Waters blue - waters deep . . . the banishing of deep water demons!

[King Cotton]

 

Waters blue - waters deep . . . the banishing of deep water demons.

 This tale is cut from my first attempt at serious writing, a romantic memoir of my courting the lovely Georgina Fisher (a pseudonym, of course) who lived near Patterdale in the English Lake District.

In the book, a 340-page epic, I’m Harry – not King Cotton – and this tale is based upon how Georgina, on the penultimate day of my 1962 Easter holiday visit to her village, banishes my deep water demons, i.e. my fear of swimming out of my depth. Just how she perceived the modus operandi of this psychological milestone and then carried it out still leaves me dumbfounded in its uniqueness and overwhelming success.

On the Easter Sunday afternoon, we were near the summit of High Street, one of the Lake District’s Eastern Fells, sat on the grassy brink of the massive corrie in which Blea Water, the district’s deepest tarn is strikingly located. Setting the scene for Georgina’s planned mentoring, we had visited that same spot, the previous day, when, upon my commenting that the deep blue water looked frighteningly deep, she asked ‘why frightening’, to which I recounted my ‘bad time at Bacup Baths’, when a slip off the steps at the deep end had me floundering, I thought, for my life.

From that brief, fear-ridden account of my deep water demons evolved Georgina’s determination to put that little matter to rights, the first step of which was her suggesting that we have a swim, next day, either in Blea Water or its near neighbour, Small Water that was both warmer and ‘nowhere near as deep’. Sunday dawned and by around three o’clock we’d lugged our heavy camping gear up ‘The Street’ and were sat in the self-same spots on the corrie rim. Here’s how the story unfolded . . . .

  

 . . . . In the present context of the Blea Water swim and my admitted deep water fears, Georgina was totally committed to the cause of banishing such fears, knowing that they were contrary to the generally bold and fearless approach to life that characterised her village-visitor boyfriend and because, as much as she doubted the ethicality of acknowledging it, they implied a degree of wimpishness. Yes, that actually irked her a little; Georgina Fisher marrying a wimp … never.

Character-wise, Georgina was now happy with my inner personality and my public persona, too – generally liked and admired amongst those villagers with whom I had interplay – as well as my often-defined life ideals and guiding principles. To be fair, there was now little to criticise about ‘the boy’, other than my tendency to allow silliness to distract me from the serious issues at hand, my penchant for childish word-play a perfect example of this flaw. She knew that she could ‘work’ on that minor detail.

But, right now, at this very moment, she did not know how her deep water cajoling was going to impact on this ‘man’ that she had already fallen deeply in love with. Would she be guilty of taking her character-building a huge step too far, were she to continue coaxing Harry to Blea Water’s edge and into the deep-blue water, beyond?

She needed little time to consider the issue, since she was one-hundred percent sure that, if successful, her swimming persuasion would be character-building; all she needed, now, was the means of achieving this huge goal, with the absolute minimum of any type of discomfiture on my part. She needed something to distract me from this unjustified fear of the depths; to make me focus on the fact that I was a mile-strong swimmer, that Blea Water was barely a quarter of a mile across and that I was going to be no more than an arm’s length away from Wonderwoman.

The deep end, revisited

 “No prizes, then, for guessing which tarn we’re swimming in, today … yes, it’s this beautiful bit of water and you’re going to love it … I promise. Look, Harry … I know you well enough to know that you’re not a wimp … just the opposite, as the whole village knows and, probably, as the whole school knows, back home. I want you to give me some very quick – very quick, as in ‘no time for thinking’ – answers to six simple questions. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, course I will … you know that … fire away!”

“Question one: how far can you swim?”

“Do you want the exact distance?” Georgina nodded. “Seventy-two lengths of Maden Public Baths, or one mile and one-point-six lengths … a mile-and-a-bit, for easy reckoning.” Now, as was the norm, in undemanding dialogue, I was the most relaxed and confident of individuals. ‘Undemanding dialogue’, did I say? Georgina had something different on the tip of her tongue.

“Question two: how much do you love me?”

I looked round in amazement. “What’s that got to do with swimming in Blea Water, for heaven’s sake? Are you serious?” Georgina nodded. “Why don’t you ask Bobby Vee[1]? … he’ll tell you better than me … and without crying his eyes out,” I gasped, in an already tearful state; so tearful that Georgina could hardly make out the next words. “What made you ask me that when I thought swimming was the only thing on the agenda?” I managed to find the cotton hanky that was always squashed tightly into the corner of my left trouser pocket and made no secret of wiping away my tears.

“You’ll soon see. Question three: how deep is the deep end at Maden Baths or, more to the point, is it over six-foot, with pretty well everyone out of their depth?”

“Yes, it’s six-foot-six and I’ve never seen anyone tall enough to breath, whilst touching the bottom … if you’ll pardon the expression.” Since she wasn’t even in the mood for acknowledging the innuendo, let alone responding to it, Georgina ignored the remark; preoccupied, of course, with the next question and thinking ahead to next day’s planned ‘goodbye’ routine – the walk up Dovedale and spending our last few minutes, together, in the ultra-romantic Lane End bus-shelter. That this particular line of thought, so diverse from the immediate subject at issue, came to the front of her mind at that very instant, brought a micro-moment of bewilderment, but it was there and gone in a second, or less. Shaking her head clear of the distraction, she pressed on.

“Question four: in exactly twenty-four hours’ time, how will you feel when you hear your dad’s Victor approaching and you make for the kerb-side at Lane End?”

“Shine-on, Georgina! … what you doin’ to me? I thought you did A-level Sociology … not psychiatry. This is weird!”

Georgina had to remind me that she must have no-stopping-to-think answers to every question. And certainly no more of my ‘bellyaching’. She was a woman on a mission … that was clear.

“I’ll be feeling that I don’t want to leave you … that’s for sure. I’ll remind you that you should receive my letter, no later than the Saturday morning post, and …” As Georgina had predicted, at this point, I broke down in uncontrollable crying but, after only a matter of seconds and with a massive and quite noisy heaving of myself together, I struggled on. How could I – how dare I – not manage to answer a simple question, put to me with the best of intentions, by my favourite woman in Christendom?

“… and I will always be thinking about you and our magic time together, this Easter holiday.” A few more heaves, with eyes screwed shut and a good blow on Georgina’s tissue just about managed to restore me back to shape.

“Question five: was there one thing … one happening … that made you scared of the deep end at the Maden Pool? A quick answer, please, Harry.”

. . . a bad time at Bacup Baths

 “Yes, there was … and no matter how much I try to forget it, ‘cos I can swim properly now, the memory is still there … it still sort of haunts me and it can still pop up, if I have a dream involving swimming. It was my own stupid fault. One Saturday afternoon, I had gone to Maden on my own, ‘cos I was so close to doing my first breadth, and I was so chuffed at being nearly ready to be swimming up and down the pool like the other kids, that I made the mistake of swimming down the side of the pool – doing ten or a dozen strokes at a time and then resting on the rail for a few seconds – all the way to the deep end but, when I was climbing out of the water, up the big stone steps, these boys must have been playing tag or something and I got pushed sideways into the water.

 “I’m sure it was an accident, ‘cos they were so busy with their game that they didn’t notice me flapping away, with my head under water and feeling like I was going deep down and going to drown. I took some water in and it felt horrible … and I remember rolling over and it seeming like dozens of arms and legs were trying to hold me underwater … and looking down, with my eyes smarting and thinking I was drowning, again. It seemed ages before I was able to roll back over, so I could see the bright light of the surface again and, before I knew it, I felt the steps, next to me, and made a grab for the rail, where I clung on for dear life. It seemed like I was coughing out lung-fulls of water … and, all of a sudden, everyone around me was asking if I was okay and if I wanted helping out of the water. ‘Better than drowning me’, I must have thought.

“I soon stopped coughing and decided that was enough for one day and had an extra-long shower, until Smiffy chucked me out, and went home and soon forgot all about it, until the next time I got out of my depth, again. I soon managed to feel comfortable, at Maden; probably because there were loads of other people there, to help me if I went under. If I’m swimming on my own, though … like at Nefyn on our holidays, as soon as I can’t feel the bottom, I start to panic and to think I’ll start going down, instead of going forward. I know it’s stupid, but, no matter how hard I try and no matter how I try to brainwash myself, it doesn’t make any difference.

“Those ten or, maybe, fifteen seconds of floundering at the baths will not stop taunting and teasing me … almost as if to say ‘we’ll get you next time, Harry Pickup’. Ever since I understood that ‘paranoia’ is when you feel persecuted in some way, I’ve tried to shut my deep water syndrome into the same paranoia chest that almost everyone on the planet will use at one time or another, hoping that that will make the problem smaller – trivial, almost – and maybe disappear, one day.”

“Wow, Harry … you do know how to tell a good story. You almost had me coughing up water, there. But you lived to tell the tale … that’s the main thing. Who else have you told about this?”

“No-one … not even Thomas, ‘cos he was a better swimmer than me. He learnt to swim with the Scouts and the deep end meant nothing to him … it was all just water … water to have fun in and to enjoy – not to scare you to pieces. He’d have laughed his socks off at the picture of me clinging on to the rail and coughing my guts up.

“You’re the only person to know about ‘the bad time at Bacup Baths’. I’ve always called it that, ‘cos it sounds better than ‘drowning in the deep end’ or ‘Pickup’s Maden voyage’ and it was a great film, anyway … The Gunfight at the OK Corral, that is. Did you go to see it … about four years ago, I reckon; with Burt Lancaster and that other guy who I think looks like a Viking warrior … what’s his name?”

I was not so much asking Georgina for help, as giving myself a bit of a gee-up, but the question drew the former response, as Georgina – not surprisingly puzzled by the OK Corral’s appearance – whispered, “Kirk Douglas, Darling,” she only too willing to enable me to finish my extraordinary tale.

“Yes, that’s the fella … before you and I had met … met properly, anyway … but I didn’t know he’d married again. Douglas-Darling … what sort of a name is that?” – the last few words being muttered at a barely audible volume to signify that I was trying to fathom-out some minor puzzle; another of my little quirks. The puzzle shelved, for the moment and, looking intently down at the water, I made the sort of remark that Georgina had been praying for.

“Which is the deep end, anyway … do you know?”

“Yes and you’re sitting right over it … that ice must have taken one hell of a nibble out of High Street, before going to work in Mardale.”

“How do you know that … have you swum down and measured it?”

“It’s a long story … too long for now, anyway. I’ll tell you tonight, as we’re going to sleep, and I know you’ll like it … okay?”

“What … going to sleep … or the story?”

A knowing smile and another hand-squeeze from Georgina signalled time for the final question.

“Question six: what will you be feeling and thinking, as you’re travelling back to Bacup, tomorrow; as you’re going to bed, tomorrow night and waking-up on Tuesday morning? Yes, I know that’s a bitty question, to do with your thoughts and feelings at those three different times, but just give me a quick snapshot, if you can. Your time starts now, if you’ll pardon a bit of dramatising.”

Georgina had deliberately put this question in a way that made a quick answer quite impossible and, after a second or two, let me off the hook by asking me to be thinking about my answer, ‘til bedtime. It was a master-stroke, simply and absolutely, and even she will probably never be able to explain where it came from, whilst helping her Harry with his paranoia and dangling her feet over a drop so steep that, if you lost your footing, your next one would be six-hundred feet lower down the mountain and probably underwater, too.

Gesturing towards the next point on our trail, she rose to her feet and, as if it was just a fleeting thought that had entered her head and was of little or no concern to either of us, remarked, “And there’s a purely scientific explanation as to why you couldn’t sink, even if you tried, isn’t there, Darling?”

“I can think of two, actually, Darrr-ling, to do with both density and propensity; one, physical and the other sociological … which do you want first?” Tears, one minute; teasing, the next; with Harry Pickup; it was often impossible to predict. What was for certain was that I was both happy beyond measure and literally dying to get into that deep-blue water.

“Oh-oh, I see you’re quickly back to normal … just help me on with this bag and let me have them any way you like.”

Needless to say, by the time Mardale Ill Bell was underfoot, our incessant nattering had again been fruitful; (a) it had found density and propensity jointly responsible for it being impossible to swim downwards … for more than a few feet, that is; (b) tomorrow’s goodbyes and parting and their accompanying ‘missing’ sentiments were given a good initial looking-at and (c) the business of letter-writing looked like it might offer many hours of further debate.

Time being very much of the essence, now, with the sun below forty-five degrees – I always saw this as ‘it’ll soon be dark’ time – we’ll by-pass this round of conversation and fast-track, down from Ill Bell and onto its rock-strewn shoulder, towards the so called ‘rocky rib’. Again, it seemed as though Georgina was in her back garden, so assuredly did she negotiate each twist and turn in the descent of the rib, until, at about the mid-point – and as if by heavenly granting – there appeared a roughly square-shaped terrace, about four yards by four and certainly roomy enough to take a two-man bivouac tent.

“Well, what do you reckon … flat enough to get a night’s sleep on?”

“Yehhh, definitely, and see … there’s a loo, just round here. I was caught short, last September, but it’s all weathered away, now … I hope,” I quipped, as I wriggled out of my pack straps and helped ‘madame’ off with hers. The lightweight tent was a doddle to erect and, within minutes, foody stuff was arranged under the left side of its fly-sheet canopy; cooking and other ironmongery, still in its stout canvas bag in my rucksack, under the right, sponge mats and bivvy bags folded half-way back, till bedtime, and the odd few clothes items, down either side.

“Blimey, Gina … it’s like a motel, with absolutely everything within arm’s reach of our parking space,” at which point I excitedly saw fit to compose and sing – too loudly, evidently, as Georgina covered her ears – a romantic ballad, titled Blue Hotel, what else? Given time, however, and with my silliness reined in, I was only too happy to fall into Georgina’s waiting arms, for she needed a reassuring hug that, so far, CORR – her camp on rocky rib mission – was going according to plan. Hugging accomplished, Georgina pointed, outwards and leftwards from the ridge, towards, as I was only too well aware, the Blea Water corrie. The tarn itself was hidden from view of the camp by another, gentler-sloping and grassier ridge that helped support Ill Bell’s Mardale flank.

No further words were necessary, as we almost bumped heads in our hurry to reach inside the tent for our swimwear and gym shoes – or pumps, as we both called them. Knowing that, if I didn’t come out with the challenge, Georgina most surely would, I couldn’t resist exclaiming, “Last one in’s a sissy!”, on which echoing note I bounded down the lower half of the rib, across a marshy hollow, over the grassy ridge, as if it wasn’t there, and down to Blea Water’s edge. So closely did Georgina match my pace that the two of us could have been connected by a pyjama cord. A glance across the tarn and up to the ridge that connects Rough Crag to its High Street parent confirmed our hope that the earlier progression of ‘ants’ across the skyline had ceased and that, hopefully, there were no eyes to be offended by our rapid undressing and changing.

As if by prior agreement, the two of us picked our way, barefoot, over the tarn’s rocky foreshore and into the first few inches of water. It was, initially, as we had expected, very cold to the touch – it was known as a cool swim, even in the midst of a hot summer – but, undaunted, we picked out a spot to head for on the far shore, shouted out a ‘3-2-1’ and in we plunged, needing only a yard in order to reach swimming depth. Georgina paused her long, easy front crawl stroke and dog-paddled, whilst she had a brief check-up.

“Not too cold, Darling? Just say, if you’re not comfortable. No need to ask if you’re happy … I can see that, all over your blue face. See, you’ve made everything blue … blue or Blea water, blue hotel and, to cap it all off, blue nose. Any other bits turning blue, Darling?” she wickedly asked, in closing.

“Not sure, Love … you’ll have to wait and see, but isn’t this water so easy to swim in, or is it just me, being very fit, lately? It’s just no effort at all and I feel like I’m cruising through the water. I’ll tell you what, though, Georgina Fisher … you swim like the proverbial fish. How did you get your stroke so relaxed-looking, yet so powerful? It’s back to Maden pool, when I get back home, until I can come close to that. Okay … that’s enough chat. … Where’s that marker gone?”

Georgina quickly re-orientated me, now swimming above countless fathoms of dark blue and, it has to be said, quite cold water, alongside her and I felt totally uplifted and blessed that her approach to ridding me of my deep water demons had proved so effective. Now I could really enjoy swimming, no matter how deep a blue the water.

The quarter-mile seemed less than that, especially to me, and it was a smiling duo that waded up the shingle of the far shore, eight minutes or so after taking the plunge. Not surprisingly, in the context of the years of frustration and fear that my deep-end demons had generated, I was shaking my head in wonderment at the success of Georgina’s oh-so-subtle – subliminal, almost – approach to getting into my head with such devastating success.

Demons or no demons, I had always loved swimming, within my depth, but now, with their banishment, a whole new watery world had been opened up to me and my gratitude to this woman of a thousand precious skills, sat huddled up close to me and shivering pretty vigorously, was immeasurable. We exchanged a few throw-away comments – notably to do with Georgina’s promised explanation of her Blea Water depth knowledge – and within a couple of minutes of exiting the depths, we were almost falling over ourselves to splash our way back in … and to the tent, waiting beyond that grassy slope.

Whilst approaching the home shore, Georgina could see that my strokes were smoother and easier-looking than at the start, especially my front crawl which, initially, had been both splashy and spluttery, due to the turning of my head, for in-takes of breath, being ill-timed. She knew that I’d be over-the-moon at being told this and, as she felt for the pebbles at the tarn’s rocky edge, wondered in what other ways the day could match up to this one. On my emerging from the depths, she conveyed her swim-stroke observations and, as expected, could barely keep me from taking flight, I felt so elated … airborne, almost . . . . .

 

. . . . . And that was how my deep water demons were banished. Have you ever had any similar demons you’d like to recount?

 

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[1] Vee’s cover of the popular love ballad, ‘Love You More Than I Can Say’, had, weeks earlier, peaked at no. 4 in the UK singles chart. You may recall it: Woh, oh oh, yeah, yeah, I love you more than I can say, I'll love you twice as much tomorrow, etc., etc. … one of the few songs that I liked so much I made the mistake of trying to sing. ‘I love you more than I can say’ was, of course, the sentiment I was trying to convey by my ‘Vee’ remark.

[King Cotton]

19 hours ago, King Cotton said:

Waters blue - waters deep . . . the banishing of deep water demons.

 This tale is cut from my first attempt at serious writing, a romantic memoir of my courting the lovely Georgina Fisher (a pseudonym, of course) who lived near Patterdale in the English Lake District.

In the book, a 340-page epic, I’m Harry – not King Cotton – and this tale is based upon how Georgina, on the penultimate day of my 1962 Easter holiday visit to her village, banishes my deep water demons, i.e. my fear of swimming out of my depth. Just how she perceived the modus operandi of this psychological milestone and then carried it out still leaves me dumbfounded in its uniqueness and overwhelming success.

On the Easter Sunday afternoon, we were near the summit of High Street, one of the Lake District’s Eastern Fells, sat on the grassy brink of the massive corrie in which Blea Water, the district’s deepest tarn is strikingly located. Setting the scene for Georgina’s planned mentoring, we had visited that same spot, the previous day, when, upon my commenting that the deep blue water looked frighteningly deep, she asked ‘why frightening’, to which I recounted my ‘bad time at Bacup Baths’, when a slip off the steps at the deep end had me floundering, I thought, for my life.

From that brief, fear-ridden account of my deep water demons evolved Georgina’s determination to put that little matter to rights, the first step of which was her suggesting that we have a swim, next day, either in Blea Water or its near neighbour, Small Water that was both warmer and ‘nowhere near as deep’. Sunday dawned and by around three o’clock we’d lugged our heavy camping gear up ‘The Street’ and were sat in the self-same spots on the corrie rim. Here’s how the story unfolded . . . .

  

 . . . . In the present context of the Blea Water swim and my admitted deep water fears, Georgina was totally committed to the cause of banishing such fears, knowing that they were contrary to the generally bold and fearless approach to life that characterised her village-visitor boyfriend and because, as much as she doubted the ethicality of acknowledging it, they implied a degree of wimpishness. Yes, that actually irked her a little; Georgina Fisher marrying a wimp … never.

Character-wise, Georgina was now happy with my inner personality and my public persona, too – generally liked and admired amongst those villagers with whom I had interplay – as well as my often-defined life ideals and guiding principles. To be fair, there was now little to criticise about ‘the boy’, other than my tendency to allow silliness to distract me from the serious issues at hand, my penchant for childish word-play a perfect example of this flaw. She knew that she could ‘work’ on that minor detail.

But, right now, at this very moment, she did not know how her deep water cajoling was going to impact on this ‘man’ that she had already fallen deeply in love with. Would she be guilty of taking her character-building a huge step too far, were she to continue coaxing Harry to Blea Water’s edge and into the deep-blue water, beyond?

She needed little time to consider the issue, since she was one-hundred percent sure that, if successful, her swimming persuasion would be character-building; all she needed, now, was the means of achieving this huge goal, with the absolute minimum of any type of discomfiture on my part. She needed something to distract me from this unjustified fear of the depths; to make me focus on the fact that I was a mile-strong swimmer, that Blea Water was barely a quarter of a mile across and that I was going to be no more than an arm’s length away from Wonderwoman.

The deep end, revisited

 “No prizes, then, for guessing which tarn we’re swimming in, today … yes, it’s this beautiful bit of water and you’re going to love it … I promise. Look, Harry … I know you well enough to know that you’re not a wimp … just the opposite, as the whole village knows and, probably, as the whole school knows, back home. I want you to give me some very quick – very quick, as in ‘no time for thinking’ – answers to six simple questions. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, course I will … you know that … fire away!”

“Question one: how far can you swim?”

“Do you want the exact distance?” Georgina nodded. “Seventy-two lengths of Maden Public Baths, or one mile and one-point-six lengths … a mile-and-a-bit, for easy reckoning.” Now, as was the norm, in undemanding dialogue, I was the most relaxed and confident of individuals. ‘Undemanding dialogue’, did I say? Georgina had something different on the tip of her tongue.

“Question two: how much do you love me?”

I looked round in amazement. “What’s that got to do with swimming in Blea Water, for heaven’s sake? Are you serious?” Georgina nodded. “Why don’t you ask Bobby Vee[1]? … he’ll tell you better than me … and without crying his eyes out,” I gasped, in an already tearful state; so tearful that Georgina could hardly make out the next words. “What made you ask me that when I thought swimming was the only thing on the agenda?” I managed to find the cotton hanky that was always squashed tightly into the corner of my left trouser pocket and made no secret of wiping away my tears.

“You’ll soon see. Question three: how deep is the deep end at Maden Baths or, more to the point, is it over six-foot, with pretty well everyone out of their depth?”

“Yes, it’s six-foot-six and I’ve never seen anyone tall enough to breath, whilst touching the bottom … if you’ll pardon the expression.” Since she wasn’t even in the mood for acknowledging the innuendo, let alone responding to it, Georgina ignored the remark; preoccupied, of course, with the next question and thinking ahead to next day’s planned ‘goodbye’ routine – the walk up Dovedale and spending our last few minutes, together, in the ultra-romantic Lane End bus-shelter. That this particular line of thought, so diverse from the immediate subject at issue, came to the front of her mind at that very instant, brought a micro-moment of bewilderment, but it was there and gone in a second, or less. Shaking her head clear of the distraction, she pressed on.

“Question four: in exactly twenty-four hours’ time, how will you feel when you hear your dad’s Victor approaching and you make for the kerb-side at Lane End?”

“Shine-on, Georgina! … what you doin’ to me? I thought you did A-level Sociology … not psychiatry. This is weird!”

Georgina had to remind me that she must have no-stopping-to-think answers to every question. And certainly no more of my ‘bellyaching’. She was a woman on a mission … that was clear.

“I’ll be feeling that I don’t want to leave you … that’s for sure. I’ll remind you that you should receive my letter, no later than the Saturday morning post, and …” As Georgina had predicted, at this point, I broke down in uncontrollable crying but, after only a matter of seconds and with a massive and quite noisy heaving of myself together, I struggled on. How could I – how dare I – not manage to answer a simple question, put to me with the best of intentions, by my favourite woman in Christendom?

“… and I will always be thinking about you and our magic time together, this Easter holiday.” A few more heaves, with eyes screwed shut and a good blow on Georgina’s tissue just about managed to restore me back to shape.

“Question five: was there one thing … one happening … that made you scared of the deep end at the Maden Pool? A quick answer, please, Harry.”

. . . a bad time at Bacup Baths

 “Yes, there was … and no matter how much I try to forget it, ‘cos I can swim properly now, the memory is still there … it still sort of haunts me and it can still pop up, if I have a dream involving swimming. It was my own stupid fault. One Saturday afternoon, I had gone to Maden on my own, ‘cos I was so close to doing my first breadth, and I was so chuffed at being nearly ready to be swimming up and down the pool like the other kids, that I made the mistake of swimming down the side of the pool – doing ten or a dozen strokes at a time and then resting on the rail for a few seconds – all the way to the deep end but, when I was climbing out of the water, up the big stone steps, these boys must have been playing tag or something and I got pushed sideways into the water.

 “I’m sure it was an accident, ‘cos they were so busy with their game that they didn’t notice me flapping away, with my head under water and feeling like I was going deep down and going to drown. I took some water in and it felt horrible … and I remember rolling over and it seeming like dozens of arms and legs were trying to hold me underwater … and looking down, with my eyes smarting and thinking I was drowning, again. It seemed ages before I was able to roll back over, so I could see the bright light of the surface again and, before I knew it, I felt the steps, next to me, and made a grab for the rail, where I clung on for dear life. It seemed like I was coughing out lung-fulls of water … and, all of a sudden, everyone around me was asking if I was okay and if I wanted helping out of the water. ‘Better than drowning me’, I must have thought.

“I soon stopped coughing and decided that was enough for one day and had an extra-long shower, until Smiffy chucked me out, and went home and soon forgot all about it, until the next time I got out of my depth, again. I soon managed to feel comfortable, at Maden; probably because there were loads of other people there, to help me if I went under. If I’m swimming on my own, though … like at Nefyn on our holidays, as soon as I can’t feel the bottom, I start to panic and to think I’ll start going down, instead of going forward. I know it’s stupid, but, no matter how hard I try and no matter how I try to brainwash myself, it doesn’t make any difference.

“Those ten or, maybe, fifteen seconds of floundering at the baths will not stop taunting and teasing me … almost as if to say ‘we’ll get you next time, Harry Pickup’. Ever since I understood that ‘paranoia’ is when you feel persecuted in some way, I’ve tried to shut my deep water syndrome into the same paranoia chest that almost everyone on the planet will use at one time or another, hoping that that will make the problem smaller – trivial, almost – and maybe disappear, one day.”

“Wow, Harry … you do know how to tell a good story. You almost had me coughing up water, there. But you lived to tell the tale … that’s the main thing. Who else have you told about this?”

“No-one … not even Thomas, ‘cos he was a better swimmer than me. He learnt to swim with the Scouts and the deep end meant nothing to him … it was all just water … water to have fun in and to enjoy – not to scare you to pieces. He’d have laughed his socks off at the picture of me clinging on to the rail and coughing my guts up.

“You’re the only person to know about ‘the bad time at Bacup Baths’. I’ve always called it that, ‘cos it sounds better than ‘drowning in the deep end’ or ‘Pickup’s Maden voyage’ and it was a great film, anyway … The Gunfight at the OK Corral, that is. Did you go to see it … about four years ago, I reckon; with Burt Lancaster and that other guy who I think looks like a Viking warrior … what’s his name?”

I was not so much asking Georgina for help, as giving myself a bit of a gee-up, but the question drew the former response, as Georgina – not surprisingly puzzled by the OK Corral’s appearance – whispered, “Kirk Douglas, Darling,” she only too willing to enable me to finish my extraordinary tale.

“Yes, that’s the fella … before you and I had met … met properly, anyway … but I didn’t know he’d married again. Douglas-Darling … what sort of a name is that?” – the last few words being muttered at a barely audible volume to signify that I was trying to fathom-out some minor puzzle; another of my little quirks. The puzzle shelved, for the moment and, looking intently down at the water, I made the sort of remark that Georgina had been praying for.

“Which is the deep end, anyway … do you know?”

“Yes and you’re sitting right over it … that ice must have taken one hell of a nibble out of High Street, before going to work in Mardale.”

“How do you know that … have you swum down and measured it?”

“It’s a long story … too long for now, anyway. I’ll tell you tonight, as we’re going to sleep, and I know you’ll like it … okay?”

“What … going to sleep … or the story?”

A knowing smile and another hand-squeeze from Georgina signalled time for the final question.

“Question six: what will you be feeling and thinking, as you’re travelling back to Bacup, tomorrow; as you’re going to bed, tomorrow night and waking-up on Tuesday morning? Yes, I know that’s a bitty question, to do with your thoughts and feelings at those three different times, but just give me a quick snapshot, if you can. Your time starts now, if you’ll pardon a bit of dramatising.”

Georgina had deliberately put this question in a way that made a quick answer quite impossible and, after a second or two, let me off the hook by asking me to be thinking about my answer, ‘til bedtime. It was a master-stroke, simply and absolutely, and even she will probably never be able to explain where it came from, whilst helping her Harry with his paranoia and dangling her feet over a drop so steep that, if you lost your footing, your next one would be six-hundred feet lower down the mountain and probably underwater, too.

Gesturing towards the next point on our trail, she rose to her feet and, as if it was just a fleeting thought that had entered her head and was of little or no concern to either of us, remarked, “And there’s a purely scientific explanation as to why you couldn’t sink, even if you tried, isn’t there, Darling?”

“I can think of two, actually, Darrr-ling, to do with both density and propensity; one, physical and the other sociological … which do you want first?” Tears, one minute; teasing, the next; with Harry Pickup; it was often impossible to predict. What was for certain was that I was both happy beyond measure and literally dying to get into that deep-blue water.

“Oh-oh, I see you’re quickly back to normal … just help me on with this bag and let me have them any way you like.”

Needless to say, by the time Mardale Ill Bell was underfoot, our incessant nattering had again been fruitful; (a) it had found density and propensity jointly responsible for it being impossible to swim downwards … for more than a few feet, that is; (b) tomorrow’s goodbyes and parting and their accompanying ‘missing’ sentiments were given a good initial looking-at and (c) the business of letter-writing looked like it might offer many hours of further debate.

Time being very much of the essence, now, with the sun below forty-five degrees – I always saw this as ‘it’ll soon be dark’ time – we’ll by-pass this round of conversation and fast-track, down from Ill Bell and onto its rock-strewn shoulder, towards the so called ‘rocky rib’. Again, it seemed as though Georgina was in her back garden, so assuredly did she negotiate each twist and turn in the descent of the rib, until, at about the mid-point – and as if by heavenly granting – there appeared a roughly square-shaped terrace, about four yards by four and certainly roomy enough to take a two-man bivouac tent.

“Well, what do you reckon … flat enough to get a night’s sleep on?”

“Yehhh, definitely, and see … there’s a loo, just round here. I was caught short, last September, but it’s all weathered away, now … I hope,” I quipped, as I wriggled out of my pack straps and helped ‘madame’ off with hers. The lightweight tent was a doddle to erect and, within minutes, foody stuff was arranged under the left side of its fly-sheet canopy; cooking and other ironmongery, still in its stout canvas bag in my rucksack, under the right, sponge mats and bivvy bags folded half-way back, till bedtime, and the odd few clothes items, down either side.

“Blimey, Gina … it’s like a motel, with absolutely everything within arm’s reach of our parking space,” at which point I excitedly saw fit to compose and sing – too loudly, evidently, as Georgina covered her ears – a romantic ballad, titled Blue Hotel, what else? Given time, however, and with my silliness reined in, I was only too happy to fall into Georgina’s waiting arms, for she needed a reassuring hug that, so far, CORR – her camp on rocky rib mission – was going according to plan. Hugging accomplished, Georgina pointed, outwards and leftwards from the ridge, towards, as I was only too well aware, the Blea Water corrie. The tarn itself was hidden from view of the camp by another, gentler-sloping and grassier ridge that helped support Ill Bell’s Mardale flank.

No further words were necessary, as we almost bumped heads in our hurry to reach inside the tent for our swimwear and gym shoes – or pumps, as we both called them. Knowing that, if I didn’t come out with the challenge, Georgina most surely would, I couldn’t resist exclaiming, “Last one in’s a sissy!”, on which echoing note I bounded down the lower half of the rib, across a marshy hollow, over the grassy ridge, as if it wasn’t there, and down to Blea Water’s edge. So closely did Georgina match my pace that the two of us could have been connected by a pyjama cord. A glance across the tarn and up to the ridge that connects Rough Crag to its High Street parent confirmed our hope that the earlier progression of ‘ants’ across the skyline had ceased and that, hopefully, there were no eyes to be offended by our rapid undressing and changing.

As if by prior agreement, the two of us picked our way, barefoot, over the tarn’s rocky foreshore and into the first few inches of water. It was, initially, as we had expected, very cold to the touch – it was known as a cool swim, even in the midst of a hot summer – but, undaunted, we picked out a spot to head for on the far shore, shouted out a ‘3-2-1’ and in we plunged, needing only a yard in order to reach swimming depth. Georgina paused her long, easy front crawl stroke and dog-paddled, whilst she had a brief check-up.

“Not too cold, Darling? Just say, if you’re not comfortable. No need to ask if you’re happy … I can see that, all over your blue face. See, you’ve made everything blue … blue or Blea water, blue hotel and, to cap it all off, blue nose. Any other bits turning blue, Darling?” she wickedly asked, in closing.

“Not sure, Love … you’ll have to wait and see, but isn’t this water so easy to swim in, or is it just me, being very fit, lately? It’s just no effort at all and I feel like I’m cruising through the water. I’ll tell you what, though, Georgina Fisher … you swim like the proverbial fish. How did you get your stroke so relaxed-looking, yet so powerful? It’s back to Maden pool, when I get back home, until I can come close to that. Okay … that’s enough chat. … Where’s that marker gone?”

Georgina quickly re-orientated me, now swimming above countless fathoms of dark blue and, it has to be said, quite cold water, alongside her and I felt totally uplifted and blessed that her approach to ridding me of my deep water demons had proved so effective. Now I could really enjoy swimming, no matter how deep a blue the water.

The quarter-mile seemed less than that, especially to me, and it was a smiling duo that waded up the shingle of the far shore, eight minutes or so after taking the plunge. Not surprisingly, in the context of the years of frustration and fear that my deep-end demons had generated, I was shaking my head in wonderment at the success of Georgina’s oh-so-subtle – subliminal, almost – approach to getting into my head with such devastating success.

Demons or no demons, I had always loved swimming, within my depth, but now, with their banishment, a whole new watery world had been opened up to me and my gratitude to this woman of a thousand precious skills, sat huddled up close to me and shivering pretty vigorously, was immeasurable. We exchanged a few throw-away comments – notably to do with Georgina’s promised explanation of her Blea Water depth knowledge – and within a couple of minutes of exiting the depths, we were almost falling over ourselves to splash our way back in … and to the tent, waiting beyond that grassy slope.

Whilst approaching the home shore, Georgina could see that my strokes were smoother and easier-looking than at the start, especially my front crawl which, initially, had been both splashy and spluttery, due to the turning of my head, for in-takes of breath, being ill-timed. She knew that I’d be over-the-moon at being told this and, as she felt for the pebbles at the tarn’s rocky edge, wondered in what other ways the day could match up to this one. On my emerging from the depths, she conveyed her swim-stroke observations and, as expected, could barely keep me from taking flight, I felt so elated … airborne, almost . . . . .

 

. . . . . And that was how my deep water demons were banished. Have you ever had any similar demons you’d like to recount?

 

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[1] Vee’s cover of the popular love ballad, ‘Love You More Than I Can Say’, had, weeks earlier, peaked at no. 4 in the UK singles chart. You may recall it: Woh, oh oh, yeah, yeah, I love you more than I can say, I'll love you twice as much tomorrow, etc., etc. … one of the few songs that I liked so much I made the mistake of trying to sing. ‘I love you more than I can say’ was, of course, the sentiment I was trying to convey by my ‘Vee’ remark.

Here's a pic of Blea Water, all 206 feet of it in its awesome corrie setting. Our campsite was further down the ridge on the left, what we nicknamed the Rocky Rib.

[Shark]

Shark's like deep blue water. But this one doesn't seem like the ideal habitat.