Sure enough, not long after 3, I notice the first pale streaks of dawn, and the stars above begin to dim. The relief, the sense of having made it through the night, is tremendous. It almost feels as if I've broken the back of the swim. At this point I'm still on top of the time; I know I've been going for 7 hours, and I've sort of been hoping for a 14-hour-ish swim, so I allow myself the reward of thinking: "HALFWAY!". By prior agreement with the crew, I have not asked them where we are, and they don't tell me. It's just as well because as I will learn later, at this point I'm only just getting started.
Breakfast. Sort of.
I try not to dwell on it too much and luckily there's plenty to distract me. For a start, things are definitely beginning to hurt. My right shoulder in particular is sore, having had a rough time in that first section, when the swell, coming from the west (my right), kept 'bogging down' my right arm and forcing me to wrench it out of the water. I request the first (but not last) dose of soluble paracetamol with caffeine, dissolved in my feed drink, which on top of the anti-inflammatories I'm already taking proves reasonably effective for the moment.
It's also a joy to see the crew again (I have seen them all night but it does feel like some kind of reunion!) and especially Martin, who by now has finished his miserable 4-hour vomiting bout and is back in action. The sun begins its climb back above the horizon.
As morning arrives properly, I get my first glimpse of France, though this is also tempered by the fact that I can still see plenty of big ships. I know I must be (at best) still well in the NE shipping lane, and as it turns out I'm right; I will not be in French inshore waters for another 3 hours or so.
The sun rising, quite a bit quicker than I'm swimming....
With land becoming vaguely more visible, I start to struggle a little with direction. I'm distracted by the vague awareness of where the shore is, and though rationally I know I need to follow the boat, it's hard not to follow the instinct to make for dry land. This is made worse by the fact that (a) with my right arm getting weaker and sorer, I'm not really swimming very straight anyway, and tending to veer to the right; (b) when I stop to feed the boat is drifting round and confusing me; and (c) I've been swimming for 10+ hours and I can only just stay on top of which way is up.
Mike Oram has to use the Gallivant's Klaxons to attract my attention, and stop me swimming in the wrong direction. He pulls alongside and pointing furiously says "Chris! France is OVER THERE! You're swimming to..." (he fumbles for something sufficient to cover my degree of inaccuracy) "...AMERICA!".
I plough on. By now all my fancy gels and bars have been comprehensively dropped from the feed plan, and all I'm having in addition to energy drink are Milky Ways (although in my addled state I keep asking for Milky Bars, not a confectionary error I would EVER normally make) and Cadbury's Cake Bars, which are pretty much the only things soft enough for me to get down. Rice Pudding and Red Bull (per my plan, but what was I thinking?) are offered, and roundly rejected. My mouth and throat are starting to get really sore; soft chocolateyness is all I can cope with, and even more welcome than normal.
I feel I can really see land getting quite close now, and I sense we might be not too far away. With the painkillers properly kicked in, I manage to up the pace a bit, and Mike Ball is encouraging fast feeds, telling me that we have the tide with us and need to make the most of it. It was at this point, around 8am, with 12 hours on the clock, that I was heading almost directly for the Cap Gris-Nez, the closest point to England and the traditional landing spot. My supporters on WhatsApp and Facebook were getting really excited, thinking I was about to make landfall.
Alas, like a hapless Countdown contestant fumbling with too many consonants, I ran out of time, and the tide turned on me. I have a vague memory of seeing the Cap's lighthouse in the distance, drifting to my right at not much less than 2 knots of tide.
At this point I'm really starting to feel it. Both arms are now really hurting, amplified versions of training niggles I have had now for well over a month. The pain starts in my shoulder, seems to swell in my bicep, and then carry on all the way down both forearms to a nice finish right at the tip of my index fingers. My right shoulder especially is a worry, and I'm trying to exaggerate my body roll to enable my right arm to come forward with minimal effort, but it only works to a point.
I think I'm almost there, and at the next feed ask: "is this the last feed?". Poldy looks unsure. "Er... possibly" he says, which I try and convince myself means "almost", but which later I realise of course meant (in the nicest way possible) "In your dreams mate". Nonetheless I stupidly omit to ask for more pain relief, thinking that by the time it kicks in, I'll be done.
In my dreams. An hour later, I ask for more pain relief.
Now it's light, and I am swimming closer to try and keep my direction more consistent, watching the boat has become a source of distraction and entertainment almost, a silent soap-opera where I'm at liberty to voice the characters and decide the plot line. Earlier this was amusing; Mike Oram makes his way to the crew area at the stern of the boat with Ray and Martin; Mike kneels down. What IS he doing? Has maritime discipline broken down? Or did he drop a boiled sweet?
But now I see lots of grave conversations happening, and this starts a new flood of panic. I know by now that I've missed the Cap, but by how much? Could this be Mike telling the crew I'm not going to do it? I know perfectly well it's possible to get really close and still not make it, and now the thought occurs that after all this time, I could still be robbed. At the next feed I ask Mike Ball flat out: "Am I going to make it?". His answer brings a huge wave of relief. "You're going to make it Chris, course you are, you just need to keep turning your arms over".
By now I can't do much, but I can do that.
Getting slowly closer...