MAELSTROM CROSSING, 2022

crossing charybdis

Outside, we stepped into the familiar wall of heat, which seems to drive most locals to riposo (the Italian siesta). We crossed the road at the end of our street and walked out along the sandy beach. I remember a dog was hunting fish in the shallows, gnashing at the water. Families were sat out on stone groynes. Little boys wore cartoon shark t-shirts and splashed in the shallows. A few of the cafés were well attended. We ogled the counters as we went by and saw all kinds of brioche swirls, crostata and croissants filled with custard, or chocolate. The walk took us on a direct route, flanked by both salt and fresh water. There were less well-kept lakes inland we couldn’t see, like the Ganzirri Lake, and the sweeping stretch of the strait flowed always on our right. We could see the free-standing Pylons of Messina in the distance. Built in 1955, the pylons soared up to 232-metres and stood like gateposts on either side of the strait. One stood in Torre Faro and the other was in the port city of Villa San Giovanni. Once there was a power line that ran between them and we also heard of plans to build a long bridge across the sea from Sicily to the mainland.    

With our eyes on the strait, we reached the headland and whipped our shoes off as we crossed the boarding. The sand was so hot it scolded our feet. We hopped to the shade of a few beached fishing boats to cool off. Then we dashed to the water’s edge, clutching our shoes. We cooled our feet on the damp watermark, where waves broke and lapped the sand

Ahead of us lay the Strait of Messina, exactly as we’d seen it in pictures. There it was – this distant wash of strong and alternate currents upwelling in the South, bordered by the two basins of the Mediterranean.

Our fourth maelstrom.

Many strange creatures thrived in this unique water chemistry. Strange biocoenosis occurred in the Atlantic conditions. So, it became an unusual paradise for both zoologists and swimmers. Abyssal fauna included a few unexpected species, like tawny algae which sprawled into submerged forests, as well as giant barnacles and prairies of Neptune grass. Nearer the surface, the strait was a favoured migratory route for bigger pelagic fish, like tuna, swordfish, spearfish and Atlantic bonito. Dolphins, fin whales and even sperm whales were known to pass through the strait on their way to breed (often in the Aeolian Islands). Sharks migrated through it too, including great whites.

Calum reminded us of some local mythology as we looked out to sea and mapped the distance in our minds. You know the saying: ‘Caught between a rock and a hard place?’ It was first used to describe being trapped between two ancient Greek monsters: Scylla and Charybdis. The latter was once the human daughter of Pontus (God of the Sea) and Gaia (God of the Earth). A beautiful girl, Charybdis was transformed by Zeus after she stole cattle from his son, Hercules. She also helped Poseidon to expand his realm as she flooded the land with water. So, Zeus stole her human form and turned Charybdis into a monstrous whirlpool. Three times each day, she made ships her playthings and hauled and thrashed them in the sea, testing which would sink. Scylla had a similar story. She was once the human daughter of sea deities Phorycs and Ceto (who also raised Medusa and the Gorgons). Again, she was condemned to life as a monster for tangling with the gods. In a grotesque metamorphosis she sprouted six heads from the end of long, sinuous necks. Her teeth extended to the length of knife blades. Canine faces bulged from her body and a prehensile tail trailed behind her. Enraged, Scylla made sport of plucking sailors from their ships and swallowing them in the deep.

Old Greek tales described how these monsters lurked at either end of the Strait of Messina. The swirling flow of water from the Ionian and Tyrrhenian seas made their hunting ground even more treacherous. Any sailor who risked the narrow strait – each coast was said to be within an arrow’s range of the other – was doomed to be ensnared by one, or even both, these monsters. Jason and the Argonauts almost fell into their trap. Before sea nymphs (called Nereids) intervened and guided Jason to escape the duo. Then the Greek hero, Odysseus, also drifted into the strait on his journey home from the Trojan War. He sailed closer to Scylla and lost six sailors, but was able to evade the froth-speckled clutches of Charybdis…

…

We woke early the next morning and took it in turns to wash in the sink and brush our teeth. Calum had been talking about this BBC documentary: The Merthyr Mermaid. It was a tradition of ours to always watch something that psyched us up in the early hours. Before our swims in Norway, we huddled round footage of Lewis Pugh at the North Pole. On this day, June 23, we sat under the apartment TV, affixed to the wall. We said nothing and watched from the ends of our beds as Welsh ice swimmer, Cath Pendleton, trained for her Zero Ice Mile in Antarctica.

Cath was one of those physical anomalies – a woman in her fifties so durable and stubborn in water it looked like she would never stop. At the same time, she is an ordinary Welsh woman from the small town of Sennybridge. A former police officer, who also served in the RAF and only started ice swimming in 2015. She swam her first Ice Mile the following year (first woman from Wales to do it) and went on to represent Team GB at the 2019 World Ice Swimming Championships in wintry Murmansk, Russia. The film is deeply inspiring. It takes you right from this backwater town to the Southern Ocean, where Cath crawls over a mile at 0.03C in the broad, ice-sailed waters of Hanusse Bay, Antarctica. The crew even had to time the swim around sightings of leopard seals and orcas. 

In the build-up to the Ice Mile, Cath was coached by Irish ice swimmer, Ger ‘Dr Ice’ Kennedy, from a county town south of Dublin. She also relied on her supportive husband, often seen on frosted banks with an armful of dry clothes and towels. He was there when Cath walked out after each swim and came over with a big grin and went right by him to the car, trailing a cape of steam.

Finally, we got up and pulled on our fresh Messina tees. Calum laid out everything he needed on his bed: GoPro, goggles, cap, ear plugs, sun cream, banana, a few euros and flip-flops. That was more than just the essentials. I had the same kit stowed in my bag – minus the sun cream, which I’m sure I regretted later. Robbie had an additional two rash vests packed in case he felt the cold at all. In the past he swam for almost 3 hours in the 9C waters of the Lofoten Islands (wearing a wetsuit). Yet a few bad experiences since then had knocked his confidence.

The plan was also to film as much of the crossing as we could. Calum had perfected the knack for swimming with one hand, catching swimmers as they passed in a flurry of bubbles. Otherwise he swam with the GoPro stuffed in his jammers. We joked that he had to be sure he filmed the right part – no one wanted to get the footage back and find it was a 30-minute smushed Johnson shot, with no Messina swimming whatsoever.

At the beach, a group had formed under the huge pylon. Everyone talked excitedly and pointed out our route across the strait. You could feel the unease that rippled between us. I never believe anyone who says they’re not nervous. You have to relish it, of course – only there’s so much more to it than that.

One of the Turkish swimmers came over as we bent down and cleaned our goggles in the rollers. He had these thick shoulders you only get from years of pawing water. You could’ve guessed he was about to lead us across the strait, with Lisa at his side.

“We swim to Italy mainland,” he said, tracing his finger over the Italian peninsula, “So, that’s a lifetime experience.”

There were murmurs in our group as we all stepped into the shallows. The distance was set out ahead of us. At water level it always look further than it is. You can’t help feeling some nerves the first time you step into the sea. There’s a visceral sense of place – at once it feels like somewhere you don’t belong, but you know those thoughts are fleeting. You’ll feel at home out there once your mind has cleared.

The pilot signalled the first group in green caps. They all set out into the corridor of small boats and sank out of sight for a second. Then their arms swung upwards and elbows punched the sunlight. Feet kicked riffles that trailed and striped the surface.

“Get in,” said Rob, peeling his goggles down.

“You ready?” I said, wading down the slope of sand and broken shells.

We were up next in our orange caps.

“Hang on Jack,” said Calum.

A cry of “andare” erupted from the boat.

“Is that the Italian for ‘go’?” Calum asked.

We all looked at each other. Even Alle seemed confused.

Again, there was a cry from our pilot. Louder this time, and in English – “Go.”

All of us dove forward and set off in a frenzied line. Adrenaline spiked as we threw our arms out and sighted over the little waves. It was just the four of us in our orange-capped group. When I sucked in air I could see the others on both sides. Small boats moved into position behind them. Slowly they guided us out into deeper waters. Below the surface the seabed was alight in the morning sun. Rays caught on ridges of sand and sliced into the murk. While we were suspended several metres up. You could see our shadows in the light below. Our strokes slunk over patches of pebble and sand. Bubbling wakes trailed behind us as feet padded the unbroken blue. Little fish darted to dodge our charge.

Soon the water deepened and we felt the slight drag of the headland current. Coach Alle pulled up on our left and Robbie dropped a little behind, with Calum pacing beside him. For a while I swam without thinking and let the sand and kelp-clothed rocks disappear out of sight. The beach had shelved suddenly. So, shoals of fish were less visible now. The rich blue light dimmed as it sank to where black shapes moved and twisted and played tricks on the mind. At one point I flung my lead hand out and slapped the bell of a clear jellyfish. I saw the thing as it bounced off in a coil of bubbles. Luckily I hadn’t touched the underside. Then Alle spotted what he thought was a turtle in the deep. The further we pulled into the channel the more shapes seemed to materialise beneath us. We were about to enter that wildlife highway – the migration route that draws creatures of all sizes into the strait. It’s easy to forget how deep water feels. There’s a wildness to it that makes your whole body tingle. You feel more alert. Less at ease as you look down on that immense drop and feel your own smallness in the convergence of seas. There was a tug in the pit of my stomach as well. My eyes were fixed on the abyss and it was hard not to feel humbled… or think of sharks.

A half hour or so into our swim we found ourselves way out between Sicily and the mainland. The huge pylon where we started had shrank on the horizon. A vast expanse of water marked our route from the beach. Here we were alone with the boats and each other. You could feel the resistance of the current as we rolled and stretched in our rhythm. Peering to one side I saw bodies as they threaded through the sunlight. We slid into colder patches and felt the coolness on our palms after each catch.

A short while later both the Turkish swimmer and Lisa shot by us. They dug hard in the water, but held a straight position and seemed to glide as they passed. Then Alle cut off into the distance too. Calum and I stuck with Robbie and pinned ourselves to each flank to help him sight. It was difficult to see where we were headed over the rollers. Now, our group spread across the strait and boats bobbed far ahead and a little way behind us. We were left with a little skiff that puttered nearby. At times, we trailed the propeller stream, or veered in alongside it and were able to see our pilot making gestures. The advice we were given was to head left of the bridge. That way we could cut a direct line and dip into the strong mainland current to our finish on the beach. The trouble with Robbie was he swims with his head directly down – a technique taught to pool swimmers, which helps to align your body position. If the boat (or another swimmer) wasn’t directly beside him when he turned to breathe, he lost his sense of direction and swerved off with the current. It didn’t help that each time Robbie reached the skiff the propellor started up and it sputtered off again. Later, he described it like that prank when a mate reaches the car door and you drive off before they have a chance to get in.

To make things more exciting a huge cruise ship was also headed in our direction. We heard that Lisa and the Turkish swimmer had stopped at the front. They were being told to wait until the ship passed. We trod water at intervals to check its progress. It was incoming for what felt like ages, until it finally ploughed in front of us and churned up a huge wave that bent the horizon as it lurched closer. We swam on and braced for the impact. When it hit we were all tossed up over the peak and deposited in the deep trough. Then another wave collided with us from the side. This was smaller than the first and each wave weakened as they struck in quick succession. We floated upright and laughed as we were all aggressively whipped about by the sea, until we felt a little seasick. Then we watched the bow waves as they broke in the distance. Crests of white froth toppled inwards and the offing flattened as the sea grew calm.

Now, our pilot called us forward and we arced up close to the boat and picked up our pace. Behind us there were fleets of small engine boats hunting those unique pelagic fish in the deep channel. We heard they were able to catch tuna year-round as the fish moved between the Tyrrhenian and Ionian seas. When we stopped, we could turn back to see traditional Felucca boats skimming across the strait as well. These were the swordfish catchers. Spotters perched in tall masts and watched their prey from the sky. While the harpooner waited in an extended lookout, thrust from the bow and dangled over the surface at the end of a horizontal ladder. From this position a spear could be thrown without an engine scaring the fish. It’s a very sustainable fishing practice without any by-catch (far more ethical than driftnet techniques) – plus it looks incredible as the harpooners fly over the surface, poised to strike.

The final stage of our swim could be described as a slow meander. We were coming to the end of a route that snaked over roughly 5.5 km. The last few hundred metres were spent fighting the current as we inched up to a rocky Italian beach. We herded Robbie more carefully as he grew tired, but he never showed any sign of stopping. He kept digging in as the mainland rose up over us, holding his strokes after almost 2 hours at sea. All of us were a little battered by that point. I had these fresh red marks under each armpit from all the salt chafing. Towards the end I was gritting my teeth with every stroke.

I guess, you always have those moments – even on easier swims – when you question: ‘Can I do this?’ Or, ‘Do I really want to do this?” These questions are the makings of little deaths. You lose something every time you give in to that lazy fucker they appeal to. What’s more these thoughts do often dissolve for periods of forgotten swimming. Blissful escapes when you forget your ego. Like those times we drew up side by side and swam in tandem. Suddenly I could glance sidelong under the surface and snatch a clear view of both brothers. Their arms outstretched. Heads tilted as they came up to breathe. Then I thought about all those swims we’d shared that past decade, since Grandma’s funeral. Our time in the Arctic, when we crossed the Moskstraumen in Norway’s Lofoten Islands. Or, the 9-day swim through our childhood haunts on the River Eden in Cumbria. In those moments, I knew we were back in the right place. Three brothers. Our tracks marked by thin wakes woven into a vast bowl of Ionian blue.

Looking down, there was no blackness out there – exactly like folk had described. All you saw were these tiers of blue, which dimmed as the depths descended. We also had time to stray inside our heads as we crossed the channel. I realised that for all the difficulties we had, clearing calendars and getting time off work, we couldn’t stop this adventure. We had to keep going with this fuel Grandma Wild (and many others) had given us.

Eventually we arrived under the second pylon. It’s hard to describe that feeling when the seabed appears below you for the first time. After almost two hours in the murk, we were washed from the sea into sunlit shallows. Then I waded up to the beach and planted both hands on the dry rock of Italy. Further down, our bearded American friend, plus an older swimmer from Santa Barbara, who acted as a translator for the group, had just arrived together. They cheered as they stood for the first time at waist depth. Both of them pumped fists in the shallows and slapped the water and cheered at us. I waved at them and clapped my hands.

“Put your feet down,” I said, turning to Calum as he slid over to me.

Calum had a big toothy grin as he clapped his hand on the shore. Robbie was only a short distance behind him. He floated into the shallows with his head down and one hand up like a shark fin. When he stood we saw the fresh chafing marks from the collar of his rash vest – three red strips, like he’d been clawed by a bear. The look on his face was a mixture of elation and relief. You could tell he’d gotten his outdoor swimming mojo back. Just in time for Maelstrom 5 on our list and a trip to New Zealand the following year…