The first sign things may have not been entirely right with Michael Cullen came the evening he turned to his wife and said, “I’m going to have a go at swimming the channel.”
That would be the English Channel, the chilly, shark-infested body of water separating England from France. Cullen had about as much chance making it across as he did of walking to the moon because he was 48, had never had a swimming lesson and probably shouldn’t have stepped into a bathtub without a lifeguard present.
But pointing out the absurdities of her husband’s ideas only made him more determined to see them through.