I’ve come to believe that things happen when they’re meant to. That we meet the right people at the right time, in ways we don’t expect. That’s exactly what happened the day I met Sophie Durlacher.
It was a typical open water session with The Cambridge Swimming Company. I was giving the safety briefing to our swimmers when I noticed Sophie arriving, walking with a pole. I clocked that she might need a bit of extra help. But what I didn’t expect was how quickly we’d click; her sense of humour and sarcasm rivalled my own, and I had a feeling we’d become friends.
Soon, I learned that Sophie was living with stage 4 cancer. The treatments had left her with lasting effects: chronic pain, mobility challenges, and on top of that she had poor eyesight. Without her glasses, she could barely see. Yet here she was, showing up to swim in open water, undeterred and determined to enjoy life and the outdoors, just like I do.
A few weeks later, I was contacted by The Richard Whitehead Foundation about a pilot scheme they were launching; an adaptation of their Supported Runner project. The idea for the pilot scheme was to pair a disabled swimmer with a support swimmer (me), enabling them to participate in a mass swim event. I’ve already experienced the joy of being a support swimmer this year. After a conversation with Sophie and a tentative “yes,” she agreed to take on Swim Serpentine 2025 with me by her side. Team Sophie was born.
Sophie signed up for the 2-mile swim; despite never having swum that distance before. She trained mostly on her own, and bought prescription goggles so she could see where she was going. We met for river and lake swims to build our friendship and learn how to work as a team.
Sophie swam a slow breaststroke, while I did doggy paddle or side stroke. We figured out which side I should swim and I learnt how to ‘read’ Sophie’s swimming meaning I knew when she was struggling. That helped me to learn how to communicate and encourage her, when doing breaststroke I was annoying and we swore at each other. When doing head-down front crawl—hand signals became our language.
Then came the blow: Doctors discovered a new tumour on Sophie’s lung, partially blocking it and it was affecting her breathing. It didn’t stop her training, but it shook her confidence and led to a panic attack in the water, but still, she kept training.
The event arrived faster than we expected. We headed to London for a mid-morning start. Sophie predicted the swim would take her three hours; I guessed two and a half. We didn’t want to need to rush the final stretch when fatigue would hit hardest.
At the venue, we met the organisers of the pilot scheme who helped us get organised.
The safety briefing area buzzed with nervous energy. Sophie looked terrified, and I tried to distract her, but with hundreds of swimmers in wetsuits, it wasn’t easy. Eventually, we registered our chips, listened to the briefing, and stepped/wheeled onto the pontoon.
I entered the water first, followed by Sophie. She began with breaststroke, adjusting to the water, other swimmers and the kayaks. We were on the back straight of the lake and I heard shouting “Sophie!” and spotted three people with a mermaid balloon. Sophies friends had come to support her and that moment lit something in her. She switched to front crawl and swam faster than I’d ever seen. Fewer rests, more power, more confidence. It was incredible.
At the one-mile mark, I gave her the option to exit. I teased that she wouldn’t get the cool 2-mile medal if she got out now. She considered getting out but by the time she was coming to a decision we had gone past the finish…oops. We’d been in the water for 90 minutes, and she was still strong and was even smiling.
On the second lap, Sophie did more front crawl, counting strokes, while I used hand signals to guide her and reduce the need for sighting. Her friends walked the shoreline, cheering her on. As we rounded the final turn, Sophie said, “I’m actually going to finish this, aren’t I?” I replied, “Yes, and much faster than you thought.” We were only at 2 hours and 15 minutes.
On the home straight, we did one last burst of front crawl. I hung back so Sophie could cross the finish line first. She had done it; her first open water event, her longest swim ever, and she beat her predicted time by nearly 30 minutes.
Grinning through the pain, we climbed out, collected our mobility aids, and I gave her the biggest hug I could muster. She didn’t say, “I can’t believe I finished that,” but her face said it all.
With everything Sophie was facing; physically, emotionally and medically her achievement was nothing short of extraordinary. I hope she’s as proud of herself as I am of her. Because that day, in that lake, Team Sophie didn’t just swim. We soared.
