Field Journal

Stories Behind the Gear // Dryrobe®
Written by Daniel Neilson // Photography by John Summerton
Produced in partnership with Dryrobe®

You can’t fake euphoria, and you can’t mask relief. We hadn’t expected getting out of the sea to be the hardest or scariest part of our journey. We thought the vast swells around the lighthouse would be, but no. The rolling waves out to sea had been high, but it was on the ledge of the shore where they crashed down. Getting out required timing and strength, a focused effort and, ultimately, teamwork. The thought of getting warm, inside and out, kept us going too. A Dryrobe®, hot chocolate, and a fire. Maybe even a marshmallow. Heck, we deserved it.

Looking back at the photos of smiling faces, the euphoria and relief of landing at Birling Gap is unmistakable. So is the camaraderie. This is a group of swimmers who plan their weekends around races, who cheer each other on in aquathons, and who swim in the sea off Eastbourne year-round. For this group, the sea is a happy place. The swim is the binding force of a close friendship built up swim after swim after swim.

Our journey today had almost become an annual event: a committing 6km swim under the white cliffs of Sussex. An adventure on the high seas. There was fun, banter, and some ‘exciting’ swells.

It’s a familiar refrain in any outdoor activity: ‘I think it’s brightening up,’ or ‘Is that sun?’ However, as we walked along the shingle to Holywell on Eastbourne beach, the outlook couldn’t be described as anything but murky. The sea was brown, stirred up by the gales overnight, and the swell was still high.

There are almost never any surfers off Eastbourne, but there were today. But this group of strong and experienced swimmers had done this route before: from Holywell around Beachy Head, the highest chalk cliff in Britain at 162m, and the iconic red-and-white lighthouse where – shhhhh – we’ve climbed up and stopped for a picnic before, and then on to Birling Gap at the start of the Seven Sisters chalk cliffs. It’s a committing route. The sea smashes against the cliffs for most of the way, and once you’re around the headland with its staircase at Cow Gap, there’s nowhere to escape for around 5km of sea. To be safe, you need the support of at least a paddleboarder or ideally a boat. Either way, it’s a trepidatious feeling when there are several hours of swimming ahead of you and no way out. But we’d timed the tides, and normally that would do a lot of the heavy lifting. Today, not so much. It was too choppy. We’d stay tight, look after one another, and swim strong.

The chalk headland of Beachy Head was formed in the Late Cretaceous period, mostly from the remnants of plankton. At the end of the last ice age, the English Channel cut into the rock and shaped one of Britain’s best views. It is constantly changing. Having lived in this area on and off for almost 40 years, we’ve seen rockfall after rockfall. The steps down to Birling Gap were closed a couple of days before our swim after a major collapse. Remarkably, it happened when no-one was on the beach; locals know not to stand directly under the cliffs.

Bobbing a metre above sea level on a wave and then dipping down suddenly and thrillingly, the cliffs were far from our minds, but reappeared in our sights as we breathed. On calmer days, the cliffs and blue sky are meditative. Today, the seas were rolling and fun. We later laughed, imagining ourselves as dolphins, but far less graceful. The only sea life we saw that day was a curious seal, as we usually do. The four of us do stay together like a pod, however. Waves of this height, while not scary or significantly harder, can make you lose sight of a friend quickly, and that’s not an option – swimming hats and tow floats are colourful for a reason.

We passed the lighthouse from a distance. On a calm day, we might stop for snacks, regroup, and take in the view. In these swell conditions, though, it was far too dangerous. When we needed a short break, we lay on our backs, bobbed and chatted, resting on our tow floats. The tide quickened in our favour as planned, and we sped along the cliffs about 200m out.

You can’t see Birling Gap until you’re almost there. When you do, it brings relief. We had swum hard for two hours, and were tired, but it had been brilliant fun – and we mistakenly thought we were on the home stretch. Although we were, the hardest part was yet to come.

In the open sea, the waves felt like a roller coaster. Now, they crashed exactly on the ledge where the sea dipped into the channel. It was, frankly, terrifying, but we had no choice. We convened and decided to go in together, timing our swim right. Fast and strong was the mantra. We tried once, but a wave arrived too soon. ‘Stop,’ someone shouted, and we dived under the wave like surfers farther out. Then, stuck where the surf crashed, the waves left us with no choice but to duck under them until a gap appeared. Under, and out, under, and out. It was exhausting. ‘Go,’ someone screamed, and we went for it, pulling as hard as we could. Al landed first and stood up in the foam, pebbles rushing under the water and battering our legs. Two in, grabbing hands and pulling to shore. Three in. One left.

She had to duck the next waves and swim out to safety, and she kept diving into the waves, waiting for a break. After a couple of anxious minutes, a gap appeared. We screamed from the beach: ‘Go. Go. Go.’ She went for it, pulled in, and we grabbed her. Four. Relief and euphoria unfiltered. As pure as the joy we’d shared on the waves. We hugged on the beach. Genuine hugs of thanks. We had each other’s backs all day, and the final hurdle was over. Now, we could breathe, laugh, and hug again. These are the days that give life.

We met more friends. Dryrobes and dry clothes, a fire pit and hot chocolate. The sky was now clear and the sea bluer. Birling Gap’s sunset is unmissable. It was still two hours away, and we weren’t leaving. We walked the widening beach, chatted, and remembered the swim as if it were a year ago. We talked about life and our children, all in the same class, who brought us together five years ago. Over that time, we’d shared hundreds of hours in the sea. Hot days and cold days, good days and bad days. We laughed together and cried together, but mostly laughed. This year, our children are going to different secondary schools. But this group, the friends that look out for each other in the sea and in life, will always swim together.