Tom Gregory - A Boy in the Water: A Memoir

Tom Gregory

---

A BOY IN THE WATER

UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia

India | New Zealand | South Africa

Particular Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

First published 2018

Copyright Tom Gregory, 2018

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover photograph Clair Harris

Cover design: Tom Etherington

ISBN: 978-0-141-98876-4

For Rosie and Beatrice

The sea is calm tonight.

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits; on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

John flashed the car headlights again. The seascape illuminated briefly as he did so, but no reply came back from the inky blackness. It was still very dark. The Vauxhall Cavalier was parked at the top of a slipway, beyond which a long sloping beach ran out to sea. From inside the car I could just hear the waves breaking on the sand in the distance; happily it was a soft, rhythmic sound rather than an angry one. To the right of the car a headland ran away out to sea on the north edge of the bay, while behind us, somewhere in the vicinity, a lighthouse flashed its occasional warning to the unseen shipping out in the Dover Strait. There was no one else around but the three of us in the car.

Where the bloody hell is Willy? asked John from the drivers seat.

Dont worry, you know hell be here, replied Dennis from the passenger seat, after a long, nervous pause. The pair sat in silence John anxiously repeating the headlight-flashing routine more than was probably necessary.

I was in the back seat, under strict orders to remain asleep, but was wide awake had been since we rolled off the ferry at Calais two hours earlier. I had tried to sleep as the car wound its way out of the silent port town and into the countryside beyond and to the south. The sneaking glances I had caught from the car revealed a lowering crescent moon, on what was a clear and chilly night. Probably a neap tide given the moon. John said this meant less water in the Channel. The trip over on the night ferry had shown me there was still plenty enough of it.

I quietly lifted my head to get a peek at the situation from the gap between the front seats. I caught another glimpse of the beach, and of the vast black English Channel that lay before us.

John jerked his head around. Tefal! How many times have I got to tell you? Go back to sleep!

I dont feel tired, John, I pleaded. He didnt reply. Dennis offered John a sympathetic glance on my behalf, which might have said Leave him alone, John how would you be feeling?, had it been accompanied by any words. But it wasnt, and John remained silent, so I gazed out, without further reprimand, into the blackness.

The beach ran for probably 50 metres beyond the slipway before it met the waters edge. The white flashes of the waves could now be seen as well as heard, but still, they were slight rather than angry. I judged from the state of the beach that we were probably at half tide, and that the water was on the ebb. I was facing westwards where the night sky was indistinguishable from the dark sea. Off in the distance, there were some occasional lights to be seen.

The lights came and went at random. Some flashing, some constant for a while, some with a green hue and some that were clearly red. Had to be shipping, I thought. John was fond of reminding me that this was the worlds busiest shipping lane presumably most ships preferred daylight given it didnt look that busy out there. Then they could see all the swimmers, like me. The chances of a collision or accident seemed remote. Besides, I knew we had a special blue and white flag to fly. For a moment I thought about how they would not be able to see the flag before the sun came up, but quickly decided to think of something else ships were supposed to stay out the way, according to John, so that was all that mattered.

Off to the right I could suddenly see clearly a passenger ferry a couple of miles offshore, presumably bound, like me, for Dover. It was lit up in the darkness with its many decks and portholes visible. As it made its way out into the black sea I wondered if it was the same boat we had come across on from England just a few hours earlier.

I remembered the grumpy man in the ferry canteen who had loaded my plate full of fried breakfast during the night crossing. John always said that fried food was bad for swimming bad on account of its ability to make you feel, and be, sick. It struck me now, a little late, that John had made me eat the biggest greasy breakfast ever on the way over, and with no explanation. The grumpy man just filled the plate with food, before repeating the procedure for the next person in the queue, which, apart from me, looked to be made up exclusively of truck drivers. I ate every mouthful of the fry-up, which tasted great, safe in the knowledge that I would need the calories. John and Dennis just watched on as I fed greedily not eating, but sipping cups of tea. The three of us looked quite out of place compared with the truckers, none of whom spoke to each other, each sitting on their own.

Suddenly a much closer light appeared offshore probably just 200 metres or so. A fishing boat, Willys fishing boat. The boat, which didnt seem very big to me, was illuminated on its flat deck, and I could just about make out the shape of people moving around on board. There seemed to be a small wheelhouse at the front, behind which a roof of some kind covered the flat working area. It was bobbing up and down in the swell accentuated by the fact that it looked to have come to a halt and was no longer carving its way across the blackness. The boat looked very alone, with nothing else nearly as visible in the offing. John flashed the headlights once more, and this time the code was answered in kind by a search lamp on deck. A sudden sickness came over me. I had felt it before and knew what it was. It wasnt the fry-up. It was fear.

OK. Lets go. Tefal, get changed, said John. My heart thumped. I found myself gulping, trying to swallow a lump that had appeared in my throat on hearing Johns instructions. I felt myself calm down after a couple of deep breaths, and a wave of childish excitement came over me, replacing the fear as it did so. John and Dennis got out of the car. Dennis went to the boot and started unpacking various bags and boxes. John rummaged around in his own kit bag a very old-fashioned blue leather Adidas sports grip from another decade looked at his watch, and briefly consulted a page of notes concealed within his trusty book-like clipboard. I had no idea what was written on its pages John never let me read his notes, and even when I had tried (often) when he wasnt looking, his handwriting was worse than mine. I stood by the rear passenger door of the car, dropped my swimming bag on the slipway and began the familiar routine of getting changed in the open, with a towel to cover my modesty, even though it was pitch dark with not a person in sight apart from my companions.