The Currents of Aare

by Lee Glasscock (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Switzerland

We arrived in Berne on the hottest weekend of the year. Myself, Martin, Joel and Chris pulled up to the campsite and immediately desired the refreshing waters of the city’s river. The campsite attendant informed us that the water moves at an exceptional rate and should only be exploited by the strongest of swimmers - ruling Chris out straight away who walked with a stick, recently hospitalised thanks to an infected bug bite. We also learnt the river was the quickest way into town, the place we wanted to be. “Oh, and don’t go past the last stop or you will hit a dam,” the campsite attendant decided to add. “Or you will, how do you say? Die.” What? At certain intervals, railings and steps penetrate into the river with signs informing people what part of town they were travelling through and where to get off. The dam being the end of the line, literally. Thankfully, the stop we needed was a couple before the last one. All being adventurous by nature, meant Chris making the two and a half mile trek into town alone. Knowing we would be in town for the night, we sorted our bags and loaded a miserable Chris like a mule and gave him a head start. Apparently, the water carries a person two metres a second - getting you into town in ten minutes. We watched Chris sludge away onto the path, stick in hand and draped in baggage. After twenty minutes, I gently waded in and before the depths had even reached my knees I was buckled by the pressure. Martin and Joel followed suit, gasping as their bodies accustomed to the temperature. The water was freezing, freshly flowing from the Alps, clear as crystal and moving at a tremendous speed. We soon learnt it was near impossible to direct yourself against the current, so when it came to diverting for our stop we knew we’d have to be prepared. For the time being, we just enjoyed it. The effortless float brought peace to all that dared, and gently lowering your ears under the surface gifted you the sound of a thousand crashing cymbals from the rushing pebbles underneath. We admired the surrounding scenery and gaped in awe at the daredevils leaping from bridges overhead. Most of the locals seemed to use the river as a form of transport, waterproof bags tied to their ankles housing dry clothes and valuables. Others floated down in rubber dinghies sporting a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It was its own little oasis in a European metropolis. Soon enough, Joel spotted the sign up ahead where we needed to disembark. We fought, diagonally pressing towards the railings that would aid us in our escape. The current was very unforgiving, I gave it everything I had in me to reach the banks. I envisioned Olympic swimmers in their calm pools and tried to imitate their technique. Adrenaline drove me as I inhaled mouthfuls of water, ignoring my out-of-focus eyes, kicking like a crocodile was snapping at my feet. At the very last moment I made it, desperately clinging to the railings for dear life, as did Joel. Martin however, timed it terribly and found himself wrapped around the ankles of a middle aged couple dipping their toes in the water. At least none of us hit the dam, albeit with a two stop contingency. We arrived at a green proud of our swimming achievements and peered around to no sign of Chris. Many a sunbather and running child, but no mule. It was another ten minutes of basking in the sun before he finally lumbered up, breathless, burnt and exhausted. He told us his horror story of the quest he undertook, meandering through tides of people heading upstream in swimsuits, giving him confused looks for being fully dressed, with four bags and a stick. ‘Ah that’s nothing, we had to swim for our lives!”, we exclaimed, to which he replied, “A six year old pointed at me and yelled ‘Gandalf!’” It’s been seven years and Chris has not yet lived it down.