By Any Means

Swimming the English Channel strikes me as the quintessential English experience. It involves rich history, inclement weather and a healthy dose of stoicism. Over the last several months I somehow managed to convince five other Rhodes Scholars, to do something incredibly stupid- jump into 15C/59F water and swim through the busiest shipping lane in the world for a 10 second stay in France, a country that is notoriously hostile to the English.

We were scheduled to swim anytime between September 29^th and October 4^th, but after the wettest year in English history, we should have known better. After waiting for almost two weeks, I finally got a call from our boat pilot on Sunday, October 7^th saying that the weather was clearing and we might be able to swim on Tuesday or Wednesday. One of our swimmers, Alice, had been sick with a virulent strain of Fresher’s Flu (a nasty epidemic that sweeps through Oxford each fall) and after much deliberation we decided that Alice would not be fit to swim. But weather windows were becoming fewer and further between and the seasonal tides were about to shift in such a way that a successful crossing would become nearly impossible. So we proposed switching from a six-person relay to a five-person team. We packed every warm piece of clothing we owned, loaded up on granola bars and tea, piled into a hired car and headed down to Dover on late Monday evening. We arrived well after most of the town had gone to sleep and found ourselves at one of the most hostile looking hostels I have ever seen. It hardly merits the name. After a very short sleep, our alarms went off at 4AM. More than a few of us reconsidered the wisdom of our international voyage.

After considerable confusion about where the marina, and an embarrassingly late arrival we piled our inordinate amount of food and luggage (8 duffle bags, 6 grocery bags full of food and 24 liters of water) onto the deck of the Sea Satin and set off just after 5AM accompanied by two pilots, a crewmember and an official observer who would be responsible for certifying our swim. According to the Channel Swim & Pilot’s Federation (CS&PF), in order to qualify as a certified relay swim each swimmer must swim for 60 minutes, no more, no less, without a wetsuit and without touching the boat or another person. Once the order of the relay team is established, the team must maintain that order for the duration of the swim.

I had somehow cajoled my good friend Caroline into swimming first. No one wanted to jump into the water in the inky pre-dawn darkness but who better to do it than our US Naval officer and competitive triathlete? As we motored out to the beach, Daz, the burly crewman who would assist in our swim, handed Caroline an electric glow stick that she should affix to her swimsuit to avoid getting run over by the boat. Just as Caroline went to tuck it into her coat pocket the boat lurched and she chucked it over the side, much to the annoyance of Daz. Not an auspicious start to our morning.

Caroline braves the dark

Caroline bravely dove into the sea and swam to the beach with just the beam of the boat’s spotlight guiding her way. She climbed out of the water and at exactly 5:30AM the boat horn went off. Caroline charged into the water in traditional triathlete fashion, running with high knees and plowing through the gently lapping waves. Within a few minutes she pulled alongside the boat and settled into a steady rhythm as the other five of us enthusiastically cheered her on with a vigor and volume that was sure to prove unsustainable. I was the second swimmer and before I knew it I was stripping down to my suit and shivering on the back of the boat as Daz counted down the seconds. Dawn was breaking and the white cliffs of Dover were just beginning to emerge out of the darkness. I don’t know if it was actually light enough, or Daz didn’t want to risk another glow stick but I dove in without the traditional rave attire.

I gasped for air as the involuntary spasms of my lungs signaled my body’s primal revolt against the cold. This was a very bad idea. I don’t even want to see France, I thought.  There’s obviously a reason why people invented boats, maybe I should just get back on board. Well if Caroline survived an hour, there is no way I am getting out after 30 seconds. The internal monologue continued but I eventually caught my breath and settled into a casual rhythm while thinking about all the places I would rather be. After a time the numb sensation subsided and my muscles began to warm to the challenge. The sharp taste of salt filled my mouth and I had to pay careful attention to the swells in order to avoid choking down huge gulps of seawater. My hands made streams of bubbles as they churned through the water and as the bubbles occasionally floated into my peripheral vision I was convinced that I was catching a glimpse of a shark. Maybe Moby Dick. Or perhaps the Loch Ness Monster.

My teammate Mike, in his infinite wisdom, had decided to watch Jaws the night before and thoughtfully put the theme song in all of our heads. He also decided to read up on water conditions in the English Channel and helpfully informed us that in the two weeks while we had been waiting for clear weather, the water temperature had fallen by three degrees. Celsius. And was now a balmy 13C/55F.

The white cliffs of Dover fading behind us

The toughest thing about open water swimming is the sense of abstraction. The landmarks, when they do exist, are too far away to offer any meaningful sense of progress. There is no one to talk to. No change in terrain. Nothing to mark the passage of time. And in the Channel, time was all I could think about.

Meg's first leg

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, I got the one minute warning. MJ jumped into the water and I was rolled my way onto the ledge of the boat and staggered up the ladder. Katy, our industrial engineering major, had efficiently moved all my warm clothes below deck, started the kettle for tea, and was waiting to wrap me in a towel. I quickly got dressed and sat down with the tea, never more grateful to be dry. In the time that I had been in the water seasickness had begun to set in and no one else wanted to spend much time below deck. I didn’t feel the least bit queasy and looked out the port window to see MJ gamely struggling through the cold.

MJ perfects the art of heads-up breaststroke

MJ is Australian and spent the summer doing ocean swims in southern Australia, where the currents are pushing cold water north from Antarctica.  In my experience all Aussies are charming, witty and self-deprecating but MJ takes it to a whole new level. By MJ’s own admission, “if he went down, he was going to go down talking.” So when I saw MJ doing heads up breaststroke, I assumed he couldn’t stand the silence. Turns out, MJ was getting debilitating, skull-splitting headaches every time he put his head in the water. Unable to swim freestyle, MJ was unable to generate enough body heat to stay warm. But he gamely suffered through the cold and made it to the end of his 60 minutes.

Mike takes in the view

He was followed by Mike, a South African water polo player who claims he swore off training all summer and just at copious amounts of Ben & Jerry’s. You wouldn’t know it from looking at him, but it seemed like a winning strategy because he plowed right along, occasionally switching to a leisurely backstroke as if he was just enjoying the view of Dover receding into the distance. Meanwhile, Alice was looking a bit green. It’s an expression I hadn’t fully appreciated until Alice bolted up onto the deck and made for the barf bucket. Mike lost his breakfast over the side of the boat not too long after coming back aboard.

Katy's flawless freestyle

Our fifth and potentially final swimmer in the relay, Katy, is from Montana, so we figured she knew more about cold H2O than the rest of us put together, but was perhaps less well acquainted with its liquid form. She had been threatening to do breaststroke for an hour but in typical Montana fashion she undersold and over delivered. Maybe she realized that breaststroke was just too cold, maybe she has just been holding out on us, but she quickly settled into a graceful rhythm that quickly ate up distance.

Meanwhile Alice had decided that she felt well enough to swim and we spoke with our CS&PF observer, who assured us that she could still be added to the list as our sixth swimmer. Now I should note that Alice did more training than the rest of us put together. She swam every day for over a month and managed to get a tan in Oxford, which is nothing short of miraculous. She also swam while travelling in China, surrounded by trash, dead animals and all manner of strangelydressed Chinese. Alice also has zero percent body fat and no amount of McDonald’s dinners, Mars bars or donuts heaped with ice cream can seem to change that. Usually that is something to envy but insulation is key to swimming the channel. Alice braved her two hour cold water test swim this summer and was confident that she was sufficiently recovered from Fresher’s Flu to support the team. So she gamely dove in. But twenty minutes later, it was clear that the cold was getting to her. She switched to breaststroke and began to admit to being dizzy and confused. We assured her that her color was good, her lips weren’t blue and her swimming was steady, but after another ten minutes the cold became too much and we told her that discretion was the better part of valor.

When we pulled Alice onto the deck she could barely move or speak. We covered her with every towel, blanket and sleeping bag on the boat and waited for her to being to warm up. After a few minutes we pulled off her wet suit, zipped her into a parka and bundled her up again. Alice’s bout with hypothermia marked the end of our certified swim, and I assumed we simply had to return to Dover. But Lance, our pilot, approached me and explained that while our names wouldn’t be going down in any record books as an official relay team, there was nothing to stop us from swimming to France. We took a vote and unanimously decided to press on. Katy and MJ snuggled down with Alice to help get her warm and Caroline jumped back in the water for her second swim.

Getting warm

Our second rotation passed without much event. I was feeling quite good when I got back in the water and decided to push the pace. After the first minute or two of gasping, I never seemed to feel the cold much and I was grateful not to be seasick like everyone else. I’ve never been called a fast swimmer but I found I much preferred open water swimming to endless laps in a pool and my stroke, which wouldn’t win any beauty contests, seemed more efficient in the choppy water.

By the time I crawled back on the boat, Alice had fully recovered and re-emerged as a more chatty version of her former self. MJ was bravely pushing through another hour of heads up breaststroke and Alice talked him through the whole thing. She started with A and worked her way through the alphabet, naming one country per letter and offering a fun fact about each one. Oh, the things Rhodes scholars do to entertain themselves. Alice’s ramblings ranged from Hugo Chavez’s public image to the causes and consequences of fistulas. There is no way MJ could hear anything more than a few stray words and there weren’t even any seagulls to bear witness to Alice’s oratorical marathon but Katy and I were practically rolling on the deck with laughter as the soft-spoken Alice lectured MJ on why he, as a man, would never have to worry about fistulas, which only afflict women, unless his Speedo was disguising something other than what one would expect.

Still no sign of France

Just as Alice finished expounding on the many charms of Zimbabwe, Mike dove in for his second swim. However, he seemed to have pulled a muscle in his side while losing his breakfast, and he looked to be in a lot of pain as he restlessly alternated between freestyle, breaststroke and backstroke. Katy, utterly unflappable, continued to be the breakout star of the day, cursing smoothly through the water and silently signing hymns to amuse herself.

By the time that Caroline got in the water for her third swim we had been on the water for almost 11 hours. The French coast was in sight but still a long way off, and it was clear that the cold and seasickness were beginning to take a toll on people. Caroline swam well but lacked her usual vigor and by this time the seas had become quite choppy. I jumped in feeling energetic but the darkening skies made me apprehensive. I picked up the pace and didn’t stop for any time checks, hoping that we would make it to France before the weather turned or people’s strength gave out. The water was now extremely rough and I repeatedly found myself a long way from the boat and chasing it down.

When I climbed back aboard the boat, Katy pulled me aside and said, “We need to talk.” That’s never a good sign. I quickly got dressed and met Katy at the pilot’s GPS screen. He explained that we had just spent the last three hours trapped in a southbound current that was pulling us towards the Atlantic and parallel to the French shore. Uh oh, I thought, we certainly aren’t well provisioned enough to swim to North America. He went on to explain that darkness was about to set in and we were at least four miles from land. The tides were about to change and would begin to swing us back north, but we needed to go one mile north and then at least three miles inland, provided we didn’t catch another current that would drive us around the tip of Calais and add considerable distance to the swim. “Think about what’s feasible.” he said.

So Katy, Mike and I sat down to discuss our options while Alice prattled away to MJ and Caroline slept below deck. “Let’s talk math,” I said, shivering as I realized how much my body temperature had fallen while in the water. “Katy, you’re the one who does long division while you swim, what can we realistically do?” I was keen to keep going but didn’t want to force anyone to push on. If others weren’t feeling up to it we could take pride in our attempt and admit to having been beaten by mother nature. I told them that I could swim one, if not two more rounds but we would need other people to swim as well. The good thing about the uncertified swim was that we were no longer obligated to maintain the relay order and I suggested mixing our strong swimmers back into the rotation again. Caroline wasn’t feeling well, MJ was surviving based on pure grit and none of us would consider letting Alice swim again, even if she was foolish enough to volunteer. I asked Mike how he was feeling and he said that he was in pain but he had just taken a lot of ibuprofen and might be able to go flat out for an hour. We decided that we needed a mile from Mike, followed by another mile from me, then a mile from Katy, and if we could make those three miles, we would reassess and figure out a way to get to the French shore.

Nighttime swimming

We agreed that Mike would swim for at least 30 minutes. If he made it a half mile, he would push on for the full hour, if not, the distance wasn’t going to be feasible and we might as well call it a day and make it back to Dover in time for a late dinner. By this time it was almost completely dark so we clipped a glow stick to the back of Mike’s Speedo and he dove in. True to his word, Mike pushed himself, repeatedly calling out to check his time and progress. I went below deck to try to bring my core body temperature back up and Katy stayed above deck to cheer Mike on. Mike covered a half-mile in the first half hour and pushed on. Realizing this might actually be possible, I shimmied back into my suit and headed out on deck armed with a glow stick of my own.

I can’t think of anything more isolating than swimming in the English Channel in the pitch dark. The boat has a spot light shining down in the water, but the pool of light is too close to the boat so swimmers paddle alongside at least ten yards off, trying to keep the lights in sight and praying that the captain is able to spot them through the waves. Base on the size of the lights in your field of vision you can get a general sense of how close you are to the boat, and based on the relative size of the lights to each other you can sort of judge the trajectory of the boat. But it is hardly an exact science. Occasionally I could hear fragments of MJ shouting encouragement but several times I hear bursts of yelling “Go left! Go left!” I was about to plow into the side of the boat and had to quickly change course. Keeping the boat in sight but not too close required constant attention. But everything else was black. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear, and nothing to feel. I lost all sense of time but refused to ask for a progress check. It wouldn’t help. I would know I was done when Katy jumped in behind me.

 

Finally I heard the horn and saw another glow stick. I crawled back aboard the boat and told MJ that while I had always liked Australian accents his voice was my new favorite sound.

When I asked Daz for a progress check he said we had a little more than two miles to go. It had been almost 16 hours since we set off from Dover. Katy had said she wasn’t sure if she could make the full hour but said she’d give it her best effort. Months earlier when I asked her to do the swim I had explained that it wouldn’t take the team more than 13 or 15 hours to reach France. I promised her she would be the last swimmer in the relay and there was no way she would have to swim three times. Swimming in the dark wasn’t even something that crossed our mind. But she was totally game and I headed below deck to check on the rest of the team.

Mike was asleep and neither MJ or Caroline seemed to be feeling very well. I got dressed and started re-hydrating, Alice now seemed immune to the cold (and wary of the nausea that accompanied trips below deck) so she stayed outside and kept Katy company. MJ soon headed out to join her and I chatted with Mike and Caroline to see if either of them were up to swim again. Caroline might have rallied if pushed, but I could see she wasn’t keen on facing the cold again. Mike looked spent. We still had at least one mile to go.

I said I would swim again but if I couldn’t make it through my fifth hour, I would need someone else to jump in. Mike agreed to be the reserve swimmer. I loaded up on bread, Nutella, Gatorade, anything that might bring my blood sugar back up. Katy made it through her first 30 minutes and pushed on. I changed back into my suit and Lance handed me a warm cup with a viscous looking fluid. “Drink that,” he said. “I can’t,” I said. “Caffeine makes me nauseous.” “It’s not an energy drink,” he assured me. “It’s pure carbs. It’s what all the solo swimmers use.” I forced down the sweet syrupy liquid and headed back on the deck. “How far is it to shore?” I asked Lance as I rubbed Vaseline under my arms to stop the chaffing. He said it was a mile and a bit. “How far is a bit?” I insisted. “Is it .2 miles is it .7 miles?” “It’s not .7,” he said,  “It’s a bit. No one else is going in after you, just think about the beach.”

At the hour mark Katy gamely called out to say that if the other swimmer wasn’t ready she was fine to keep going. But I was already strapping my goggles on. And as the horn went off I plunged into black water for what I hoped would be the last time. This swim passed much as the one before, as I alternately chased the boat and struggled to avoid running into it. The water was calmer as we approached the coast and after a while I began to notice an almost imperceptible increase in temperature. The water also seemed to taste different, although by now, the salt water had swollen my tongue so much it was hard to tell. I lacked my previous energy but settled into a gentle cadence and hoped I could keep it together. I figured that since I had dragge my friends into this mess and I owed it to them to make sure we had a happy ending. Somehow focusing on them made it easier. And besides, I had endured four-hour water polo practices before. With long breaks in between my swims, this should be nothing if not easier.

I thought a lot about my water polo career in that last hour, recognizing that if it wasn’t for water polo I never would have considered myself athletic or had the temerity to swim the Channel. Coach Burgess, Coach Throop and Coach Klatt had always insisted that physical limits were meant to be broken. Thus far they had always been right.

After about an hour MJ shouted that we were 600 meters from the French shore. I pulled my goggles up and saw the vague outline of a beach in the distance. 15 minutes, I calculated, I can make that. Just as relief was about to set in, I began to have second thoughts. I was going to have to swim ashore. Getting to France sounded nice. Swimming up to the beach, in the dark, by myself, was my worst nightmare. I hate when anything touches me in the water. I don’t like seaweed or kelp or fish. I hate the surprise when your foot first touches down on the beach. Weedy ones are the worst, then the muddy ones. But even the sandy and rocky ones are bad. It’s not rational, but I just don’t like it. Now I wasn’t so sure I wanted to make it to France.

But that was the price that had to be paid to get out of the water.

What seemed like ten minutes later MJ called out “300 meters.” Five minutes later I heard “200 meters!” Either he can’t count or I’m swimming slower than usual, I thought. Finally the boat eased to a stop. “We can’t go any further!” MJ shouted. They shone the spotlight on the beach and I glumly waved goodbye and set off into the dark. I could barely see so about 50 meters from shore I pulled off my goggles and swam heads-up freestyle. About 20 meters from shore, I suddenly plowed into a rock. After the initial moment of panic, I thought, that’s strange, this is pretty far out for an outcropping. With the next stroke I hit another rock. Suddenly I realized, this wasn’t a muddy beach, it wasn’t a sandy beach. It was a boulder beach. It was too shallow to swim. And too uneven to walk. So with the waves rolling in, I lurched, crawled and rolled my way towards the spotlight. It must have been a sight from the boat. Finally I crawled out of the water onto a huge stone and carefully balanced myself before standing and waving back at the boat. A big cheer went up and I smiled into the darkness. Then, after about a ten second stay in France, I carefully slipped back into the water and crawled through the rocks before swimming back to the boat. When I flopped aboard for the last time it was just after 11:15PM. “Let’s go back to England,” I said.

Our total swim time was just under 18 hours. (17:42, but at that rate, minutes hardly matter). As we motored back across the channel, Lance printed out a chart of our swim and handed it to me. It was titled, “By Any Means.”

(See below for Epilogue)

Epilogue

We powered back across the Channel at full speed so that the Sea Satin’s crew could meet the next relay team that was scheduled to leave at 3AM. We arrived back in Dover at 2:30AM, approximately 22 hours after arriving at the Marina. It was too late to arrange for accommodations in Dover and most of us had class the next day so we piled into our tiny hired car and drove back to Oxford. We got back just after 5AM. I for one fell straight into bed, salty clothes and all.

When I peeled off my thermals to get in the shower the next morning I discovered an array of abrasions I hadn’t even felt the night before. Not exactly a hospitable welcome from France. It took a few days for us to regain our usual strength and most of us came down with cold along the way. Our friends gave us a hero’s welcome but I think we’re all just glad to have finished.

I would do it again but I don’t know if there would be any other takers. And that’s okay. One Channel crossing is more than I had a right to ask of my friends, and despite any initial reluctance or misgivings, they all performed superbly on the day of the swim. Everyone made some sort of extraordinary contribution, whether it was Caroline being the first to brave the dark water, MJ enduring the bone chilling cold not once, not twice, but three times, Mike pushing through the nausea and the pain, Alice meeting her physical limit and finding the enthusiasm to inspire the rest of us, or Katy who kept us all warm and fed, and swam more than even she probably imagined herself capable of. It was a team effort and I was honored to take part.

The Victorious Team (looking perky at 2:30AM)
(From left to right) Mike, Alice, Caroline, Katy, Daz, Meg, MJ 

Monkey Wars

Day four proceeded much as before. Revelry was at 5:30AM and a group of us gathered in the kitchen for tea and coffee before setting off in search of the illusive leopards. Our game muse seemed to have abandoned us as we spent over an hour without seeing anything other than a herd of impalla and a couple of zebras. Suddenly we came upon a traffic jam of safari trucks. It was like the 405 in rush hour except people were craning for pictures of wild dogs rather than rubber necking. The trucks weaved back in forth in front of each other, and did 180s as they vied for photos like paparazzi at a Julia Roberts sighting. Galen and I decided to that fortune favored the brave and made a couple of bold maneuvers to get through the fray. But we got separated from the rest of our caravan. We drove on to see an enormous giraffe just feet from the road. He began staggering towards us on his wobbly knees and we had to back up so he wouldn’t walk right into us. It was pretty incredible. We got back to the house only to learn that the other cars caught a fleeting glimpse of a leopards crawling down from a tree. So at least a couple people saw all the Big Five.

We had lunch on the porch again and our monkey friends came back to play while we were eating. These vervet monkeys are these grey monkeys the size of a back pack with a really long tail and these cute, placid little faces that disguise their nefarious intentions. They scampered into the tree just as we were sitting down for lunch. It immediately became obvious that they have overcome the shyness that accompanied our initial introduction and scurried onto the porch and sat watching us from a few feet away, eyeing our plates with covetous eyes. At one point Jared went into the house and one monkey who had been watching him with particular interest darted out of the tree, streaked across the porch, bounded onto the table, snatched the bunch of grapes off of his plate and launched himself back into the tree. Once he was safe in the canopy he stared down at us with obvious smugness as he gleefully popped grapes into his mouth. Cheeky little fellow. To add insult to injury the rest of the monkeys started chucking berries at us with uncanny precision. Then they escalated their tactics by peeing on Mali and Henry and sending a bomb of defecation onto the deck. Fortunately there were no casualties. But we held our ground, guarded our plates carefully and waved our forks as necessary until eventually they declared a cease fire and went back to performing aerial acrobatics in the nearby neighboring banana trees.

On a related note, Henry seemed to have the worst luck with animals. The second night we were there everyone was sitting by the fire and this enormous beetle the size of a small mouse started crawling across the porch. I saw it and assumed it would give us a wide berth. But before I could say anything it had scurried up Henry’s leg. He hopped around in what looked like a hyperactive Irish jig, trying to dislodge the bug and not fall in the fire. The next night the same bug came back and flew onto his shoulder. He tried to swat it off but it wouldn’t budge so he whipped off his shirt and began beating it against the ground. It was like watching a bizarre cross between a stripper and a Native American war dance.

And yet, when not under siege from impish monkeys and deranged insects the porch was an idyllic place to lounge and chat. The breeze coming off the river kept it blissfully cool even in the hottest hours of the day, the tree canopy overhead made the perfect sunscreen and the smooth wood board were as good of a place for a nap as any. Late in the afternoon I tried to rally people for a run around Skukuzu. Danny said he would be take up running once we got back to Oxford. I pressed him to start right then and he said,  “I should do exercise. I really like exercise. In the abstract.” “What does that mean Danny?” I pushed. “Come on” I insisted, “Your body is crying out for punishment.” I don’t know where that line of reasoning came from but it became one of the most quoted lines of the trip. So we set put for a couple of laps followed by our final evening game drive. The animals were scarce again but we set off for a promontory and watched as the sun sank down and melted into the horizon. 

King of the Jungle

On day three we got up at 4:30AM for a game walk at dawn. So much for a vacation. We piled into an open-air safari truck with our guides Opa and Letis and set off into the inky darkness. Within a few minutes we saw a half dozen sets of eyes glowing in the beams from the headlights. A pack of hyenas was literally trotting right toward us. A few miles later the pack of wild dogs made another appearance. So shortly after when we came upon another set of fury four legged creatures trotting down the road everyone was a bit indifferent. But as we got nearer we realized they were far too large to be dogs. And there were tufts of hair sticking out above their hunched shoulder blades. Lions!!! It was a pride of five juvenile males who looked like they were just reaching maturity. (A male lion’s testosterone level is directly correlated with the size and color of his mane.) 

The lions were totting along ten yards in front of the truck and weaving their way casually back and forth across the road. We pulled alongside them and saw that one had long parallel scars running along his shoulder. Another one stared back at us from no more than three feet away. His paws padded softly on the sand and his hips oscillated up and down as he sashayed alongside us. 

If I had been stupid enough to try it, I could have reached out and touched him. But I also realized that it would have been no trouble at all for him to lead into the four-foot aperture in the open-air cab of the truck. Everyone was taking pictures frantically. But none of us could seem the “lions at dawn” setting on our cameras so everything kept coming out blurry of black. 

After a couple hundred yards of tailing them our guides announced that we would start the game drive here. We all laughed at the joke and continued snapping pictures. But he was serious and pulled the car over. Right. Well I suppose it is better to know where the lions are before you start whacking around in the bush. But the lions scattered as soon as we stepped out of the truck. Our guides then proceeded to walk us through the safety instructions for the game drive. Stay in a single file line. Don’t run if charged by an animal. No talking. Sounded a bit like heading off to recess during kindergarten. But then the teacher wasn’t carrying a rifle.

But after such an exhilarating start, the rest of the morning was rather uneventful by comparison. We followed a black rhino’s tracks through the sand and stopped to observe from a safe distance. We studied the skull and antlers of an Impalla, saw a snake skin hanging from a bush, ducked under spider webs with enormous orb spiders and tried not to crunch the poisonous millipedes we frequently saw underfoot. Our guide’s longest lecture was reserved for a giant undulating pile of poop where we received a fifteen-minute lecture on dung beetles. Apparently there are four types of dung beetles, but the only kind I thought worthy of remembering were the kleptocopry beetles, named because they steal the dung balls rolled by other beetles, pull out the eggs and insert their own. Stealing poop seemed a bit ridiculous but it reminded me of some friends in college who had a tendency to get sticky fingers when they were drunk and open their purses the next morning to discover ping pong balls, straws, shot glasses, playing cards and any number of other pocketable items discovered at parties. Anyway, enough about the kleptos. The walk was a great way to get a more intimate perspective and note the stillness of the bush, the denseness of the vegetation and the small life forms teeming in a seemingly static landscape.

The entertainment picked up again in the afternoon as we sat on the porch whiling away the time. Two hippos dueled for primacy right in front of us, bobbing up from under the water every few minutes like a submarine breaching the surface. They then proceeded to bellow in righteous fury and gnash their sparse teeth. Eventually one ambled off in defeat. When things quieted down a few buffalo came down to wallow in the shallows, the crocodiles resumed their sunbathing and a few elephants came to dehydrate. The menagerie in our backyard almost defeated the point of a game drive but we went out again in hopes of spying a leopard. But an hour’s drive didn’t yield anything carnivorous, just a smattering of horned creatures. On our way back we discovered a troop of baboons scampering along the road, their pink bums bobbing frantically up and down as they scurried for the cover of the trees. 

Looking for the Big Five

We got up with the sun to go Kodak hunting. It reminded me of a story about how it doesn't matter if you are a lion or an antelope; when the sun comes up you better be running. Well we were. Armed with a wide range of cameras and driving everything from Lyle's white BMW to Dean's rugged 4x4 we set off to see the big game. The morning started with a little intrigue- we came up on a pile of cars and learned that they had just seen two leopards run across the road and then heard them calling out. Dean says that leopards only make noise when they mate so we figured they must have gotten a room, so to speak. We moved on to give them the appropriate privacy.

It seemed like ages before we saw anything else but just as I was thinking about taking a nap we came around a bend and found a pack of wild dogs loitering in the road. There were at least fifteen of them and none showed the slightest inclination to move as four cars inched towards them. Apparently wild dogs are really rare- there are only 300 or so in the 6 million acres of Kruger. So we sat there for about twenty minutes observing. They must have had a kill recently because one of them had the head of a young impala in its mouth. The imagine of one head sticking out of another head is probably my favorite picture from Kruger. Talk about the Circle of Life.  Meanwhile, the other dogs alternated between napping and hipping at his heels and tail to try to take the skull. The contrast between extreme agression and perfectly docile behavior was pretty extreme but their antics were quite entertaining.

As the morning progressed we saw zebras trotting down the road, elephants mowing down bushes, water buffalo wallowing the in the mud, rhinos hiding in the trees and a hippo ambling along the riverbed. It certainly wasn't the type of safari I had imagined- cruising around in a Chevy Spark (hybrid) with the flip-flop sporting Galen at the wheel rather than a seasoned black guide with a rifle in a rack behind his head in a Land Rover 4X4, but the animal sightings exceeded expectations.

We came back to the house for brunch and made scrambled eggs, bacon (proper bacon rather than fried English ham) and breakfast potatoes. We ate on the back porch as we watched crocodiles sun themselves on the sandbar in the distance and dodged leaves and twigs dislodged by monkeys scampering around in the trees above our heads. It was pretty unreal. The rest of the afternoon was spent lounging on the porch. As the heat from the sun began to wane I crossed the street to go into the Skukuza camp for a couple laps running around the perimeter. As soon as I slipped in the gate I was intercepted by a huge warthog. He looked a lot like Puma but didn’t seem nearly as affable so I backed away slowly and went about my business. Fortunately that was the only animal sighting on my run. The evening game was pretty quiet. We saw a herd of elephants bathing in the river and some mongooses popping in and out of the grass like a game of whack-a-mole. Dinner was conducted outside again under a blanket of the brightest stars I have ever seen. We made a thick stew in a very magical looking cauldron and Alice, our resident Australian, gave us a little tutorial on the constellations in the Southern Hemisphere. 

Legacy

Every two years a group of Rhodes scholars get together and organize a trip to South Africa over the spring holiday. It's a chance to recharge in the sunlight after a long, dreary winter in Oxford, but more importantly, it is an opportunity to learn more about the region where Cecil Rhodes made his wealth and think about the problems imperialism left in its wake. This year we had about a dozen scholars signed up to go and an action-packed two week itinerary.

We flew into Johannesburg airport and immediately piled into a minibus for the six hour drive to Kruger National Park, a six million acre game reserve where we would be spending our first four days. I'm a big fan of car trips. It's probably a survival adaptation I developed as a child when my parents piled us into a hideous purple Econoline van every summer for multiple-day treks from St. Paul to San Diego or St. Paul to Hilton Head. One year when they were feeling particularly bold, we drove coast to coast from South Carolina to California. I've never been able to play I-spy since. Team van rides up and down the California coast are also some of my favorite memories from water polo, particularly an all night drive from San Jose during the 2003 wild fires, but that is a separate story. Anyway, our ride across the grasslands of South Africa didn't disappoint. It was a great way to get to know everyone a bit better and our conversations ranged from the pedagogical weaknesses of Oxford to gardening and foreign service careers. 

We arrived at Kruger just before they locked the gates for the evening. Large sections of the park are fenced off to keep the rhinos from wandering into local towns and to keep tourists to trying to sneak in to steal a peek at the lions during the night. During the days cars can drive all over the paved roads but you aren't allowed out of your car unless you are in one of the gated campsites.  Apparently one too many Kodac-happy visitor got munched by a lion. 

Our timing couldn't have been better. The day was finally cooling down and the sun was beginning to set. Almost immediately we spied zebras hiding in the bushes. Then another mile on there was an elephant casually ambling along the side of the road like a hitchhiker looking for a ride. Unfortunately, we didn't have room. We saw a rhinoceros and baby rhino grazing in a creek bred and then practically hit three bison as the sauntered across the road. I guess they don't take J-walking very seriously in Kruger. 

It is incredible to be surrounded by so much open space. I forget how cloying Oxford is. Here there is bush as far as the eye can see and the sun set in an explosion of burnt orange splashes against a backdrop of lonely trees flecking the horizon.

We stayed at the house of one of the South African's friends, who is the doctor at Skukuza, the largest camp in Kruger. It had a sprawling backyard with a massive deck and fire pit that opened up onto a river. It was too late to see anything when we arrived but Lyle assured us that it is usually teeming with hippos and crocs. After everyone settled in we had a braai (South African style BBQ- I can't really say how it is unique except that they use link sausages curled up in tight spirals). Grilled meat was an amazing change after all the roasts in England. We all went to bed with high hopes for the adventures that lay in store for us. 

The Boat Race

Admittedly the Oxford Cambridge Boat Race is not the world’s most exciting sporting event. There are no high impact collisions, acrobatic catches or bloody brawls. No. For 17 minutes, sixteen men rhythmically pull their oars through the water with a grace and fluidity that looks effortless to the untrained observer. But what the fans don’t see is their pulses are hammering at an insane rate and every stroke harnesses every fiber or their strength. This single race is the culmination of seven months of the most grueling and arduous training imaginable. Long hours on the rowing machine that sets muscles on fire, sprint ergs that left them puking in their lap, and frigid pre-dawn outings on an icy river. It’s the kind of sport that tests spirit as much as strength. And the Oxford and Cambridge are obsessed with it. For 158 years these universities have pitted their eight best rowers against each other and in recent years over a quarter of a million people swarm the banks of the Thames while millions more sit glued to their TV sets. And this year’s race was one for the ages.

After a crushing win last year and impressive performances at earlier regattas, Oxford was the heavy favorite, although the Cambridge boat outweighed them by almost twenty pounds to the man. The race started off according to expectations, with Oxford maintaining a narrow lead in the early minutes of the race. Myself and about ten friends watched on a jumbo screen in a riverside park and crowded along the riverbank as the boats surged past. Moments after everyone settled into our seats to watch the last seven minutes of the race, something unprecedented happened. A swimmer emerged directly in line with the Oxford blades, which were churning through the water at close to 40 strokes a minute. The coxes frantically called for both crews to stop and the swimmer dived under water to avoid being decapitated by the blades. It quickly became evident that the swimmer was a protester who had disrupted the race deliberately. Meanwhile, the race referee determined that the raced would need to be re-started from the half waypoint of the river. Both crews turned around and paddled back the way they had come, followed by an armada of power boats carrying police, referees, medics, coaches and the like. By the time the race was ready to resume 30-minutes had elapsed. I can only imagine what the rowers must have felt, soaking wet on a freezing cold day, lactic acid surging through their blood stream and thoughts whirring as they tried to refocus and prepare for a 7 minute race, a sprint piece dissimilar to what they had been training for.

The race restarted with Oxford pulling ahead in seconds and they took an aggressive line to force the Cambridge crew into the rough water. Suddenly the ref was welling at Oxford to move away and before the coxes could correct the inside oars from both boats clanked together. The blade of an Oxford oar snapped and went flying. The race was over before it had even really re-started. Down a rower, Oxford would have no chance of challenging Cambridge for victory. The race commentators suggested that Oxford should stop rowing and register a “did not finish” rather than a loss but the Oxford rowers would have none of it and continued on valiantly. Cambridge pulled steadily away and cruised across the finish line as Oxford limped along behind. Moments after crossing the line they sat gasping for air and reeling at the sudden turn of events. Suddenly the Oxford bowman collapsed and when his teammates were unable to revive him he was moved to a medical boat and treated for exhaustion. To push himself so hard in a loosing battle was a tremendous display of determination that can only be done justice by Teddy Roosevelt’s famous Man in the Arena quote:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. 

Once the oarsman was revived, all attention turned to the protester. Allegedly he was protesting elitism, which he, an LSE graduate who lives in a 350,000GBP flat, claims is epitomized by Oxford and Cambridge. Words cannot do credit to the injustice he wrought on the Boat Race, but Will Zeng, and American Rhodes scholar on the Oxford squad said it best:

When I missed your head with my blade I knew only that you were a swimmer, and if you say you are a protester then, no matter what you say your cause may be, your action speaks too loudly for me to hear you. I know, with immediate emotion, exactly what you were protesting. You were protesting the right of seventeen young men and one woman to compete fairly and honorably, to demonstrate their hard work and desire in a proud tradition. You were protesting their right to devote years of their lives, their friendships, and their souls to the fair pursuit of the joys and the hardships of sport. You, who would make a mockery of their dedication and their courage, are a mockery of a man.

In the aftermath both boat clubs exhibited a level of sportsmanship that is rarely exuded in modern athletics. The Cambridge boat refrained from any raucous displays of celebration and the presentation of awards was cancelled out of respect for the hospitalized oarsman. Please take a minute to read some of the statements. It is a terrible shame that in a world where physical talent is so exalted, such integrity is undervalued.

The Oxford cox, Zoe de Toledo:

Firstly, I’d like to say how proud I am of the eight true gentlemen who I had the pleasure to cox in The Boat Race yesterday. Seeing how the guys attacked the Race in the last 5 minutes was simultaneously one of the worst, but also one of the proudest moments of my life.

Ultimately it is just a tragedy that neither crew had the opportunity to display its best ability over the full course from Putney to Mortlake. We are devastated that we did not get the chance to find out what we were capable of achieving in the second half of the Race, and many of us will never have that opportunity again. It is our sincerest hope that every future Boat Race crew, from both Oxford and Cambridge, is afforded the chance to fairly test themselves over the full 4 and a quarter miles that make The Boat Race such a unique event.

We are all extremely proud of The Boat Race as an event and a tradition, and accept that bizarre events like those that occurred yesterday do happen. That’s sport. Whilst I believe I will remember yesterday’s remarkable events for all the wrong reasons, I would not trade the friendships I have built with my crewmates for anything. Yesterday I truly learnt what it was to be part of a team. A team that rallies around you and shelters you from the storm when you are at your lowest. Lastly I want to finish by saying how proud I am of my teammates in the Isis crew, who not only set the record for the Reserve Boat Race, but also recorded the third fastest time in the history of the Race.

Dr. Alex Woods, the rower who was hospitalized for exhaustion:

Thank you all for your kind wishes, it really means a lot. I'm sorry for worrying anyone with a slow reply. I've only recently been discharged under supervision and have access to my phone. I am ok, the doctors at Charing Cross believe that I just ended up with too much lactate in my blood, and my body just shut down in response. I should be back to normal in a few days. 

I'm very proud of Zoe De Toledo Roel Haen Dan HarveyHanno Wienhausen Karl Hudspith Alex Davidson Kevin Baum Will Zeng, it has been an honour to call you my crew mates.

I don't remember anything of the end of the race, and am obviously devastated at the way things turned out, but congratulations to CUBC for their win. I'm sorry my collapse prevented your celebrations, and thank you for thinking of me at the time. Such sportsman-like behaviour is a credit to yourselves and Cambridge.