Wild-water swimming in Turkey
Despite living two centuries apart, I feel that I share a lot with Lord Byron — 18th-century poet, lover, dandy, bon viveur, icon.
The 6th Baron Byron, born in London in 1788, wrote poetry, and I won a prize in a short- story competition at school in 1982. He was described by Lady Caroline Lamb as “mad, bad and dangerous to know”; I have been described as “bloody annoying” on more than one occasion.
And we share a passion — open-water swimming, a pastime that is enjoying a surge in popularity. I love the sense of freedom and have swum around the Cyclades in Greece, off the coasts of Croatia and Australia, in the Norfolk Broads and in San Francisco Bay.
As a boy, George Byron swam in lakes near his home, Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. While on his grand tour he decided to swim across the Dardenelles (Hellespont) in Turkey, imitating the mythical exploits of Leander to visit his lover, Hero. According to the tale, Leander swam across the straits every night, hoping for a bit of how’s-your-father, guided by the lamp of his beloved, until winter storms extinguished the flame, he became lost, and drowned.
On May 3, 1810, Byron set out with his companion Lieutenant Ekenhead, only to be turned back by large waves and a strong current, but at the second attempt, swimming sidestroke, they crossed the 2km stretch in 70 minutes.
Flash forward 200 years to the day and I was lined up on the same beach, 300km southwest of Istanbul, with 19-year-old Charlie Byron (son of the current Lord B, raising money for Help for Heroes) and 138 others. Some, like me, were here largely to cross the iconic body of water — we would cover 5km in all — while others were dedicated Byron fans. While Bryon and Ekenhead had simply waded in, we had a 40-boat support team, mostly Turkish fishermen from the start point of Eceabat and the finishing town of Çanakkale, and the benefit of wetsuits — the water being a chilly 13C.
We had a window of about an hour and a half, during which time supertankers and naval vessels would be stopped from passing through the narrow straits that link the Black Sea with the Mediterranean. During that time our plucky band (mostly Brits, but also Germans, Finns, Irish, Australians and others) would swim from the Gallipoli Peninsula in Europe to a point north of ancient Troy, in Asia. After a quick dab of Vaseline to stop chafing, a starting pistol was fired and we rushed in. All of a sudden the chilly, grey waters of the Dardanelles were a churning mass of rubbery arms and bright swimming caps.
Maybe it was adrenalin, or the cold, or not having trained hard enough, but the first 15 minutes were tough and there were moments that I doubted my abilities. But I calmed down and eased into a steady rhythm of three strokes for every breath, eventually rounding the first of three marker bouys. We were aiming to the left of Çanakkale, so the currents that were pulling us to the right wouldn’t take us totally off course. My head was down, ploughing onwards, nothing to see in the murky waters. A few orange swimming caps were around me, but generally I was on my own, towards the back of the group, but with a fishing boat 15m behind.
By the time I had rounded another buoy, and with a Turkish flag flapping in the breeze on a hillside in front of me, I could see a large banner in the distance with the magical word “Finish” on it — a word that seemed to get no bigger for the next half hour. I kept going, looking up from time to time to see if the six letters were any closer. They weren’t. I swam through my second batch of jellyfish but, having discovered earlier that these ones didn’t sting, adopted them as friends who were along for the ride and the whole thing became quite surreal. Not Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds, more Will in the Dardanelles with Jellyfish.
Then the murky water turned from grey to brown. It took a moment to realise that the colour was sand. A few hundred metres more and there, at last, was the world’s most anticipated banner, and some steps, which I clambered up to be wrapped in a blanket and given a polystyrene cup of hot chocolate. I’d made it across in two hours, 20 minutes (101st out of 120 finishers) — 50 minutes slower than the winner, Colin Hill, of Northumberland, who has swum the English Channel and a double night-time crossing of Lake Windermere, and 20 minutes slower than Charlie Byron.
The crossing may not propel me to literary greatness, but the sense of achievement as I sat shivering on a warm spring afternoon was immeasurable. After my third hot drink I skipped back to my hotel, looking forward to my medal, finishers’ certificate and the mother of all kebabs.
Need to know
Getting there The next swim across the Dardanelles is on Turkish Victory Day, August 30. Swimtrek (01273 739713, swimtrek.com) offers packages including B&B accommodation, pre and post-race dinners, for £399.
British Airways (ba.com) flies from Heathrow to Istanbul from £145 return. From Istanbul to Çanakkale by coach is about £16; journey time is 5-6 hours.