In the deep end ... the group swims beside the yacht Katerina.
Goggles on, Hannah Booth joins a tour group that preferes to swim its way around the Minor Cyclades.
"JUST one?" said the man at Athens airport with theatrical concern when I asked for a ticket to the port. Greeks seem upset by single travellers. They're a family-loving nation, happiest when their tourists, particularly female ones, are shackled to a significant other or part of a jolly group.
I assured him I wouldn't be alone for long. I would be joining 10 others to swim around the Minor Cyclades, a cluster of tiny islands including Naxos, Mykonos and Santorini. Baffled by the very idea, he winked, waved me on and yelled, "Next!"
I've never been drawn to organised group trips. During periods of singledom - I've been in one for a year - I'm either a happy solo traveller or I've holidayed with friends and family. But this time my brother and family, with whom
I went away last summer, were off with fellow young parents; friends were working or saving money; and the will power to head off on my own again, eight months after a solo trip, had momentarily deserted me.
A group holiday it was. Painting and photography seemed too sensible. I secretly thought if I chose well, I might meet someone nice. So, when I heard of a trip to swim between Greek islands, I pounced. A week of my favourite activity, with danger thrown in, appealed hugely. And, in my experience, outdoor swimmers are an adventurous lot - right up my street.
After a night in Athens' deliciously seedy port of Piraeus, I boarded a large ferry to Naxos, followed by a smaller one to nearby Schinoussa, an island of 200 people. In high season, barely 600 tourists visit. When we arrived in early October, we felt like pioneers. Our group had exchanged emails before we set off, so I knew some of them would be on the same boat. I found two, a young married couple from Atlanta, and we chatted excitedly. There was time for only brief hellos with the other swimmers at the harbour but later, over a beer, I noted that everyone seemed not only normal but really rather nice.
A briefing on chafing, hypothermia, jellyfish stings, cramp and hand signals followed. Drowning, which was my bigger worry, wasn't mentioned. But they did tell us that safety boats would be with us all the way. Breakfast the next morning was a merry affair, with the feel of a school trip. Two latecomers had arrived after drunkenly missing their ferry and hitching a lift on a fishing boat. You don't get those sorts on a watercolours holiday, I thought.
First we swam 300 metres so we could be split into speed groups, then it was lunch followed by sunbathing. Nerves kicked in before our first swim. We struck out from the beach for a low-lying, scrubby headland. Before long, I was at the rear of the slow group. The waves picked up and I started to inhale mouthfuls of salt water. My spirits sank. The speedy group had sprinted off like a pod of dolphins. As we turned back, I clambered into the boat with Andrew, one of our guides, defeated.
We'd made it 1½ kilometres, the longest I'd ever swum, and that night over dinner, friendships began to form, our previous night's polite chit-chat turning into more personal conversation. I put it down to the wine - and the fact we'd already seen one another semi-naked. Swimming is a peculiarly bonding activity, more so in a hostile environment where you have to look out for each other.
My fellow swimmers, ranging in age from 28 to 53, included a quick-witted lawyer from England's West Country, a pair of lively sisters who worked in the family undertaking business, two adorable couples, a fellow London girl, a pair of fast-living international yarn salesmen and our guides, Andrew and Mia, bronzed and gorgeous. Many were attached but there alone. No eligible men, I noted, but if I'd cared at the start, I didn't now.
The following days were a blur of freestyle, sunbathing, eating and drinking. I started to enjoy the routine of the swims: the first, thrilling plunge; finding a rhythm to my stroke; stopping to admire the scenery or point out interesting fish. The swims were meditative and satisfyingly tiring. As they grew in distance, so, too, did my speed and pleasure at completing them.
After the first few group dinners, we were free to do our own thing but we stuck together, early-evening beers turning into long dinners, then more drinks. On day four,
I cried off. We'd be on board our yacht, Katerina, for hours and
I knew rolling boats and my stomach don't get along. But after the bustle of the group, I suddenly felt very alone.
The following day was our longest swim: five kilometres from the island of Koufonisia to the uninhabited island of Keros. It was our first cloudy day, which lent a seriousness to the swim. The first half an hour was choppy. With Keros looming, we could see how far we had to go. An hour later, my stroke was flagging, my shoulders aching. Clambering on to the boat after the difficult final stretch, I felt elated.
On the last day, we did two two-kilometre swims, which would have felt long at the start of the week, diving for shells. It gave me time to appreciate what we'd done: we'd seen parts of these ancient islands hidden from most tourists. It was almost disappointing to have ended up with only a few minor conditions: swim-cap tan lines, sore eye sockets from tight goggles and burnt bottoms.
That night, we took over a bar and partied until the small hours. The next morning, ashen-faced with hangovers, we arrived at Naxos and the first of the group started to drift home. We had bonded firmly and
I wasn't the only one feeling bereft. In my life, I will doubtless holiday with partners, family and friends. But I promised myself, on Naxos, that whatever my life circumstances, I would make sure to escape with like-minded strangers again.
A one-week SwimTrek holiday costs from £560 ($885), excluding transport. Swims in the Cyclades take place from May to July and in September. swimtrek.com.
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