I start looking for any small change to keep me going. My goggles are starting to fog as the day heats up, and at the next feed I switch to a lovely brand new pair. Now at the safe limit of pain relief, this is about my only other card left to play, and it does somehow make me feel a wee bit better.
A large rocky headland starts to become bigger in my view when I occasionally sneak a look, ahead and slightly to my left. They're not kidding when they say you can see France for AGES in the latter stages of a channel swim. I have been stupidly torturing myself with these glances for hours, and assume that it's nowhere near.
But then Mike Ball starts using words like 'shallow water' and 'almost' during the next feed, and I start wondering if this might really happen. I'm pretty good in terms of cold water tolerance, but now at around 15 hours or so, I'm conscious of feeling cold. I know that when I finally approach the shore, I will feel - as I have done so often in training - the rise in temperature of a degree or so that signals entry to shallow water. A degree doesn't sound much, but in those circumstances it's like swimming into a jacuzzi. I focus on that reward, and for a while think about little else.
That's what I was looking out for: Ray about to splash down. No, you're not hallucinating, that is a pair of sugar-doughnut-flavoured speedos.
I also start boat-watching again, because I know that at least one of my crew will swim in behind me to ensure I can get back to the boat safely after landing. To do that, they will need to change into swim gear. Once I see a pair of bad-taste speedos, I'll KNOW i've cracked it. A quick laugh, a cake bar, a pale streak in the sky, a pair of visible swimming shorts. These are the small crumbs of hope that have got me this far; now I finally start to think about dry land.
After so long, the whole thing seems to happen in a rush. First the view of that headland suddenly seems to be quite detailed, I can make out individual cracks in the rock. Then I see not one but two pairs of speedos appear on the boat, worn by Martin and Ray. I start counting strokes, in sets of 100. After three sets, the boat stops moving forward. Another hundred, and I start to feel the blissful temperature gradient that signals the shallows. I'm not sighting at all now, I know where the beach is, I just keep furiously counting, although I keep losing count. I think I get to about 73 in my 5th set of 100, and then something magical happens.
Ever since attending a training camp in Mallorca earlier this year, I've been told not to look forwards, not to think about France, just to keep swimming until your hands hit sand. I've been told that so many times, by so many people, and although I haven't followed the advice entirely diligently, it's burned into my brain. I never imagined it literally happening, but that's exactly how it ends.
As my left arm drops down beneath the water to pull through, I find my hand can't complete the stroke, because my fingers are buried in soft, warm sand. For a second I don't know how to respond, and try to swim on, but I now realise that the water is less than a metre deep. I have a panic about whether I'm allowed to stand; what are the rules? I suddenly see Ray just to my left, and splutter to him "can I stand?". "Yes mate, you can stand up!" comes back the response, and for the first time since Dover, I take my weight on my feet.
Of course I immediately fall over, and then stumble back upright. This time I stay up, and stride, then even manage a little jog. Once I know I'm clear of the water, all the emotion comes out in some slightly OTT shouty stuff, and I drop down on the sand. I dimly hear Gallivant's Klaxons, signalling that the clock has stopped.
Landing at the Cap Blanc-Nez
For a moment I don't say anything, I close my eyes and just enjoy the sensation of being at rest. But thankfully Ray and Martin, knowing I will soon start feeling cold, are all business, and get me in to my Carers Trust T-Shirt. The words I manage to tumble out at the camera aren't planned; I just know I want to say something about the cause I've been trying to support, and I mean what I say. One tough day is, in the end, nothing compared to what so many carers of all ages have to deal with, every day of their lives.
Before I know it, it's time to head back to the boat. Now I've made it, all adrenaline and energy has evaporated, and I know I'll need help to make it. In the end I don't have to swim a stroke; Ray uses a float attached to his waist to tow me back. For the first time in the swim, I find myself shivering. As I climb the ladder at the stern of Gallivant Mike Ball is waiting to meet me, beaming a big smile. "Welcome to our club", he says.