So, for context, Grimwith Reservoir is situated at an elevation of 1,000 feet above sea level and is the largest reservoir managed by Yorkshire Water, holding an impressive 21,772,000 cubic meters of water and reaching depths of 41 meters - ample room for the colossal fish I’m given to understand live in it. Typically, it’s strictly off-limits to swimmers; however, this event presented a rare opportunity to conquer Grimwith's challenging waters for the very first time. I was both thrilled and slightly apprehensive to be invited to take on this swim.
I was swimming with my food friend and fellow cake lover, Jonty, who insisted we get to registration at the crack of dawn—not so much for our swim numbers, but to ensure we had time for breakfast at this café he absolutely raved about (which, as we were an hour away, meant getting up ridiculously early). And when I say early, I mean “questioning-life-choices” early. But credit where it’s due, the breakfast was worth it.
Well-fed, we registered and decided to head to the venue—about an hour’s drive from registration—for a quick pre-swim recce. Just as we were about to head to the reservoir, we got a text: due to the conditions, the swim course had been altered for safety. I wasn’t fazed; if anything, I love the tougher swims (more on that later…).
We were pulling out of the parking space, when we spotted it—sweet heaven. Given the swim was shaping up to be a rough one, we reasoned that some extra “fuel” was practically essential. Dashing inside, we were greeted by shelves overflowing with every sweet imaginable, from timeless classics to sweets I hadn’t seen since my childhood. And there, like a beacon of nostalgia, were my all-time favourites—alphabet letters! Naturally, I grabbed more than one bag, and it would surprise no one to hear that one of them didn’t even survive the hour-long drive, during which time I spent the whole journey fiercely guarding my stash and refusing to share a single letter—only to discover, when we arrived, that if I’d been polite enough to offer him one, he’d have told me he didn’t actually like them anyway.
We arrived in good time to find the conditions were far worse than I’d anticipated. The wind was relentless, tearing across the water with a force that drowned out every word. Jonty, however, seemed rather pleased. I caught him muttering that the forced silence was, “Quite pleasant, really,” with the faintest hint of a grin. It seemed the weather was doing him a few favours in granting him a rare and much needed break from my continuous talking.
The wind was whipping across the water, churning it into frothy whitecaps, and from the shoreline, they appeared quite formidable, rolling higher than I had been expecting. We stood there, watching intently as the safety crew wrestled with the buoys, struggling to reposition them for the new course. Their efforts were met with the relentless wind, which seemed determined to thwart their every move, making the task look more challenging by the minute. This was the point that we began to question whether the swim would actually happen. However, as I spotted some delicious-looking pastries in the clubhouse, so I thought that if the swim were to be cancelled, the day wouldn’t be a total loss.
We watched from the shoreline as the crew secured the lines, and then the announcement came: the swim briefing would take place in 30 minutes. I dashed back to the car, knowing I would need every second of that time—and a significant amount of physical effort—to squeeze into my wetsuit (which felt uncomfortably snug) and slather on the Vaseline (yep, I remembered this time!). With urgency fuelling me, I sprang into action to get ready for the start line. Well, I say “sprang,” but it was as much springing as a tight wetsuit would allow.
The safety briefing, acclimatisation dip, and a new plan were established for Jonty. Since we would need to complete two loops of the course by exiting the water and re-entering for the second loop, this was manageable for most but required a quick change of strategy for Jonty, who had only one leg. The plan was straightforward: Jonty would get in the water, take off his prosthetic leg, and pass it to me. I would then walk back to the shoreline with his leg, where his wife would retrieve it and bring it back to the exit point for us to repeat for the second loop. Simple, right? You’d think so...
But for some inexplicable reason, Jonty decided to abandon the plan altogether (which he later explained was due to his realisation that the original plan was too “long-winded”). Instead of handing me his leg as we had discussed, he simply took it off and hurled it toward the shoreline, completely bypassing the middleman—me. However, as I was unaware of the change, I made an ill-fated attempt to catch the flying prosthetic and ended up plunging into the water in a spectacular display of flailing limbs and lost dignity, after which, there was no time to wallow in the aftermath, or to check the leg had made landfall, because Jonty was already powering through the turbulent water. Following, I quickly realised that this was not going to be an easy swim.
Jonty disappeared from sight within moments, and I was forced to stay sharp as the churning, tea-brown water tossed me around (though I couldn't help but think that the murky colour had its perks—any massive fish (or fish in general really, I’m still pretty terrified of all sizes) lurking below would stay blissfully invisible, right?). Without a doubt, these were the toughest swim conditions I’d ever faced. At points, front crawl was out of the question, and I had to resort to breaststroke (or my version of it); I’m pretty sure I swallowed half the reservoir in the process, and by the time I hit the home stretch, the water was tossing me around so wildly that I was practically airborne, my arms flailing in empty air with the water below me. Rather ironically, after all the fuss I made in having to wear it, I was beyond grateful for the buoyancy of my wetsuit—and even more for remembering to slather on Vaseline. In these conditions, spotting required constant head movement, and without it, I feared the relentless neck chafing would have turned a challenging swim into something far worse.
After the first loop, I was feeling decidedly battered, so far, it had been a rough swim, but I knew I still had enough left in me to make it around again. As I got out (inelegantly) I scanned the shoreline but saw no sign of Jonty’s leg. This left me with two possible scenarios: either a) he was ahead of me, or b) his aim had been so spectacularly off that his leg was now resting somewhere at the bottom of the reservoir. If it was option b, he’d be hearing about his awful “legendary throwing skills” every time we trained together from now on, and so would everyone else who’d listen.
Let’s gloss over the brief walk between the loops, where I managed to trip over the safety barrier (a moment forever captured on video for all eternity by my daughter), and skip straight to the second loop, which proved to be more challenging than the first. The wind showed no mercy, swirling from every direction. Just when I thought I had found a nano-second of calm, the wind would pick up again, and I found myself fighting against yet more choppy waves, struggling to maintain my rhythm. It felt like I was swimming in a blender, with every stroke a battle.
My muscles were burning, and the constant need to adjust my stroke to combat the waves was exhausting. Every stroke felt like a test of endurance against the unpredictable conditions. It was wild, messy, and absolutely ridiculous—but for all its challenges, I was enjoying every chaotic second of it. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest—not just from exertion, but from the sheer thrill of being out there. I was *loving it (*not every second of it—there were some moments that were pretty miserable, specifically the volume of water I’d swallowed and, even worse, the moment the alphabet letters I’d eaten earlier decided to make an unwanted reappearance as I battled one particular rogue wave). Ah, the joys of open-water swimming!
After a long, hard-fought 50 minutes, I was thrilled to have completed the swim relatively unscathed. No wetsuit rash, no major disasters (excluding the impressively stubbed toe from my run-in with the safety barrier, which technically couldn’t be counted as a “swimming” disaster). But I’d done it—earned my first medal in 18 months! After what felt like a lifetime of injuries and breaks (me, not just the things I tripped over), I was beyond pleased to place 3rd in my age category. (Granted, there might have only been three swimmers in my age group, but I made the conscious decision not to check, just in case that meant I’d also placed last as well as third). Most importantly, though, this experience showed me that despite my enforced break from it, I hadn’t lost my love for open water swimming. Being back out there, feeling every stroke and battling every wave, I truly loved every moment.
And Jonty? Somehow—don’t ask me how—I actually managed to swim past him. He emerged from the water a full three minutes after me to be reunited with his leg, which, as it turned out, had made a safe landing on dry ground after his infamous throw. Now, granted, he did have to put his leg back on, only to take it off again for our second loop. And yes, his Garmin somehow clocked him as swimming an extra 100 meters, but… I’m still calling it a win!
One final thing, thank you for bearing with me through the blog drought and for sticking around to read the few I’ve managed to post. I truly appreciate it! There will be plenty more coming next year. Promise.
