After traversing the cliffs for a while– as it turns out, an ill-advised trek in the shoes I had on– I made my way down to the harbor to get a close up look at the beach. I wanted to see firsthand exactly where it is that locals (and not-so-locals) come to train.

The area contained within the sea wall is awesome. Sheltered from the open water, it’s a great wide-open space for swimmers to traverse back and forth while acclimatizing to the temps of the sea. Oh, and what was the temperature, anyway?

I snapped a few requisite shots of the Matthew Webb (first person to swim the Channel) statue across the street from the beach, and then ventured down to the water. Holy shnikies was it cold. Now, granted, it was March. But still. That was some c-c-c-cold water. I think that put more of a scare into me than the view across to France. Note to self: Hitch a ride on one of the Wicked Tuna boats and use the Flemish Cap as training ground this summer.

Having imprinted the freezing fear of God deep in my psyche, I headed over to the last of my planned destinations for the day: The White Horse Tavern. For those not in the know, this is the local Dover pub where Channel swimmers proudly write their name, date and duration of their swim on the walls and ceiling. I’d seen pictures on the web like the ones below, but seeing it in person is another experience altogether.

At once it affirms that this thing is possible, and also engenders an tremendous sense of community. Right now though, it’s a group to which I most certainly do not belong. I’m still on the other side of the window looking in, but it’s great motivation to keep training.

I wrapped up the day with a comfort-food dinner at a local restaurant (the White Horse was done serving food that day), and a daydreamy bus and train ride back to London. I’m so glad I had a chance to scout the location in person before September. Hopefully I’ll be returning from my next trip a triumphant member of the Used Sharpie Club.