The Hellespont swim: following in Byron’s wake

My passion for Lord Byron’s work began in my teens when I studied the Romantics at English A-level. The erotic adventures of Don Juan were far more appealing to my adolescent self than William Wordsworth’s walks through fields of golden daffodils. But I only found out recently that Byron’s greatest passion was swimming. Born with a club foot, Byron found a freedom in the water that he could not experience on land. And forget poetic or political success: Byron often claimed that his biggest ever achievement was one particular swim – across the Hellespont on 3 May, 1810.

This stretch of water, from the Black Sea to the Aegean, is the most famous in ancient history, separating Europe from Asia. In Greek mythology, Leander used to swim across it every night to visit his lover Hero, who would light a lamp to guide his way. Byron swam across it to prove it was possible. I have a love for swimming too, so when I heard that a commemorative swim was to be held exactly 200 years after Byron had done it, I knew I had to be there.

So it was that on bank holiday Monday I found myself lined up with 139 other intrepid swimmers on the European side of the Dardanelles, ready to attempt the crossing. They were mostly British, but there were some other Europeans, as well as Australians and Americans. Some were experienced channel swimmers; others just recreational athletes – but all were united by a love of the water. Excitingly, one of Byron’s descendants was there too.

The organisers were anxious. Due to a very cold winter in southern Turkey, the water temperature was just 13C – a good five degrees lower than it should be at this time of the year. The Turkish authorities had kindly closed off the shipping lane for us – the busiest in the world – but they had also changed the course at the last minute, so it was now well over 5km rather than four.

At 3pm the hooter sounded and we all plunged into the icy water. It was choppy and, in the first few minutes, frantic, as everyone jostled for position. The waves pounded our faces and it was tough working out how to breathe. I hoped the conditions would calm down at some point.

We had been given landmarks to look out for on the other side of the water, to guide our path. Every few strokes, when I wasn’t taking in a mouthful of seawater, I looked up and checked I was going in the right direction. The swimmers began to disperse along the course as the stronger and more experienced led the way up front.

I admit over the first 500 metres I did have a wobble. It was so hard. But then I got into a rhythm. I found other swimmers going at roughly my pace and I almost began to enjoy it. I had no real idea how fast I was swimming, or how far I had gone. I couldn’t see any of the buoys that were supposed to mark our path, so I just concentrated on the red and white transmitter mast on the Asian side of the Dardanelles, which we had been told to aim for. I had no time to think about how deep the water was, or how far I now was from the shore. I didn’t care about the swarms of jellyfish around me. All my concentration was on my stroke as I plunged my arms through the waves with as much power as I could muster, fighting the strong current that always seemed to be against me.

My hands were now getting cold, and at times I clenched them to get the blood flowing. The first time I looked at my watch I was surprised that I’d been going for 55 minutes. There still seemed such a long way to go! The people at the front had been hoping to do it in around 50 minutes, so that made me anxious. I found out afterwards the winner, British swimmer Colin Hill, managed the crossing in one hour 27 minutes, such was the severity of the conditions. He had been hoping to break the record, which was just 48 minutes.

I kept going, but each time I looked up I felt more and more alone. The other swimmers were now widely dispersed and there was no one near me. Just a huge stretch of water, and land which still looked so far away. I then realised I was feeling cold – very cold. Too cold. I’d been in the water for an hour and a half by now. I was starting to feel confused, which I knew was an early sign of hypothermia. Then, like an apparition, a small Turkish fishing boat that was part of our escort appeared at my side. It felt like my saviour.

I admitted defeat and made the signal were had been told to give if we needed help. My hands and feet were so numb, I couldn’t even climb up the steps of the boat. A kindly fisherman with a rough, weatherbeaten face hauled me out. I was handed some thick blankets to stop my shivering and we slowly made our way to shore, shepherding the other swimmers in the hot afternoon sun. I shouted encouragement from the safety of the boat to the brave souls still in the water, happy that at least I could help them finish the swim, even though I had not been able to do so myself.

I had failed in my attempt to emulate Byron’s iconic swim, which he did in one hour 10 minutes – doing breaststroke. But I was still proud of what I had achieved. I’d managed around 4km in challenging conditions on my first ever sea swim, and the only thing that had defeated me was the elements, not my own fitness. And after all, Byron failed on his first attempt too. Maybe I’ll return one day and try again.

The event was organised by Swimtrek; swimtrek.com; +44 (0) 1273 739 713

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