Life in the Row Lane

This week it was revealed that only 4 commuters are using the £60m cable car across the River Thames. Information released under the Freedom of Information Act showed only four Oyster Cards used the route more than five times in one week in October. This is tragic news for an expensive prestige project but why would you want to travel over the river when you can travel on it?

The tide has dropped considerably by the time we've finished our pint and the kayak is bobbing at the far reach of outstretched legs dangled off the pier. The current catches us, and the Barmy Arms slips away behind as we paddle hard to reignite chilled bodies. We’re heading east, back the way we've come, through Richmond and past Kew Gardens, along the watery artery towards the heart of the city.

Times have changed since the Romans navigated the 7 metre tidal range of the longest river in England to found Londinium in the 1^st century AD. We now have the Thames Barrier, the world’s second largest moveable flood defence, to protect us from storm surges and you can check high and low tide times on Twitter.

Ollie on the barge

Ollie, an old friend, and I were hoping there would be no freak weather events when we spent a crisp November afternoon enjoying a duck’s eye view of London; we took a two-man kayak for a spin along Old Father Thames from the River Brent to Twickenham and back.

What a place to live

We set off from a mate’s converted Dutch Barge aptly named Serenity, which is moored in a peaceful basin near Gunnersbury. Richard welcomed us onboard his floating abode, a well-kept beauty built in 1905, and we drank freshly brewed coffee by the wood-burning stove while he explained the finer points of kayaking on the Thames.

‘Head west first, against the current, so it’ll be easier on the way back. And don’t fall in.’

Serenity at her mooring 

The autumn breeze blew fresh against our cheeks as we tipped the kayak off Serenity’s roof and it hit the water with a satisfying thwack. We were bundled up with layers but the trees turn exhibitionist in the cold, exposing branches and knotted trunks. Their discarded leaves lay on the water, so many shades of brown clustered like the rusty iron roofs of slum shacks seen from the air.

Cleaner than you think

We found our rhythm quickly and settled into a steady pace, occasionally pausing to admire a heron in a tree or a cormorant with wings outstretched to dry. The presence of these fish eating birds is a good indicator of the cleanliness of the Thames. Just as well; the river supplies two thirds of London’s drinking water.

Our only human companions on the river were rowers; it’s too cold now for pleasure cruising. In spring and summer the waterway will be teeming with boats and the scullers will have to check more frequently over their shoulders as they scythe powerfully along. We observed the rules of the river, staying to right hand side and well away from the speeding vessels.

The houseboats moored along the Thames are a curious collection indeed. We could not fathom how some had survived the recent winds; makeshift wooden living boxes tacked on to the most basic of metal barges. Others, more sinister, seemed to be the work of a maritime Dr Frankenstein; battered boats melded together with metal plating, stove pipes sticking improbably from their roofs. Still more; moulding, creaking, tarpaulins flapping, chaotic interiors exposed. As we slipped quietly beside these empty dwellings I had the eerie feeling we were trespassing on someone’s life. Perhaps a maniac recluse who could return at any moment, spot us and fly into a deadly rage.

Across the Thames from Twickenham. The Royal Star & Garter Home in the centre

At Twickenham, opposite Eel Pie Island where the Rolling Stones drove crowds wild in the 60s, there are two pubs to slake a paddlers thirst, both right on the river and easily accessible from floating transport. The Barmy Arms was cash only but we rustled up enough change for pints and while we drank at the water’s edge we had an encounter with a fellow named John.

He lurched drunkenly out from behind a bank of portaloos, exclaiming to no one in particular;

‘There’s enough for one each. And they’re unisex!’

Mad John, to use his full name, kept us entertained with his ramblings and bad jokes.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pulling up his jumper to reveal an impressive gut. We shook our heads. ‘A naval display,’ came the slurred reply.

Mad John

Just down river is the White Swan, a charming pub built in the 17^th Century where you might enjoy the water lapping around your feet if you choose a spot on the veranda at high tide. Its cosy corners are covered in pictures from the annual White Swan Raft Race held to raise money for the RNLI. The race takes place in July, the height of summer, surely one of the best times to visit a pub with such an excellent location.

Warmed by red wine we began the return leg of our journey in the fading light. The river carried us along at quite a pace, giving the impression that our paddling was more effective than it really was. In just two hours we had been transformed from amateurs to pros. 

To be taken seriously, jacket and paddles must match

The late afternoon gloom adds an air of mystery to riverside London. It becomes hard to make out the detail of objects until you are close to them: trees and boats become merely looming shapes and birds you didn't know were there take to flight nearby, giving one a start. As the sky darkened I had the feeling that we were making our way into an unknown and perhaps dangerous place. It was that familiar feeling of excitement and trepidation that accompanies exploration and new discoveries.

Back onboard Serenity, we wriggled out of soaked clothes and warmed our hands with mugs of tea. Aching shoulder muscles and huge appetites were our souvenirs from an afternoon well spent. The Mayor’s Thames Festival, a ten-day celebration of London’s iconic river, takes place in September every year. I know where I'll be watching the fireworks in 2014: from a kayak, bobbing gently on the swell. 

Fancy your own trip on the tidal Thames? Find out more here:

http://canoelondon.com/places-to-canoe-in-london/kayaking-on-the-tidal-thames/

Escaping the hubbub in a V-Dub: Pembrokeshire

You don't have to try hard to enjoy Wales’ most westerly county. 

Welsh rugby fans are in high spirits this weekend after their side’s record defeat of Argentina at the Millennium Stadium. Away from the bright lights of the autumn internationals, a long weekend on the Pembrokeshire coast will give you something to cheer about too.

Taking the plunge

I stood on the edge and looked down at the water. The drop seemed much further from above. I looked up to an even higher ledge, where a young boy was about to jump.

‘I didn't drive all this way to be upstaged,’ I thought, ignoring the trembling in my knees. I took a step forwards and threw myself into space.Time seemed to slow as I fell, my face contorted into an involuntary gurn. I hit the water at speed and sank quicker than a stone. The rush was addictive and I swam around for another go.

The Blue Lagoon, near Abereiddy in Pembrokeshire, is entry number one in the Wild Swim book and its position in first place is well deserved. Formerly a slate quarry, the sea has now broken through the walls to create a sheltered pool, which despite its name owes its green hue to the mineral content in the rocks.

The Blue Lagoon, Abereiddy, showing the ruined quarry buildings in the centre

The quarry walls have been breached and the ocean flows in

As I waited for my second jump a man in a wetsuit (everyone was wearing wetsuits apart from my girlfriend and I – more foolhardy than hardcore) told me that the Red Bull cliff diving championship was to be held here in a few weeks.

‘Right here?’ I asked, as school aged children swarmed around me chattering excitedly.

‘No mate – up there.’ I followed the man’s finger to the top of the quarry wall. It was almost 100ft high and not vertical so it would take a superhuman leap to clear the rocks at the bottom and avoid certain doom.

‘They build a platform sticking right out over the water,’ the man continued. ‘I’d love to be here to see it.’

The prospect of scrumming down with the Red Bull cavalcade made me shudder so I contented myself with another death-defying leap of mine own before scrambling onto the beach to warm up.

Holy dozers

Two days earlier, on Friday evening, my girlfriend and I had set off from London in Gerty, my VW campervan. I didn't fancy tackling the whole 300 miles in one go and arriving in the wee hours, so I used the satellite imagery on Google Maps to locate a place just over the Severn Bridge where we might find a secluded lane for a bit of a kip. My girlfriend dozed as I drove down back roads in the pitch black, listening to a podcast about a voodoo curse. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end and there was not a cosy lay by in sight.

It’s hard to locate a good sleeping spot when you can only see as far as your headlights but soon the lane emerged into a small town and we parked in the driveway next to a church. Perhaps I was seeking sanctuary from the disquiet of the spooky story. I wondered if we would forfeit protection from evil spirits by peeing on the hallowed ground.

The next day we were away early before we could be told off and were soon breakfasting in Sainsbury’s in Swansea, whose cafe was suffering from a plague of wasps. Was it the voodoo or the vicar catching up with us?

With plenty of food onboard, we also needed gas for the stove so I didn't have to think of an excuse to detour via Go Outdoors, the Mecca of the camping equipment world. So hypnotised do customers become by the rows of head torches, portable showers and inflatable kayaks that there are members of staff on hand to guide the bumbling fools towards the exit, after relieving them of £27.99 for a floating key ring.

High, dry and no Wifi

Saved from any wallet-melting buffoonery by my level headed girlfriend we carried on towards Hillfort Tipis, which, like other sites I have found using coolcamping.co.uk, did not disappoint. Located on farmland in Pembrokeshire National Park near to the town of Fishguard, the site sits above the coast with views down to the headland and the Irish Ocean. We drove in and were directed to park in the middle of a field by the owner, John. There was not a motor home in sight and there were acres of space between the nearest guests and us. If you like your camping more bumpkin than Butlins then Hillfort is perfect.

The view to Strumble Head from Hillfort Tipis campsite

We got to know John a little during our stay - he delivered firewood every evening in his battered Vauxhall Corsa and he asked us, jokingly, if we could find him a wife in London. He went on to lament that people rarely come to settle in these rugged parts, despite the outstanding scenery. It is true that city dwellers like to experience nature in bite-sized chunks and few would forego their friends and jobs to move away permanently. 

We were soon on our way again, driving to St Davids, the UK’s smallest city, for a boat tour around Ramsey Island. As we stood on the slipway next to Fishguard lifeboat station waiting for our captain, a claxon sounded, warning us to stand clear as the lifeboat was about to be deployed.

‘Who are they going to rescue?’ Asked the little boy, looking up at his dad, his eyes wide with excitement.

‘The previous tour group,’ I chipped in, fixing the youngster with an evil glare.

When nature doesn't nurture

We sped around the island nature reserve on a twinned-engine RIB (rigid inflatable boat), pausing to admire basking Grey Seals, wheeling Guillemots and curious rock formations. The captain handled the powerful craft with skill, manoeuvring deftly across The Bitches, a treacherous reef, which has sunk many ships over the years and is now a popular spot for white water enthusiasts to pit themselves against the rushing currents.

AGrey Seal basks near Ramsey Island

Tragedy struck the Bitches in 1910 when 3 lifeboat men lost their lives after rescuing the crew of stranded ship, which had been delivering coal to Ramsey Island. There has been a lifeboat station at St Davids since 1869 and the volunteers manning it would battle the gales and high seas in little more than a wooden rowing boat, until 1912 when the first motor lifeboat was introduced. The bravery of the crews is well documented on the plaques that line the walls of the station and each of the 330 lives saved gets a mention. 

The sea was calm as we looked down on it from our pitch that evening. When we asked John if were allowed to build a fire, his response was typically relaxed. 

‘That wall over there’s two hundred years old. Grab some stones from it and make a fire pit.’

We carefully undid the work of long-dead hands and cooked our supper over charcoal before lying on our backs to watch the stars sparkle in the black sky. Our quiet enjoyment of the celestial display was disturbed intermittently by things slithering over our legs and hands – the damp grass was a paradise for slugs.

Unsung hero

Ellie and I had agreed to be prepared for bad weather; ‘It always rains in Wales,’ but we were lucky, which is why the next day found us swimming in the Blue Lagoon and lunching in the tiny harbour at Abercastle where the tidal reach is long, the sea sucked in through a gash in the cliffs and lapping at the crab traps parked on the beach. The village was the landing site of the first single-handed sailing of the Atlantic from west to east in 1876 by the Danish fisherman Alfred Johnson, who spent sixty six days covering over 4,000 miles from shore to shore. Why is Alfred’s remarkable achievement not more widely known? Perhaps because the story of his adventure is out of print and the one new copy remaining costs £405 on Amazon.

Taking a considerably smaller risk, we spent a couple of hours stretching our legs along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, heading west as it followed the fractured outline of the cliffs perched above inaccessible beaches battered by waves.

The Pembrokeshire Coast Path near Abercastle

That evening there was little else to do but relax. We made gin and tonics and took them up to the highest point of the campsite to watch the sun set across the smooth ocean. As the light faded the beam of Strumble Head lighthouse swung around, warning ships away from the rocks.

Sunset over the Irish Ocean, and yes, those are VW vans on my mug

All too soon it was Monday morning and we bid farewell to John and Hillfort Tipis, driving west again to pay a visit to the car boot sale near St Davids. The reformed hoarders and cottage entrepreneurs lined up on either side of a rugby pitch like opposing armies with their wares spilling out of vehicles that wouldn't have looked out of place in an episode of Wacky Races.

Crab-racadabra 

Just in time for lunch we arrived at Solva and pulled over at a sign announcing ‘Fresh Crab Daily’. We followed the arrow on foot until another sign pointed through a gate into a back garden, where we were greeted by furious barking. We waited nervously, wondering if we were about to be attacked when a lady appeared and ushered us inside where piles of dressed crab were on display. Her husband catches the crabs on his days off; a canny way to diversify his livelihood during these economically challenging times.

Down by Solva harbour we sat in the sea breeze, scooping crabmeat out of the shell while watching families pile into wetsuits and onto the water in kayaks, canoes and sailing boats. A stroll by the water following the receding tide took us past a collection of limekilns. Built in the 18^th and 19^th centuries, these large ovens would have been used to heat limestone brought in by sea, creating lime to enrich the local soil.

Further down the coast we stopped at Newgale, where there is a 3-mile stretch of sandy beach. The flat expanse is a popular place to learn to surf and kids can splash around in the gentle swells. We reclined with ice creams and savoured the final doses of Vitamin D before the long drive back to London.

The camping season is sadly over, as temperatures dip below zero and most sites close for the winter. While Wales will be hoping that they can build on the victory against Argentina in order to try and retain the 6 Nations title in 2014, I'm looking forward to spring and another fine performance from the cliffs and coves of Pembrokeshire National Park. 

Grazy days on the Pembrokeshire coast

Pembrokeshire resources to make your stay:

Where to stay http://hillfort-tipis.co.uk/

What to do http://www.ramseyisland.co.uk/marine-tours-2/

Red Bull cliff diving at the Blue Lagoon http://www.redbullcliffdiving.com/en_DK/video/cliff-diving-wales-stop-motion-film

Welsh mountains, lakes and curly fries

The Travelodge in Oswestry has fine…

That is a difficult sentence to complete. A friend and I arrived there late one Thursday night and struggled to find anything of note. We had driven from London after work and Oswestry was the staging post for a weekend among the peaks of Snowdonia.

‘There is something reassuring about a crap hotel,’ Lewis remarked as we padded down the generic hallway. We were certainly comforted by the price; £37 for the room and a view of grassy verge covered in empty crisp packets to boot.

The next morning, fully loaded with grease and caffeine, we continued west and were soon rolling along on the A5, next to the River Dee, which tumbled through fields where sheep munched placidly. The verdant landscape was a tonic for the soul, bathing screen-tired eyes in a million shades of green and causing me to exclaim excitedly.

Freedom this way

The road took us across a border visible only on maps and into Snowdonia National Park. The northernmost of the Welsh parks, Snowdonia was the first to be designated in 1951 and is named after Mount Snowdon, the tallest peak in Wales. The Welsh name for the area is Eryri, which could be pronounced similarly to the Jamaican patois expression irie, as in ‘everything is irie’, conveying goodness and serenity. A very apt name indeed.

Our campsite lay at the head of Llyn (Welsh for lake) Gwynant, to the south east of Snowdon and within walking distance of the summit. It was too late in the day to claim the main prize but armed with the Wild Swim book and an Ordnance Survey map, we planned an afternoon’s walk punctuated with a dip in Llyn Bochlwyd.

Expert orienteers 

We parked in a lay by next to the A5 and began to hike. A set of steep steps took us up and away from the road and the landscape breathed a rugged vitality: all water, sky, rock and earth. Soon the path was not so clear and we had to clamber over large boulders, losing our way among false trails and dead ends. We ploughed on; convinced that our route lay around the top of the slope. At intervals, fighter jets roared low through the valley, on training sorties from RAF Valley on the Isle of Anglesey.

We reached a plateau between the rocks from where we could look down several hundred metres to the road below and the lake we were planning to swim in. Orientating ourselves, we realised we were not on the path we had chosen on the map and were instead walking up Tryfan, a mountain two kilometres to the east.

It's upside down

We scrambled up the final stretch, feeling vigorous and pioneering, only to stumble on a group of slackliners setting up their gear in preparation for a daredevil walk between two outcrops.

Slacklining

Taking the plunge

Passed the summit, we hopped between clumps of heather down the boulder-strewn slope towards the green flatness that bordered our swimming spot. A breeze ruffled the surface of the lake and though we were walking in t-shirts we knew it would be cold. We had wisely decided to leave our wetsuits in the van so there would be no neoprene to defend us from the icy embrace of the mountain pond.

We stepped off the grassy bank, watched only by the rocky crags. It didn’t seem too bad until the water lapped at my vital regions. A bit further in and my chest tightened. Once fully immersed breathing became difficult and my plan to swim to the far side was quickly abandoned. A few more desperate splashes and it was about face and rapidly out of the water to clamber back into dry clothes. To celebrate, Lewis and I split a Jamaica Ginger Cake and washed it down with a dram of whisky from the hip flask. 

Making friends

Back in the campsite we met Geoff, a lone motorbike tourer. He was an expert practitioner of what I like to call the campsite creep. This is an ancient skill where instead of just walking up to people and having a chat, you assess their amenability to conversation by slowly approaching them in small increments, creeping across the space between until there is none. Perhaps this technique is borne of experiences with fearsome rebel groups who have to be approached cautiously, or maybe it’s just social awkwardness. Either way, it’s disturbing to start a conversation practically shouting across a field, before suddenly finding a large, hairy biker looming over you while you chop onions.

The big day

In the morning we cleared fuzzy heads with coffee and stoked our engines with porridge. We had chosen a circular route that allowed us to walk directly from and back to the campsite. Our plan was to head up the Watkin Path and place our flag on the top of Snowdon before coming back down over Crib Goch, which had piqued our interest when we read the following on the wall map next to the campsite office: ‘People do die up here.’

We packed our bags with plentiful supplies for the 15-mile round trip before setting out along the northern shore of Llyn Gwynant. The surroundings were so beautiful it felt like we were walking through a soggy Eden. We picked our away across moss-covered rock falls and ducked under the lichen-heavy branches of trees. The path was difficult to follow in places and quite clear in others, stones worn smooth over the centuries by the feet of sheep and men. To our left the lake lay grey and cold and to our right the heavily vegetated slope disappeared into low cloud. There was no one in sight.

Ascending through clouds

It’s been a long time since I used an Ordnance Survey map and the network of tiny lines on the paper was hard to follow. After misfiring down a lane that led back to the main road we found a gate with a sign fixed next to it, ‘Watkin Path’ and a large arrow showing us the way. The path wound up the valley alongside a rushing stream, hurtling down to feed Llyn Gwynant. We paused to wolf down macaroons next to Gladstone Rock, where a plaque commemorates the day in 1892 when the 83-year-old Prime Minister William Gladstone officially opened the path.

The sun teased us as we climbed, appearing briefly from behind the clouds only to disappear again a short while after. The path swung northwest revealing the sweep of the valley below. We walked hard and talked little, heart rates rising as we sweated healthily. I could feel the burn in my legs but resisted asking the fatal phrase ‘how far to the top?’

The final stretch of the Watkin Path is notoriously treacherous, traversing a scree slope with no solid footing. We scrambled our way across, trying not to shower the walkers below with stone. Soon we were at the top and jostling with hundreds of other walkers, all swathed in lurid shades of breathable fabrics. There are several routes up Snowdon and a train too, so we had to sharpen our elbows to get a turn next to the stone marking the highest point.

The summit circus

Despite not being able to see the landscape the human activity was entertainment enough with gangs of scouts carrying flags and endurance athletes in tiny shorts taking part in a 24-hour triathlon. As awful as it sounds, this brutal event involves attempting to complete as many sprint distance triathlons as possible in 24-hours. It can be done solo or as a team. The 2013 solo winner completed 16 circuits. That’s 3.8 miles of swimming, 179 miles of cycling and 41.6 miles of running. Excuse me while I doff my cap.

We found a clear patch of ground and sat down at the foot of a wall to devour a well-earned lunch. Hiking boots came worryingly close as we perched on stones in the mud. An enthusiastic American walker spotted our feast and complimented it in the way only enthusiastic Americans can, with a high volume exclamation.

‘Now that’s what I'm talking about! That’s a lunch!’

Yes, my friend, it certainly is.

The clouds began to clear just in time for our descent. Looking north we could see a great swathe of Wales laid out, like a green patchwork quilt, all the way to Anglesey and the Irish Ocean.

The Ridge of Death

Emboldened by the clear skies we confirmed our decision to eschew the popular and busy routes down and take the more exciting Crib Goch instead. We could see walkers on the ridge silhouetted against the blue firmament and no one seemed to be falling off. Crib Goch is a grade 1 scramble, which means it’s somewhere between a walk and a climb.

Crib Goch

The ridge was exposed with a decent wind whipping up from the valley. At points the path was not obvious and the scramble, using our hands just for balance if at all, became a climb, using our hands to hold our weight. Our position on the spine of this younger sister of Snowdon afforded a wonderful perspective. To the south we looked down on lakes Glaslyn and Llydaw. To the east we could see the sheer face of the bigger mountain with the specks of walkers toiling to the top and to the north, the lumpy slopes leading down to the A4086.

Lakes Glaslyn and Llydaw

 We passed several groups of people who were clearly out of their depth on the ridge and not enjoying themselves.

‘How much further?’ Asked one lady, her voice quavering, as she clung to the rocks like King Kong was in the area and on the prowl for a new bride.

‘Five hours,’ Lewis replied without missing a beat. Her eyebrows rose in horror before we reassured her that it was actually only four and a half.

Led astray

Beyond the roughest part the path led us down towards a grassy ridge where we rested and contemplated the scene. Nearby, a pretty sheep lay sprawled on a rock, gazing up at us with its large, dark eyes. Faced with such provocation, perhaps it’s not so hard to imagine how a lonely farmer might fall foul of a woolly temptress.

Time to think

Shortly after we passed a lone walker sat on the ground staring into space. It reminded me how the mountains are a place for excitement and adventure but also reflection. People immerse themselves in nature in order to better understand their problems or to be alone with powerful emotions, away from the myriad distractions of modern life. The stark beauty of a rugged landscape can be a crucible for melancholic introspection; or strange comfort drawn from the feeling of insignificance engendered by the awesome surroundings. I wondered what demons the man was facing, or whether he was just having a bit of a rest.

In good company

Finally we arrived at Pen-y-Pass where crowds waited for the last Sherpa bus back to their lodgings in nearby towns and villages. We carried on, passing the sinewy maniacs powering up the road on the bike leg of their 24-hour nightmare. Our final prize was a pint in the hotel at Pen-Y-Gwryd, which Hillary and Tenzing used as their base while they trained for their 1953 attempt on Everest. It was hard to leave the cosy watering hole, described on the website as a ‘haven safe from the relentless grind of modernity’, as the exposed beams and collections of climbing memorabilia invited an extended tipple.

Nine hours after we left the campsite we marched back in again, feasted on pasta and beer and battled against heavy eyelids before accepting the inevitable and turning in to sleep like babies.

From boots to boats

On our final day in Snowdonia we decided to take to the water and hired a two-man kayak to explore lake Gwynant. We cruised up the small river that feeds the lake, negotiating our way through the arches of an old stone bridge and swearing at cows.

On the lake proper we discovered a mouldy old boathouse to hide in and prepared to ambush imaginary victims. At its south westerly corner the lake flows out again and over some small rapids, which looked tempting but we didn’t fancy dragging the kayak back over the rocks so we resisted the urge to plunge in.

Game of Thrones

We made our way back to London via Harlech, where there is an impressive castle, built by Edward I in the late 13^th Century to keep the Welsh in Wales. Perched on a rock with breathtaking views, the mighty towers and thick walls allowed me to entertain my Ned Stark fantasies for a few sweet moments. 

It was off-season and the town of Harlech was somewhat quiet and forlorn. We found an arcade next to a café where we vented our latent combat rage playing Time Crisis while waiting for heart-stopping Mega Burgers. The waitress told us that they had run out of curly fries so we’d been given a mound of onion rings instead.

‘I think she likes us,’ said Lewis.

In a fleeting moment, like a cloud crossing the sky, I imagined settling down in a small town like Harlech, with a castle to muck about on, cooking up cholesterol-steeped dinners for miserable tourists alongside my trusty serving wench. Then the ketchup bottle exploded, quickly bringing me back to my senses. I shuddered and swallowed the last of my onion rings.

Triumphant return

Our return journey was fuelled by a desire to avoid the Sunday evening jam of city-dwellers returning from weekends away. Miraculously our bladders held out a full five and a half hours without stopping until we were around the dinner table regaling our housemates with our exploits until they could take no more.

If you've never been to Snowdonia, go at once - and take a wetsuit.