Winging it: the day a swan became my pacer

What an unexpected river chase taught Jharna Kumawat about calm, kindness, and keeping strokes tidy

There’s a moment – after the cold bite softens and your cheeks start to glow – when river swimming turns into rhythm. Breath, bubbles, tow float ticking your hip. Kingfishers flash like neon punctuation; reeds whisper along your shoulders. And then sometimes, you pick up a training partner you never asked for – like a swan.

He was a gleaming exclamation mark on the water ahead, moving with that infuriating serenity only swans possess. I saw him, he saw me, and I gave the respectful wide berth we’re all taught to give. Midstream is my safe place; the current hums, the river gets louder, and everyone minds their own business. Then he turned.

A spin around, wings lifting just enough to ruffle the air. If you’ve never heard a swan hiss up close, it’s like a bicycle pump haunted by a snake.

I tried diplomacy: a gentle curve to the opposite bank, steady strokes, tow float hanging like a friendly flag between us. He matched the arc. Head low. Hiss again. We were officially in… not quite a sprint, more an escort. Cob swans don’t exactly “attack”; they reposition you with impeccable, slightly menacing manners. After you, stranger – away from my cygnets please and thank you.

Panic wanted a say, but panic is a terrible coach. I kept my breathing even, lowered my splash, and aimed for a widening ahead – more space, more options. I sighted to mark exit points: a shallow shelf, a willow root like a doormat if I needed to pop out. The river, admirably indifferent, kept being a river.

We travelled in tense parallel for a handful of strokes – long enough for me to rehearse a dozen swan puns I promised I wouldn’t share later. Then I made my move: a longer, quieter arc downstream, librarian strokes instead of lifeguard thrash. He held station, gave one last theatrical hiss, and turned back to his patch with the world-weary air of a bouncer who’d seen it all.

That’s when I noticed… one neoprene sock had slipped free somewhere in the dance, bobbing off like a tiny black flag of surrender. The river had claimed it. Later, once my heart rate and sense of humour returned, I framed its partner – the surviving sock – as a keepsake. A trophy of mild peril and better judgement.

I floated a moment, toes up, watching him rejoin his partner in the reeds (she hadn’t so much as flicked an eyelash). Then I slid on, a little humbled, a lot grateful. Because this is why we swim outdoors after all. Despite the lure of chlorinated rectangles and predictable temperatures: the river offers a live lesson in coexistence. Reading the room – 200 metres long and moving – de‑escalating with body language and choosing grace over ego.

Back at the jetty, the day’s final test arrived: the glamorous exit. I aimed for poise and produced a slow‑motion beached-seal routine, elbows skittering, one calf cramping, tow float snitching on me with every squeak. “Work on your core Jharna, work on your core,” I muttered through gritted teeth, conducting a full mid‑jetty performance review of my plank discipline while attempting what can only be described as budget boat yoga. Eventually, I flopped onto the boards and lay there grinning at the sky, as proud as if I’d finished a (half) marathon.

Flask. Steam. Cheeks pleasantly burning. I replayed it all with the relief of someone who just passed an exam they didn’t revise for. I hadn’t sprinted (tempting), splashed (very tempting), or squared up (suicidal). I’d taken the long curve, kept the breath slow, let the current be clever on my behalf. Mostly, though, I’d keep the same mantra: be calm, be kind, be boring. In nature, boring is safe – and you still come away with a story.