The Lights of Calais

Another Article from Transitions One

Lights of Calais

Memories of a Cross Channel Swimmer

Extracts from Farewell My love by Sultan Mubarak to be published by Out of the Blue and distributed by Khan Art studio.

Shaukat Khan was the youngest swimming champion West Pakistan had ever produced who at the age of nineteen was brought over to swim in Butlin’s International Channel Swimming Race .

His story begins with a loud banging at the door. It is Bashir from the Pakistan navy who was to be his trainer for the race from Calais to Dover. Excited and nervous to be representing his country at international level and never having been in a plane before, he had just arrived in England and overslept after a dream about being captain of an air balloon.

“This won’t do”, says Bashir, “I will report to my ship’s Commanding Officer that Sultan Mubarak is no good for practice. If you do not get up in the morning to do your exercises and practice swimming in the sea, you will not be able to cross the Channel in record time. You must obey my orders. I have been sent from my ship to train you and help you to win the Butlin’s International Channel Swimming Competition for Pakistan. It’s no joke, its not only my honour that’s at stake, but that of my ship, our country’s honour, and all those people in Lahore who helped to raise funds to make it possible for you to compete. And don’t forget that the deputy commissioner of Lahore, Nazamudin the proprietor of the Nazam Hotel in Anarkali Bazaar, Khawaja sahib director of sports from Government college, and Professor Hameed from Islamia college, secretary of the swimming trust, all worked hard to send you. So do not forget, you owe it to them to train hard and win for their sake. Of course, you should also remember that your father, mother, brother and sisters and neighbours and friends and all the people of Lahore who came to the railway station to give their best-loved sportsman a memorable send off. They are all praying for your success, so remember that their happiness depends on you. Don’t you ever forget it”…………

Shaukat’s first dip into English waters.

I took off my tracksuit. I already had my woollen swimming costume on. This costume was given to me by Anarkali Bazaar’s famous department store, Inyat Ullah, as their contribution to my swim. I put on a plastic head cap to keep my hair tidy and massaged a little lanolin cream on my body and put on eye goggles. It all got fuzzy. I couldn’t see anything. I took off the goggles, rubbed some sea-water on the lenses and put them on again. It was all right now. I took a little walk on the pebbles, got to the edge of the shoreline, gauged the depth of the water, took a deep breath and jumped in. “Christ, Oahu. It’s ice cold.” It blew my mind. I had a sharp ice pack feeling and a burning sensation went from the top of my head, through my spine and down to the toes of my feet. “Shit, shit, shit.”

My whole body had a shock. All the organs of my body froze and I began to sink like a stone in the English Channel just a few yards from the shoreline.

Standing at the edge of the beach, Bashir could not see me coming up to the surface from my maiden dive. “He is not coming up. Shit, shit.” He hurriedly took his shoes off. He was not expecting this to happen. He got his jumper off in a flash, then he saw a little finger appear on the surface of the water , then a hand, then arm and body with a splash and another splash.

Jesus Christ, the water was cold. I had never experienced anything like it in Lahore. How could the water be so cold? It should be frozen into ice blocks.

“Oh Allah, give me the strength, warmth and courage to overcome this cold water.” I was told that the English Channel water was very cold but this is so very very extremely cold, ten times more than I had imagined. “Oh, Allah I am done for. What I am going to do?”

All the things Bashir said came to my mind. I couldn’t let down all those people. They would kill me when I got down from the aeroplane back in Lahore. The passion of shame would run high and somebody would not stand for the disgrace and dishonour I brought to my people. If I could not swim because the water was so cold they would shoot me dead on the spot, like a football player who was shot in Uruguay for not winning the match when his team returned from Europe. People were shamed, and the nation was disgraced, and they ould not handle the dishonour of losing the match. That may happen to me. I wouldn’t be able to see my friends because they’d be ashamed to see me. I wouldn’t be their favourite sportsman any more. I’d get booed everywhere I went.  I could never put my family into this disgraceful situation, especially my father. He would not be proud of me any more and would say that his son Sultan was no longer his child. I would be disgraced by my nation, dishonoured by my friends and disowned by my family. I could not have that. My heart began to pump more blood to my brain, to my arms, to my legs, and to my whole body, it was going like a brand new Ferrari with Sterling Moss in control. My passion ran high. I was not going to let anybody down. It was just a little cold water, just the initial shock to the body that came with not being acclimatised yet. I had been in England only two days after all, eating that bloody food wrapped up in the newspaper.

I pulled myself together and kick started my legs.  “Cold, what cold?” I convinced my brain that there was no cold. I was determined not to be afraid of cold water. When I got my arms and legs moving, the blood began to circulate. Then I felt little bit more comfortable and a little warm. I shouted in my heart, “Allah –u-akbar, Allah-u-akbar – God is Great” and started to swim towards the East Dock.

One stroke, two strokes, and so on. I managed to build up rhythm. Splash, splash. Into the water and out of the water. I swam breast stroke. It is slower but more comfortable. It has rhythm and great style with less effort. You just float on the water like a graceful dolphin. Push both arms forward, close together, float like a log and give a kick with your legs by bringing your feet to up to your bottom then spreading them out again to give yourself a push - like frogs do with their legs as they swim. Your head goes down into the water, you take deep breath, getting as much oxygen as possible and breathing out when your head comes out of the water. This needs some practice. Breathing in and out is very important, otherwise you take in water and choke. As you kick your legs out with a frog-like motion, your body goes forward with both arms close together to a position over your head. Then you open your arms and push water away from your body in a semi-circular motion and with this motion your body floats

forwards…You keep repeating this action until you’ve built up a comfortable rhythm, and then you’re off, swimming happily.

Practicing in Lahore Shaukat Khan had gone on a strict fat diet regime.

A typical evening meal consisted of two raw eggs, swallowed in one go, and one hundred mls of cod liver oil, polished off with naan and freshly made full-fat saturated halva. After physical exercise and a little rest I swam every night until eight. Over the weekend when pools were not busy, as the college was closed and there were no swimming classes I did my ten-hour non-stop swim, lap after lap, with a little break for hot milk. This was my routine for two months.

A public demonstration had been organised to show my fitness and long distance swimming ability. I swam in the local fast flowing river called the Ravi. It is a very dangerous river full of turbulent water, with strong currents and unknown nasty creatures. I swam for fifteen miles followed by a motor boat with armed guards ready to pounce if I got into any trouble, but nothing happened. I was full of enthusiastic but naïve passion and was highly emotional. I knew little of the dangers of this stupid exercise. The public were lined up on the both banks of the river to see this demonstration. The following morning the newspaper published a picture of the marathon swim with the headline ‘Sultan Fit For English Channel Swim.’

On August 14th 1959 Shaukat Khan was to attempt to swim the English Channel. The participants were flown from Lydd to La Touquet  where they had a champagne reception, after which……

The atmosphere changed and happy faces became grave. It was time for a serious and dangerous competition.  Time to recollect the years of hard practice, ambition, and passion for what you believed in. Time to recall the promises you had made to yourself and remember what people expected of you. Time to show what you were made of. It would be a competition in which men and women would show their strength, determination, and stamina. They would struggle to win, struggle to overcome the cold, the distance, the strong currents, the rough sea, and all the elements that nature threw at them in a notorious sea where mighty Spanish Armada ships lay wrecked on the bed.

Thousands of sailors had lost their lives in these waters over the years when their ships had got entangled in storms and gales, or lost their direction in thick fog and become victims of the Goodwin sands..….

          As I tried to get some rest in the hotel at Calais, my mind drifted to the day I could no longer bear the cruelty of my father and had decided to run away as far I could go. It had been a dreadful and horrible decision to make. I would have to leave my brothers and sisters, friends, and worst of all, my grandmother, Buri Meia Maa. She was the love of my life who dedicated herself to bringing me up. She cared for me and provided for all my needs, even if she had to walk miles to get something for me..….

I was woken by a knock on the door. It was time to get ready into swim gear with my tracksuit over the top. Bashir had towels, hot food flask, water and a lanolin container in his baggage. We were put on board the bus and driven off to Cap Gris-Nez beach. There was a midnight chill and a strong wind blowing. Thousands of spectators thronged the beach. Television spotlights, TV and radio crews were everywhere, and photographers with Rolleiflex cameras. Out in the Channel you could see fishing boats anchored in deep water, their mast lights bobbing up and down in the swell. The strong wind turned gale force and waves began to bash hard on the rocks. It was quite a frightening scene. Small rowing boats struggled to come ashore. Whenever a boat arrived, his number was announced on the loudspeaker and the corresponding swimmer was brought to the starting point. His time was noted and off he went in the water, accompanied by his trainer in the rowing boat: splash, splash. Off he swam towards the big fishing boat waiting to go with his swimmer on the swim of his life. The observers were already in the fishing boat. The gale got stronger and stronger. Many swimmers had already left.

I had my body greased with lanolin and searched for my boat to come to shore. I got very restless and tired with the strong wind blowing and became very cold, but in fact, the water temperature was warmer than standing on the beach, so I lay in it and waited for my boat to arrive to start my swim. I was a nervous wreck, and impatient.

Then I heard news that many boats had capsized in the water on the way to beach, with some managing to right themselves andcontinue toward the beach. After waiting over an hour it became clear that eighteen boats had capsized and that their swimmers would not be able to join the race. The waiting swimmers were by now in a state of high tension, full of anxiety, sick feelings and disappointment that years of training and high hopes might all fizzle out in a gale force wind. Unfortunately, I was one of those eighteen whose boat did not make it. With our covering of oily lanolin we were like sick sea-lions, shivering like madmen. There were no facilities for de-greasing us as nobody had expected this disaster to happen. We were plucked like oil-covered birds saved from sea wrecks, loaded into helicopters and flown back to Dover Lodge Hotel. The hot showers degreased our bodies and after a cup of hot tea we went to Dover beach to wait for the winner of the race to touch the English shore and claim the prize….

The Race was won by an Argentine swimmer namely Alfredo Camerero. Mr Butlin seeing the disappointment of the swimmers who couldn’t partake offered a prize to any one of them who could make a solo attempt in the next fourteen days.

I believe we decided to have a go from England to France on the 3rd of September so we didn’t have to take the chance of going to Calais by boat and starting from Cap Gris-Nez. But it gave us a big problem. Not only do you have to understand complicated tidal science to swim the Channel but also be a very powerful fast swimmer to overcome strong tidal currents. Crossing from England to France is harder than the other way round as you have less time to catch the French tide. To begin with you go along with the English tide towards France which flows for six to eight hours in a north-easterly direction from Dover, then, when you arrive mid-channel you have to catch the changing French tide, running south east towards Calais. If you miss it you are out of luck because nobody can complete this swim against the tide. Take two strokes forwards and the tide will drive you three strokes backward, losing distance all the time….

I started my swim from Shakespeare Cliff beach, a famous landmark and highest cliff in Dover, popular with Sunday visitors who come to catch a glimpse of France on a clear day. Dominating the sky it is the first cliff you see when getting nearer the shore when arriving by ferry at Dover from the continent. I was greased with lanolin from neck to foot and got off to a good start. There was a calm sea and a high tide. Captain Reed’s fishing boat was anchored a mile away in the deep water and small rowing boat came to the beach to accompany me. It was like a scene from Stevenson’s Treasure Island. I loved that book so much, and I had read it many times. It was in my first year college syllabus, along with Charles Dickens and Shakespeare. And now I was in Kent, the county of Charles Dickens.

It was high noon, time for the tide to flow northeast and carry me into the mid-Channel. I was feeling great and going with tide. At last, I thought God was on my side and I prayed that the weather remained good. It was not long before we joined the big fishing boat, and the small rowing boat was pulled onto its deck from where the observer would watch my progress. One splash, two splashes, and then the rhythms repeated themselves endlessly. My mind drifted to my father’s cruelty toward me and how I could not stand his humiliation and constant nagging……..

I heard a big siren. I was in the water swimming and my mind was drifting away. I heard shouts to watch out for a great big giant ferry only a few hundred yards away from me. It was sailing away slowly and all the passengers came onto the deck. They hailed three cheers “HIP HIP HOORAY, HIP HIP HOORAY, HIP HIP HOORAY!’, and the captain of the ferry blasted the big horn. It was a magic feeling, very uplifting, that made a shiver pass through my whole body. I waved back.  All of a sudden my spirits lifted and from nowhere energy flowed into my body and soul. Flash cameras clicked and all my disappointments vanished. But in a short while the ferry disappeared below the horizon on its way to France.

I felt a little thirsty and hungry and made a gesture with my hands to Mr Price. I was passed on a cup of hot tea with a drinking straw. It was so hot that it burned my mouth. Then I had some hot soup and other exciting foods. From time to time salty seawater got into my mouth and made me cough but after this difficult refreshment I continued on. Quite soon after I threw up all the food I’d just eaten because of the fumes from the escorting fishing boat that made me sick. I felt very uncomfortable but it was worth it as I could see the lightship lamp that marked the mid-channel point. I was halfway through my cross-channel swim. Hooray! Hooray!

It was important for me to reach this point so I could catch the French tidal flow to Calais. Mr Price was urging me on from the fishing boat’s deck, “Go on. Go on. We are nearly there. Bit faster. Bit faster. Well done Mubarak.” 

Much of my lanolin had been washed away and my fingers began to claw because of the cold. It was vital my hands were open properly as they acted as oars dispelling the water. Without these blades it was useless. Though I was swallowing loads of seawater and my feet had no feeling at all, my spirit was up for it would not be long to go. The French tide would take me to the Calais beach. …

It was getting a little dark. I had now been swimming for eight to nine hours and visibility was becoming difficult. I kept bumping into the boat and breathing in diesel fumes so they lowered a small tender to keep me at a safe distance. We were now not far from the lightship. Suddenly I felt terrible stings all over my body. I had no idea what was going on, and was overwhelmed by the sensations of these hot stings and excruciating, unbearable pain. I heard the shouting of Mr Price. “Watch it, watch it.” They got out the jellyfish shovel, but it was too late. I was in the middle of it. They stung my neck, shoulder and belly and my skin got red, tight, and sore. It swelled up like a balloon and was so painful I thought I was going to die. The lanolin had completely washed away and my skin had no protection. Every stroke I made was pure hell. I just wanted to sink to the bottom of the Channel and not go on any more. I was losing spirit. All I could think of was this horrible hot sting, and the excruciating pain.

Mr Price kept on encouraging me. “One stroke more, and then another. Go on! Just hold in there, look we can see the light of Calais.” When I saw them for myself I took encouragement and drew some strength from nowhere. I was given hot tea and tablets to ease my pain and swollen areas, which were now twice the size they had been when we had left Shakespeare beach about ten hours before.

I resolved to carry on regardless, but didn’t like the idea of my body, in this horrible dark cold ocean, being eaten by fish, crabs, and winkles, while barnacles grew over my body. I would rather be buried in the Goal Baag, Lahore, where I would smell of lavender, roses, lily of the valley, jasmine and sweet peas - and where my soul would remember the kiss of Elisabeth forever.

I could feel that captain Reed was worried about my physical condition, which was deteriorating fast. My strokes were getting slower and slower, and I was sinking. They were talking about aborting the swim attempt, but I would have none of it. We passed the lighthouse. HIP, HIP HOORAY! But the dreadful news was that I had to hurry up or I would miss the French tidal flow. I couldn’t muster any more strength and although I was putting every effort into getting my body muscles to work for me, was getting slower and slower. I did not want to miss that French tide. Then when I got a cramp in my right leg my predicament got worse. The body was not listening to my mind and was saying to hell with your spirit, I’ve had enough.

My spirit was like a ship abandoned by its crew and captain in a stormy ocean, for my body was just bobbing in and out of the waves like a cork. I found it impossible to kick my legs which were getting cramp. My neck was swollen, and my shoulder hurt every time I moved. My belly was tight and sore. My eyes were like goose eggs and my hands were all twisted. Now I was swimming sideways, with one leg and one arm. I had been in the water for thirteen to fourteen hours. There was not a chance in hell that I would catch that French tide. While I was contemplating what to do, cramp appeared in my left leg and I began to sink. Mr Price jumped in the water while Captain Reed and his crew struggled to get me onto the deck. I was like frozen tuna fish, all stiff, and kicking with pain. I have a slight memory of someone frantically rubbing my body with a towel to put some warmth back into it. I was given a dose of brandy, ointment for my jellyfish stings and taken down into the hold. I saw the lights of Calais from the corner of my swollen eyes, and they remained a mystery to me.