Chapter 7

Soon it was the day of the English Channel Cup, and all of the competitors, not to mention many reporter people, were in a tiny coastal town. It was in south England, at a point where it was exactly 50 miles to France by the way of the English Channel. The air was foggy and salty, invigorating all the racers who were standing on a dock, waiting to jump in the frigid water and swim to France. Reporters wearing thick jackets and coats swarmed around the four athletes, asking them questions.

One lady from America said, "Mr. St. Clair? Do you think you're going to win?"

Jerome huddled up with Portia under a warm blanket, both shivering. They were standing barefoot on the splintering wooden dock, nearly turning blue. Whenever they exhaled, their breath turned to steam. They were whispering to each other, mostly about, "Hey honey, remember when we went to the museum. . ." and laughing until their bellies hurt over the infamous 'Charles Lindbergh Incident', as Portia and Jerome called it.

James St. Clair stood proudly, his chest out like a rooster, and in his Irish accent said, "Of course I bloody do! I'm gonna win!"

Jerome laughed out loud, but tried to hide it. Portia giggled and whispered in his ear, "Win the consolation prize?" and kissed him on the cheek.

One reporter asked Nikita Trovsky, "Mr. Trovsky? How do you think you're going to do?"

He stood with no towel, in a Speedo, (which was a horrid sight) in front of the crowd. "Well, I think I am going to do very well. I've been swimming in ice ponds in my home country since I was ten years old!",(all his W's sounding like V's.)

"And where is your home country?" the reporter asked.

"Russia, raised in the Urals," he proudly said.

"What are those?"

This angered Trovsky, and he yelled, "What kind of reporter are you! You don't know what the Urals are? It's the countryside, by the mountains!". The reporter nodded, and then asked James St. Clair something.

Jerome and Portia laughed to each other, doing impressions of Trovsky's Russian accent and huddling up, sharing the towel, catching the attention of the reporters. One man held a microphone up to them. "Yes, Mr. Morrow and Miss Robinson, you seem to be very close. Are you two going out?"

Portia looked at Jerome, and said into the microphone, "You might want to ask him."

The reporter asked him, and he replied, "Yes, we are."

"For how long?"

He thought to himself about that, and then said, "One month," then looked at Portia, who was smiling.

The reporter lost interest, and then moved back to Nikita Trovsky. Portia smiled at him, and then whispered, "Coach McHallan to your left."

He turned to look, and saw him, walking quickly. "MORROW!"

Jerome casually said, "Yes Coach?"

Portia just smiled, and looked around the crowd.

McHallan tipped his fedora hat to Portia. "Hello, Miss Robinson. You, Jerome, it's almost race time. Do you have your swimsuit on?"

Jerome opened the towel, and showed him his very old fashioned bathing suit, navy blue, with white stripes at the bottom and shorts built in. It looked like what they wore in the 1920's. Portia had one almost exactly like it. "Yes I do."

McHallan was a bit angry at this. "Why don't you have a Speedo on? That's the best swimsuit you can wear!"

Jerome frowned, "No way in heaven or hell am I wearing one ever again, especially today! I'll freeze in one!"

"That Russian guy Trovsky is!"

"Yeah, but he has a thick layer of blubber all over his body to keep him warm!" he said loudly.

McHallan groaned, "Why was I stuck with you to train! Of every other swimmer out there, I had to teach you! You could eat cheese and crackers with your whine!" and he stormed off.

Portia laughed, "Well, not the most cheerful person, I see."

"You have no idea," he replied, and pulled the blanket tighter around them. It started to mist when a large man wearing a tuxedo stood up on a podium in front of everyone. Jerome asked her, "Who is he?"

"The prime minister, you dimwit!"she laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

"Oh," he recognized the man, and everyone quieted down.

The Prime Minister made his speech. "For 4 decades, there hasn't been. ." He droned on and on, Jerome and Portia not paying any attention.

Ten minutes later, he was done, and another man stepped up. "Would the competitors take their places now?"

Jerome put the blanket down, and turned to face Portia. She grabbed his face in her hands, and gave him one long, hard kiss. "Good luck, Jerome."

He smiled at her, "Good luck. I'll see you later." They hugged each other, then ran to the dock while putting on their goggles, and dove down into the ocean below, the freezing cold water cutting through his body like a sharp knife. (Nikita Trovsky more like cannonball-ed in.) Once in the frigid sea and next to their trainer's little boats, Portia looked over at Jerome and winked. He grinned, and then got ready to swim.

McHallan, who was in a boat to make sure he didn't drown or something, bent over to him and hissed, "You can beat these people. Try your hardest."

He nodded, and put his feet on part of the dock, which was covered in barnacles and mussels, which cut them up and scraped them. Portia, who was three spaces away from him, was doing the same thing. They shared grins and mouthing out the words, "I love you" to each other. Suddenly, and very unexpectedly, the gunshot was fired, and they were off. He sped through the water, like a bullet, keeping his eyes on the horizon ahead. He knew he would win, and get the gold, and prove his notability, or in other words, victory and fame.

It was 7 hours later, in the middle of the channel. Jerome now had a slower pace, because he had gone way too fast at the very beginning of the race. He figured that he was up ahead of everyone else, and Nikita Trovsky was at the back. This was helping him take his mind off of the cold. He thought it might start snowing because it was so freezing. But he still probably had 12 miles to go until he reached France. So he kept on swimming toward the finish line.

When suddenly, he felt a sharp twinge of pain in his side. He couldn't swim anymore, he couldn't even breathe. Jerome started to be pulled underwater by the current. He tried to call out for help, but the salty, cold water filled his mouth. "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die," he thought to himself. All he could think of was Portia, and thought, "I can't die. . ."

Suddenly, everything was dark. . .

Jerome regained consciousness and abruptly felt someone grab him. He saw McHallan's face, and heard him say, "Morrow, oh dammit, MORROW?!"

He gasped for air and coughed up water. But then he could talk. "What's wrong? What happened," he said, still heavily breathing.

"You blacked out for about 30 minutes. You're way off course. You need to hurry! Go!"

"I think I broke a rib," he gasped.

"No," McHallan said, "You're fine. Now hurry up!"

So he started to swim again, still hurting, but determined to win.