quit …

      Others believed the body would break …

      But of all the naysayers, the most vocal were sports scientists within the swimming community who were quick to point out that my chunky five foot eight, 88 kg frame would never make it around; that with such short, stubby arms and legs it was obvious that the laws of hydrodynamics (the study of objects moving through the water) were not in my favour.

      I was well aware of this, too. Months before arriving in Margate, I visited a sports laboratory for a full medical examination to see if my body could survive a swim of this magnitude. After hours of being prodded and probed I was told in no uncertain terms that I had ‘no physical attributes to be an elite swimmer’. They also added, I would likely, ‘sink like a stone’ if I embarked on this ill-fated swim.

      But it gets worse …

      Entering the room that day, the chief sports scientist picked up the clipboard containing my scan results. Looking me up and down he said, ‘You’re very heavy … but also very short.’

      Harsh, but true, I thought.

      ‘That’s not good,’ he continued, now frowning as if the stubby statistics of my body were offending him and his laboratory. ‘But if I can be honest with you, it’s your body composition that concerns me the most. Since fat is buoyant and insulating, and you have very little, and muscle sinks, and you have a lot. Basically, floating and keeping warm is going to be an issue for you, never mind swimming.’

      I nodded and thought this must be the most brutal assessment of a body in the history of swimming. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. His confidence-crippling critique of my body continued and this time he had an issue with specific body parts.

      ‘Also, it’s your head,’ he continued.

      ‘What about my head?’ I said, now feeling a bit self-conscious.

      ‘It’s big and dense,’ he declared bluntly.

      ‘I know I’ve a big head, but—’ I was interrupted before I could defend my oversized cranium.

      ‘Yes, but it’s not just big. It’s very dense,’ he said gesturing with his СКАЧАТЬ