North Channel - September 21, 2026

Most marathon swimmers dream of swimming the English Channel. While I plan to swim the English Channel in the future, my dream swim has always been the North Channel, both for its beauty and for its unique combination of challenges that I knew would stretch me as a swimmer and as a human. The North Channel has it all: cold, jellyfish, rough conditions, and distance.

Undeterred by the warnings I received, I spent the past two years preparing for this swim. Earlier this week, I finally got my chance to see whether that work would pay off.

On Monday, shortly after 7 a.m., I stepped off my boat, Eígríoch (which means “infinity” in Irish), into the North Channel near Robbie’s Point. A few Chunky Dunkers stood on the rocks above the start, watching and cheering as all five of us jumped off our boats and waded onto the rocky shore. My first test was trying to stand on slippery, sharp rocks while strong waves knocked me over. Unable to find solid footing, I eventually found a shallow rock and sat on it before raising my arms and starting to swim back to my boat (or what I thought was my boat). This was an incredibly graceful start.

As I started swimming, I realized I had swum to Harry’s boat, not mine. But I just kept swimming out to sea, hoping that Jacqueline, my incredible pilot, would catch me. Shortly after, she did, and we were on our way to Scotland.

For the first few hours, I kept expecting something bad to happen. That is the North Channel’s reputation, after all. Conditions were rough, but within the range of what I expected for this swim. I saw several lion’s mane jellyfish, but most stayed below the surface, away from the chop. And the water felt warm (to me, at least). I could feel the currents pushing us toward Scotland. Eventually, I settled into a rhythm, with my arm tempo set by the chop. I sort of felt like my arms were spinning out of control, so I decided to focus on my catch and let the waves carry my arms over through the recovery. I was pulling HARD, possibly the hardest I have ever pulled while swimming. It was all in the name of staying balanced in the water and getting through the chop.

The next several hours are a blur. My mom did a great job throwing the feed line. She never once hit me in the head and always placed the bottles right in front of me. At the end of every feed, I would say “good” with a thumbs-up and carry on. One time, I tried to mix it up and say “grand,” but the crew seemed confused, so I gave up on finding a synonym for “good.” Every once in a while, my throat would burn from the salt water. Nothing a swig of mouthwash couldn’t fix. About 4.5 hours in, my mom gave me a warm feed. I barely drank it because I was feeling good and didn’t need my warmth to come from a bottle. At some point, the conditions died down a bit, but not before I saw my mom lean over the other side of the boat a few times: she was fighting through seasickness while I happily floated along.

Around five hours in, something floated by my face. I felt a burning sensation under my suit, like a rug burn. My first lion’s mane sting. Not wanting to worry my crew, I kept it to myself until the next feed. Then I said the incredibly verbose “Sting. I’m okay,” and when my mom asked where I was stung, “Belly. I’m fine.” For the next few hours, the water felt electric. I felt a zing every few minutes: in my hands, my calf, my forehead, my sides. Occasionally, I would see a jellyfish (both lion’s manes and moon jellies), but the stings didn’t seem to line up with the sightings. Mostly, the jellies stayed away from me. One zoomed past my left elbow, but I avoided it. And then there were none. For almost two hours, I didn’t see a single jellyfish. Then, all of a sudden, I saw them again, this time closer to the surface as the wind picked up.

Around this time, at one feed my mom held up a piece of paper. All I could read through my goggles was “Question from Jackie” followed by scribbles. So I loudly announced, “I can’t read that.” My mom tried again: “Question from Jacqueline: Can you please possibly please pick it up a little please?” I replied, “Yes… Yes, I’ll try,” and took off as fast as I could. I figured they wanted me to get through the notoriously brutal countercurrents off the coast of Scotland. I had heard many stories of swimmers getting stuck in place there for hours. And I had spent the last few weeks training specifically for this moment.

So I picked it up and tried to lock into an “I’m doing repeat 500s, best average” mentality. Then, three strokes into this push, I put my left hand into a lion’s mane’s bell, which is just as squishy and rubbery as you would imagine. It didn’t sting, but it scared me.

When I got to the next feed, my mom had attached a bottle of canned peaches to the line. But I knew I needed to feed fast if I wanted to “punch through the current,” so I ignored it and kept pushing. Before the swim, my mom and I had agreed that I would not take solid feeds unless it was an emergency, and that any solids would come in my penguin-shaped baby snack container, affectionately named “Pete.” Really, Pete was my “oh crap” container. To me, it meant I was struggling and needed more fuel. So when my mom sent it down, I thought, “Oh boy, I’m not doing so well. I’m not making it through this current.” Since I was feeling okay despite this unfortunate news, I had probably my fastest feed of the day, now determined to swim even faster.

I could see land in front of me, but I had heard that you should never look up on this channel, because the currents off the coast of Scotland can make a 500 m distance take hours. So I didn’t look up. At the next feed, I saw my mom hang a gel on the line. Between strokes, I yelled, “Put the gel in the bottle!” because I didn’t want to lose time to a slow feed. Slow feeds in a current make you drift away from shore. As it turned out, that was my last feed. I was just 500 m from Scotland. I saw the boat pull back, so I lifted my head and heard my mom say, “Touch. Just touch.” I took that to mean I should touch a rock but not linger, because the surf was aggressive.

I swam toward a rocky outcropping in front of me and paused when I saw a rock beneath me. I did what amounted to an open turn off that rock while raising my hand out of the water. I had swum the North Channel.

As I swam back to the boat, all the thoughts I had put off for hours came rushing in. I had enjoyed swimming the North Channel. It was a challenge, but it didn’t break me. With every stroke, I thanked my crew. Jacqueline, my pilot, who knew exactly where to place the boat. Jenni, my observer, who sat at the back of the boat and watched me the whole time. John, the second captain, who was learning the ropes on his first day and just seemed elated to be out there. My mom, crew member extraordinaire, who made the day effortlessly drama-free. I don’t mean to be sappy, but I also thanked the North Channel for letting me through. She wasn’t exactly kind to me, but she wasn’t mean, either.

Coming into this swim, I told myself that this channel needed to be respected, but it wasn’t something to be afraid of: “respect, not fear.” That approach paid off. The North Channel let me swim, and I am so very grateful to her.

To my pilot, Jacqueline: I trusted you with my life, and you did everything in your power to make this swim a success. You did your homework, gave me the best line, and knew just how to get me across faster than I ever imagined. Eígríoch sat on my right shoulder all day, never too far ahead or behind. When I got back on the boat, I asked, “Can you pilot all of my swims?” and I truly meant it. You are the best, and I will forever treasure sharing this experience, and hopefully many more, with you. Even more than that, I am grateful for your friendship, support, and kindness as I prepared for this swim. You are forever in my heart.

To my observer, Jenni, and second captain, John: it was genuinely a pleasure to watch you two happily bob around on that boat all day. You looked like you were having a blast, and it had a huge effect on my mood. I figured that if you were having fun, I should be too. I can’t thank you enough for your positivity.

To the Chunky Dunkers, who came out to support us at the start: I feel so attached to all of you, even though we’ve only spent a week together. You have an immensely beautiful community that genuinely supports each other. I am incredibly humbled by your generosity and forever changed by your kindness. It is a true privilege to have shared this experience with you. Uppadunkers!

To my mom: this has been the trip of a lifetime with you. I am so very grateful that you support me on these swims, especially when you could be doing quite literally anything else. You know exactly how to care for me and are always thinking ahead. Thank you for making this journey possible.

To my fellow slot 1 swimmers (Kerry, Andrey, Ruth, and Harry): it was an honor to join you in the water on Monday. It is rare for all five swimmers on a tide to make it across, and we all did! Before anyone jumps to the conclusion that we had “good” conditions, I have it on good authority that it was an “average day on the North Channel.” I only point this out to show how strong the swimmers on this tide were. So many milestones were earned this week: a first channel swim (Ruth), the original Triple Crown (Harry), the Oceans 7 (Andrey), and a truly heroic redemption swim (Kerry). My tide-mates are all remarkable swimmers. Thank you for joining me on this journey.

And to the North Channel: you are strong and mighty and sometimes a bit too much. But I love you dearly. I respect you for your power. I’m in awe of your beauty. And I’m grateful you let me swim safely and swiftly.