The Splash, by David Hockney (1966)
Lord Byron recalls a swim in Venice in a letter to John Murray, 21st February 1821
Of what may be done in swimming, I will mention one more instance. In 1818, the Chevalier Mengaldo (a gentleman of Bassano), a good swimmer, wished to swim with my friend Mr Alexander Scott and myself. As he seemed particularly anxious on the subject, we indulged him. We all three started from the island of the Lido and swam to Venice. At the entrance of the Grand Canal, Scott and I were a good way ahead, and we saw no more of our foreign friend, which, however, was of no consequence, as there was a gondola to hold his clothes and pick him up. Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got out, less from fatigue than from chill… I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, comprising the whole of the Grand Canal (besides the distance from the Lido), and got out where the Laguna once more opens to Fusina. I had been in the water, by my watch, without help or rest, and never touching ground or boat, four hours and twenty minutes… The distance we could not accurately ascertain; it was of course considerable.
Travel writer and adventurer Patrick Leigh Fermor, who died on 10th June, swam the Hellespont, the channel that links the Mediterranean to the Sea of Marmara, at the age of 69. He recounts this feat in a letter to Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire, 18th December 1984
Next day we got to Channakale, where the Hellespont is about a mile across, steep ridges of Asia on our side, and of Europe on the other. I’d always longed to have a try swimming across, and suddenly confronted, couldn’t very well wriggle out. Next day I dived in not far from where HMS Goliath was sunk in 1915. I slogged along after the skiff, Joan [his wife] shouting encouragement and instructions across the stern… It seemed quite easy at first, the landmarks—lighthouses, mountains, minarets, forts—exchanged places with heartening speed, and the dreaded current didn’t seem too strong. A huge Russian tanker loomed from the north leaving a strong wash behind it which kept lifting me up and dropping me again. Only when we were halfway did I start to feel the dread current. The water suddenly became choppy and ruffled, and hard to make headway in… I tried swimming on my back, but what with the clash of currents, the steamers’ wash, and, by now, the midday waves, I couldn’t keep direction, so thrashed on as before. I was very tired, but I must have made some headway at last; things began to look up when Ahmed cut off the skiff’s engine to avoid running aground. There were pebbles underfoot, and Joan shouted “You’ve done it!”, and soon I was stumbling ashore amid slippery boulders and green seaweed. I sloshed back into the water again with a gravelly handful of Europe, and was hauled aboard with joyful cries, feeling exhausted but jubilant… I had got to the other side at 12.45pm after swimming for exactly 2 hours and 55 minutes. I’m not quite sure how far it was but I think 3-4 miles. I was certain I had beaten all records for slowness and length of immersion, a wreath no future swimmer is likely to snatch at.”
Writer and Bloomsbury Group member Frances Partridge visits her friend Janetta Jackson in Spain, 21st August 1962
By the time we reached Janetta’s house it must have been 3am… The shock of arrival was stupendous—the breathless moonlit walls, mountains still magically clear and sharp with a starry sky behind… Janetta and I sat by the swimming-pool talking for an hour… All ordinary rules of life are in abeyance here. It will be a pleasure to discover the new ones. The heat by day is intense, and the only way to keep cool is to get into the swimming-pool at least every hour or so. Last night I couldn’t sleep till I had stolen out in the darkness and submerged myself in the tepid water. One is alert, rather stimulated all the time; the heat is so violent it’s nearly an enemy.
Lord Byron recalls a swim in Venice in a letter to John Murray, 21st February 1821
Of what may be done in swimming, I will mention one more instance. In 1818, the Chevalier Mengaldo (a gentleman of Bassano), a good swimmer, wished to swim with my friend Mr Alexander Scott and myself. As he seemed particularly anxious on the subject, we indulged him. We all three started from the island of the Lido and swam to Venice. At the entrance of the Grand Canal, Scott and I were a good way ahead, and we saw no more of our foreign friend, which, however, was of no consequence, as there was a gondola to hold his clothes and pick him up. Scott swam on till past the Rialto, where he got out, less from fatigue than from chill… I continued my course on to Santa Chiara, comprising the whole of the Grand Canal (besides the distance from the Lido), and got out where the Laguna once more opens to Fusina. I had been in the water, by my watch, without help or rest, and never touching ground or boat, four hours and twenty minutes… The distance we could not accurately ascertain; it was of course considerable.
Travel writer and adventurer Patrick Leigh Fermor, who died on 10th June, swam the Hellespont, the channel that links the Mediterranean to the Sea of Marmara, at the age of 69. He recounts this feat in a letter to Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire, 18th December 1984
Next day we got to Channakale, where the Hellespont is about a mile across, steep ridges of Asia on our side, and of Europe on the other. I’d always longed to have a try swimming across, and suddenly confronted, couldn’t very well wriggle out. Next day I dived in not far from where HMS Goliath was sunk in 1915. I slogged along after the skiff, Joan [his wife] shouting encouragement and instructions across the stern… It seemed quite easy at first, the landmarks—lighthouses, mountains, minarets, forts—exchanged places with heartening speed, and the dreaded current didn’t seem too strong. A huge Russian tanker loomed from the north leaving a strong wash behind it which kept lifting me up and dropping me again. Only when we were halfway did I start to feel the dread current. The water suddenly became choppy and ruffled, and hard to make headway in… I tried swimming on my back, but what with the clash of currents, the steamers’ wash, and, by now, the midday waves, I couldn’t keep direction, so thrashed on as before. I was very tired, but I must have made some headway at last; things began to look up when Ahmed cut off the skiff’s engine to avoid running aground. There were pebbles underfoot, and Joan shouted “You’ve done it!”, and soon I was stumbling ashore amid slippery boulders and green seaweed. I sloshed back into the water again with a gravelly handful of Europe, and was hauled aboard with joyful cries, feeling exhausted but jubilant… I had got to the other side at 12.45pm after swimming for exactly 2 hours and 55 minutes. I’m not quite sure how far it was but I think 3-4 miles. I was certain I had beaten all records for slowness and length of immersion, a wreath no future swimmer is likely to snatch at.”
Writer and Bloomsbury Group member Frances Partridge visits her friend Janetta Jackson in Spain, 21st August 1962
By the time we reached Janetta’s house it must have been 3am… The shock of arrival was stupendous—the breathless moonlit walls, mountains still magically clear and sharp with a starry sky behind… Janetta and I sat by the swimming-pool talking for an hour… All ordinary rules of life are in abeyance here. It will be a pleasure to discover the new ones. The heat by day is intense, and the only way to keep cool is to get into the swimming-pool at least every hour or so. Last night I couldn’t sleep till I had stolen out in the darkness and submerged myself in the tepid water. One is alert, rather stimulated all the time; the heat is so violent it’s nearly an enemy.
