If anyone could fit the description "average swimmer," that would be Laura Lopez-Bonilla in her mid-20s, with no special talents or experience and a highly inefficient stroke. Yet last summer, at age 34, she became the second TI coach in two years to complete an English Channel swim. (In July 2001, Sue Osborn, a TI coach who lives in San Francisco, and Nick Olmos-Lau, a TI workshop alum from Washington DC, completed solo Channel swims on the same day.) To put this remarkable feat in context, fewer people have completed a Channel swim than have been in space. Laura's story is proof that "average" swimmers can do great things.

On August, 4th 2002, after 15 hours, 39 minutes and approximately 48,500 strokes, I became the second Spanish woman to swim the English Channel. The idea to swim the Channel had been brewing in my mind since perhaps 1994 when, at the age of 26, I swam my first 3-mile “marathon” in a swimming pool. I climbed triumphantly out of the pool, knowing I had just fallen in love with endurance swimming, with the effort and the overall sense of achievement that comes after applying yourself single-mindedly to a difficult task.

At that time I was an average swimmer on the slow side of the equation and with a lot of learning and training to do. I never had any form of coaching in my youth and I had learnt to swim pretty much by looking at how other people swam. I only started swimming in earnest at the age of 23, after quitting smoking, I took some swimming lessons in my local pool and got started.

I bought my first book on swimming around this time. The book was called "The Mastery of Swimming" and described all swimming strokes, starts and turns. For the next two years I learned as much as I could from it, and trained by myself, mostly just swimming distance, adding lengths to my workouts as I gained in strength and fitness. Since I had no idea what interval training was about, I soon reached a plateau and joined a local swimming club in search of proper coaching and smart training. Wanting to swim the Channel was always in the back of my mind, but I was aware that my swimming wasn't yet good enough for it.

Towards the end of 1996, while convalescing from a knee operation, I read Terry Laughlin's Total Immersion book. I was instantly fascinated by the simplicity and ease of the method and using the money I had put aside for redecorating my study at home, I decided to travel from my home in Greenwich, England to Boston for a weekend workshop. In two days my stroke was transformed from arm-churning to a smooth, balanced and efficient freestyle. This transformation was to prove invaluable during my Channel swim when, despite fatigue, I was still able to stroke efficiently.

Between 1997 and 1999, inspired by my new stroke, I also trained to become a qualified TI instructor. I thought that the easiest way to learn something was to learn how to teach it. I coached in several TI workshops in England and in the US and taught learn-to-swim programmes in my local pool until 2001.

In 2000 I got in touch with Freda and Alison Streeter. Alison is the world record holder for most solo crossings, 40 to date. She is also the only woman to have done a triple crossing – swimming to France, back to England, then swimming to France again. If a single crossing is no mean feat, a triple is a mammoth task. I couldn't have been in better hands. They provided me with the expertise, coaching and care that I needed to achieve my dream. They also gave me the opportunity to swim in a couple of relays that summer to just "have a taste of it". I was hooked. From the moment I jumped in the water during the first leg of my first channel relay I knew for sure that I wanted to go solo. At the end of our first relay crossing I booked my slot in the August tides of 2002.

During the next two years, the Channel took over my life. There were obstacles along the way, mainly shoulder injuries. I spent the first few months of 2001 nursing tendinitis in my right shoulder. During the months I was injured I was still able to get in the pool and practise TI drills.

I barely managed to recover for the start of the season in May of 2001. My focus during the open water season of 2001 was getting acclimated to cold water and swimming for long periods, which require mental strength and determination. By the end of summer 2001, I had built up to five and a half hours of continuous swimming. In order to qualify to swim the Channel you have to do an open water swim of 6 hours at a temperature of 60¼F or lower. I was close. I also participated in another Channel relay with my Masters swimming club.

My shoulder injuries lingered most of the winter of 2001 and my training was pretty much on and off, having to rest for up to 3 weeks in two occasions.

From September 2001 to January 2002, I devoted 70% of my training to technique and 30% to distance training then 50% technique and 50% training during February and March, 40% technique, 60% training during April and May, and 20% technique, 80% training (mostly in open water) during June and July.

In May of 2002 I returned to Dover for the start of the summer season. Our open water training consisted mainly of cold water acclimation. We start training in 50-51¼F temperatures and gradually build time and distance as the season progresses and the sea warms. By June, the temperature rises to between 57¼F and 59¼F, and this is when we do our qualifying swim of 6 hours. During July, with kinder temperatures of between 60¼F and 62¼F, we do sessions of 3 to 4 hours, and a one-off session of 10 hours. Although a 10-hour swim is no longer a requirement (this used to be the qualifying time), it is advisable as during a 10-hour swim the body goes through changes, that aren’t experienced on a 6-hour swim. It also gives a mental strength and preparation that are invaluable when you get out there for real.

“That's it, you have done it now”, people often comment after I tell them about my swim. “Well, I'm swimming it again in 2004”, I say. “What on earth for? Haven't you achieved your lifetime ambition?” This is where my path of personal discovery is taking me. I want to achieve further through sport, water and endurance swimming. This summer I'll be swimming the 40 miles around Jersey island, a change of scenery. More Channel swims await me in 2004 and 2006, and many other swims to come.

Here’s the story of my swim:

"You had the heart of a winner" Anne Cleveland, Channel Swimmer and Official Observer (August 4th, 2002).

I was so ready for this swim that, on the day, I didn't feel any nerves or jitters. I hadn't left anything to chance. I knew my pilot and was familiar with the boat. I knew the rules and how to begin. My pilot was Lance Oram, a very experienced Channel pilot, with Neil Streeter (Alison’s brother) as co-pilot. As crew I had my coach, Freda Streeter, Anne Cleveland as official observer, and my swimming buddy and friend, Cliff Golding. I had done my training and mental preparation. The weather could fail me, but that was out of my control. I was in the moment. In the past were five years of giving shape to a dream, two years of focused and intense cold water acclimation and training, three relay crossings, injuries on both shoulders, and a broken nose and two black eyes after being hit by a single sculler in Dover Harbour.

With all this behind me, I jumped from the boat into the sea and swam to Shakespeare Beach. For a channel swim to be valid, the swimmer has to start and finish the swim on land. (This is easy at Shakespeare Beach, but if a complete exit is impossible on the French shore, the rules allow the swimmer to touch a cliff face). I raised my hand to signal, the horn sounded and, as I entered the water, I was enveloped by calmness.

My first hour passed quickly. I had spent the best part of two years thinking about how I would occupy my mind during those long hours. I had prepared songs, phrases, sentences, positive thoughts, but on the day of the swim, I just let the thoughts unroll in my mind as they came. During the second and third hours I mostly thought of nothing. People always ask: " What did you think about for 15 hours?" My answer is "everything and nothing." I was in the moment and stroking efficiently. The rhythm of my breathing, hearing the bubbles coming from my mouth into the water helped me to achieve a kind of meditative state. I was in good spirits and I felt that mind, body and soul were in synchrony. So much so, that when the horn blew to signal my first 'feeding stop', I didn't hear it.

At about 3 hours I had my first encounter with jellyfish. There were 2 or 3 shoals gathered in what to me seemed like hundreds. I paused briefly and cringed with fear. Then I realised that they were about one metre below the surface and that it was unlikely that I would get stung. There were small and very beautiful, white and purple. "There are hundreds of jellyfish," I shouted at the crew. Five minutes later, another shoal of jellies greeted my legs with some mild stings. I heard Freda saying "Never mind". That's right, she actually said "never mind", I said to myself and I carried on swimming, smiling inside.

At around 4 hours I started to feel drowsy. Was it the lack of sleep from the night before? Or the sea-sickness tablets I took before the swim? And there was something else that was beginning to be a problem. My bladder blocked and I was getting a bit nervous and agitated about this. At this moment, I knew I was in for the dreaded "bad patch," earlier than I expected. Instinctively, I closed my eyes to save energy. I knew I had to keep track of the boat. As I breathed bilaterally, I closed my eyes whenever I had to breathe to the left or was face down. I only opened my eyes briefly whenever I had to breathe to the right to make sure I wasn't drifting away from the boat. I was on automatic pilot and I dozed for about an hour and a half. I was hoping this would help get me through the pain barrier, but it didn't. I ran a check on myself, especially on the shoulders. Shoulders were OK, but my bladder was painful.

My thoughts turned again to my stroke rhythm. I knew my speed had dropped. I started repeating a Dutch phrase "De aanhouder wint", which means: "Those who keep at it, win in the end". So I swam on and kept at it because I knew I was going to win. The mountain was high, but definitely worth climbing. Courage, courage, I kept repeating the mantra over and over again. On my next feed I asked for Ibuprofen, which helped to ease some of the pain in my muscles. Cliff came in to pace me. On a solo crossing, you can have a pacer, who can swim with you for up to one hour to keep you company and to help you pick up your rhythm. I gathered some new energy, picked up my stroke rate and swam on. However tough my swim was turning out to be, the thought of giving up never entered my head. "Whatever physical pain you are going through will be nothing compared to the mental pain you'll have to deal with if you give up on your swim." This was Alison's last-minute advice to me the day before. At this point, I knew that the time I was hoping to do was out of reach. Cliff got out and I felt very lonely.

Since there isn’t much to look but the boat and whatever your crew is doing, I monitored very closely what my crew was doing. Every time I looked at the boat I saw Anne Cleveland, my observer, taking notes, and wondered what the hell she was writing. Lance and Neil on the pilot seat steering the boat in turns. Freda on the top deck looking concerned, and Cliff with the camera rolling. I was now between 6 and 7 hours into my swim. I had gone through the pain barrier, the wall, the bad patch, whichever name you want to give it. But my bladder was still blocked and I was in a lot of physical pain, however I managed to pick up my stroke rate a little.

Not many boats out there today, I thought. In fact, reading my observer's report later on, no less than 22 boats - tankers, cargo ships, and ferries - had crossed our way. Of these, I had only spotted a couple of ferries and a huge tanker called "Green Reefers", which almost cut us off. From the water, the name of the boat read "Green Peppers", funny name for a boat, I thought. I had to briefly stop swimming and let the tanker pass. All I could utter as I saw the tanker go past, was "Oh my god", while Lance jokingly said, "Come on then, it won't bite you!" Lance has a very dry sense of humour.

At about 8 hours, my crew thought I wasn't communicating very well. In fact, I just didn't feel like talking. When you stop for a feed, there's quite a lot going on. You have to get closer to the boat, grab your bottle or cup, tread water, and there may be two or three people talking to you at the same time, giving you encouragement and checking how you are. You have a moment to catch your breath, tread water, drink quickly, and respond to their questions. However, you don't feel like doing any of these things. "Laura,” Freda said, “tell us how you are." With all the energy I could gather, I said, “I'm cold, I'm tired, and it's bloody hard.” "Yes", Freda said, "but you're also bloody determined."

I have only a very fuzzy memory of the rest of my swim. My only goal became to swim to the next feed. I lost track of time. I lost count of my feeds. I had songs playing in my head. At one point I even thought of Matthew Webb. “If he stuck to it, so can I,” I told myself. I could see France from about half way in my swim, but this is deceptive because being half way in distance doesn't mean half way in time. My determination never faltered.

I have accompanied other swimmers on solo swims, and as a crew member, it is always difficult to know how the swimmer is feeling. The swimmer may look good one minute and be delirious and hypothermic the next. My crew was concerned because I wasn't communicating. They asked me to recite my date of birth. I have an extraordinary memory for dates, so there was no catching me on this one. Dutifully, I recited my date of birth, Cliff's, Freda's and Zak's (Freda's baby grandson). They also asked to take a few deep breaths to make sure I didn't have any water in my lungs. It was hard for me to do this as by then, my sinuses were completely blocked and I also had a very sore throat and a swollen tongue from the sea water. However, black tea with fruit sugar had considerably eased my bladder problem, which was a welcome relief.

Ten hours into my swim and little did I know that I still had another 5 hours to go. The sun was setting and it was getting dark. I swam a little behind the boat this time to feel the last rays of warm sun on my back. There were some dark hours ahead. On my next feed I shyly ventured a question…. "I suppose there is no point in asking…." "No", my crew chorused in unison. Of course, I wanted to know how long I had to go.

Anne Cleveland got in the water to put a lightstick on my swimming costume and pace me a little. Lightsticks are used in fishing. They contain a chemical compound that gives a fluorescent light, so the crew can see you in the dark. I had also requested to have three lightsticks put on the side of the boat, so I wouldn't swim off course. This proved to be a great idea, and I was able to follow the line of the boat quite easily without getting disoriented. I had swum in the dark before and it always seemed as though you had been deprived of all your senses. You can't see much, you can't hear much, you're surrounded by dark water. At this stage in the swim, you're tired and every muscle in your body is begging you to stop. The best thing you can do is switch your brain off. And that's what I did. I don't remember much of the next three hours, except the darkness and that all I thought about was to swim to my next feed. I remember muttering something about what a stupid idea it all was and that I would never, ever, do this again.

On every subsequent feed I asked my crew how I was going. They kept reassuring me and told me that I was doing well and that I was swimming towards France. But I was just looking for the reassurance of my pilot. On my next feed I moved over to Lance and asked him quietly: "Am I doing OK, Lance?" "Yes", he said, "you're moving towards France and as long as you keep doing that we will get there." With this, I swam on. With about an hour and a half to go, it was Lance's turn to hand me one of my feeds and he felt safe in telling me how long I had to go: "You have got two more feeds", he said. I was angry, frustrated and tired. I looked up at him and shouted back: "Two more feeds?", I said, "That's a whole F**** hour!" They all laughed with nervous relief. “How can they laugh like that!” I thought. I threw the cup in the sea and swam on as fast as I could, I wanted it to be over so badly. Again, I got stung by a jellyfish, but by this time I couldn't have cared less. My stroke rate picked up to 58 to 60 again.

My right shoulder was getting a bit stiff, but with the end in sight, I ignored it. I had it under my belt now. I imagined I was doing a one-hour training swim in Dover Harbour. Cliff had told me that he had used this visualisation technique in his Channel swim. Swim to the Eastern Pier, 16 minutes, all the way to the Prince Albert Pier, about 25 minutes, back to the middle of the Harbour, another 15 minutes, swim to the beach, 5 minutes. At this point I looked up to check whether I could make out the shore and I heard Lance shouting… "400 yards!" My heart started to pound. OK, I said to myself that's 4 lengths of the Tooting Bec Lido, 16 lengths of a 25 metre pool, it's a sprint, go for it, you've done it now. Only about 6 minutes to go. With about 50 metres to go, Cliff jumped in to help me with the landing and to confirm that I had cleared the water. (This is allowed under the rules as long as the swimmer clears the water first, and unaided, or touches a cliff face if full exit is not possible). He stood up and said, "Laura, you can touch the bottom now". "Well, you can, but I can't", I replied, since I'm not as tall as he is. A few more strokes, then I stood up and felt the warm sand under my feet. I was just so relieved. It had been much more difficult than I could have ever imagined. The sheer and utter exhaustion I had felt during that rough patch, the physical problems that had got my crew so concerned and almost put an end to my swim, the pain on the shoulders, the broken nose…and yet I had achieved my dream. These days people often ask me how I felt when I got to France. The answer always is "immense relief."

We walked out of the sea to the beach. Before us were the white cliffs of Cap Blanc Nez, behind us, nearly 22 miles of water (although typically due to tides you cover several more). The swimmer cannot be helped or touched until she has completely cleared the water. "I can't wait to give you a hug, Cliff", I said. A few more metres and we were standing on the beach. We hugged, he congratulated me. "Well done, Channel Swimmer." We picked up a few stones as souvenirs and swam back to the boat. Done deal, English Channel, but I'll be back. Safely returned to Dover, I asked Lance to book me for another swim in 2004. I'm sure I can do better next time.

Laura Lopez-Bonilla is a certified Total Immersion instructor and a professional English-Spanish translator. She lives in Greenwich, England. She can be reached at LauraLB@ukgateway.net.

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