At 7 a.m. on a windy August weekday, we jump from a 10-foot-high boardwalk into Istanbul's iconic Bosphorus.
This famous Turkish waterway stretches 20 miles from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara, where it flows out into the Dardanelles and the jewel-like Aegean Sea beyond, dividing the city into its European and Asian identities. Every day, 130 ships pass through the strait, but its twisting terrain and currents meander only the most skilled pilots can navigate it without running aground. For swimmers, there's even less room for error.
People can drown here.
But the group of eight dedicated Istanbul locals I was with told me the most important advice was to stay calm. To them, the Bosphorus is more than just a treacherous waterway; it's a daily ritual, a connection to history, a way of life. The Sarayburnu Fatileli (or Sarayburnu Conquerors), a loose association of teachers, baklava chefs, and retirees, have been meeting on these shores for the past two decades, swimming the strait almost every day at dawn. Some of them pack their belongings in waterproof bags and swim from Asia to Europe to avoid the city's brutal morning commute on their way to work, but most just do it for the thrill.
I wanted to experience the Bosphorus with the people who know it best — people who have been swimming in its waters since they were children — so when I found out this group was accepting guests, I got in touch.
And now I am joining in their morning ritual: swimming to a small, rocky islet a half mile south. By the time I surface from the first dive from the boardwalk, I'm already several meters downstream. My pulse quickens, but it is quelled by the laughter and glee of the eight men scattered in the water around me. I seem to be the only one worried about getting hit by a boat or swept out to sea.
“It's so beautiful,” exclaimed Cemal Gümüş, a 50-year-old bank director, as we headed away from the shoreline of the bustling Uskudar district, with a large Asian population. He was wearing a bright red swimming cap, goggles and skin-tight blue shorts, with an underwater camera strapped to his wrist to shoot video for the group's Instagram account.
The Maiden's Tower is a lighthouse located on an island near the southern entrance to the Bosphorus. | Photo by Lena Efendi (Courtesy of Thrillist)
And it is beautiful. As we swim further out to sea, the current flows over us in silky sheets of gold and obsidian blue. I dive beneath the surface to see Selmet Akyuz, a 61-year-old businessman with a broad, greying moustache, swimming before a neon emerald sun breaking through the waves. A trail of foam traces his path in long arcs. Across the straits, in the hills of Taksim and Besiktas, apartment windows glow iridescent orange, crimson and pink in the early morning light. Far behind us, the Bosphorus Bridge straddles Istanbul's continental shelf, its skyscraper-sized steel pylons standing like sentinels at the threshold of civilization. The French writer Alphonse Lamartine put it well in 1835: “If you can only see one glimpse of the world, you should see Istanbul.”
Our destination is none other than the Maiden's Tower, a monument that has been around in some form since it was built by the Athenian commander Alcibiades over 2,000 years ago. Towering over the southern entrance to the Bosphorus, it is the most visually distinctive structure Istanbul has ever had. And we're fast approaching it.
“When you approach the tower, aim for the middle!” Gümüş warns me. “If you go with the current to the right, you'll hit the rocks. If you go to the left, you'll miss it completely.”
The group stretches before diving into the channel. Photo by Lena Efendi via Thrillist
While the rest of the group began sprinting towards the concrete platform on which the tower was situated, I began a desperate crawl as the sea shifted gears and swept us hard into a raging rapid that wound around the right side of the island. The force was so strong that the spot where I was planning to land was already hopeless.
I try my best to remain calm.
Finally, I grabbed hold of one of the moss- and shell-covered rocks that surrounded and led up to the tower, and arrived in the middle of the group. The group yelled and laughed as we strode across the platform, glittering droplets of water dripping from our bodies, and gazed upon the now fully risen sun.
After a short break, head back out to sea, pausing at a group of car-sized rocks about 1,000 feet south of the tower. The rocks are a few feet below the surface, and even if you've been swimming, they're hard to find. The best way to find them is to dive underwater and follow the chorus of thousands of mussels crunching in the current. If you can find them, you'll be rewarded with unparalleled views of the straits and the city that even the Ottoman sultans never got to see.
Mehmet Sekhkin and Sermet Akyüz are both members of the Conquerors, but the latter has been swimming in the strait since he was 10 years old. | Photo by Lena Efendi via Thrillist
From here we head down to the shore, clambering up rocks that angle down into the water, drying off and preparing breakfast on a concrete ledge built into the seaside promenade: three large white bread wrappers become an impromptu picnic blanket for our meal: black olives, pogača and börek (a flaky Turkish breakfast pastry), and a plate of baklava made by the group's beloved baklava chef.
“Swimming here is like therapy,” Gümüş tells me over chai tea, describing the group's love for the strait. “We give everything we're carrying to the ocean. It's an incredible feeling.”
The author joined the Conquerors for a morning swim, which sometimes numbers in the dozens. | Photo by Lena Efendi, Thrillist
The Conquerors' origins date back to 2004, when they were just an anonymous, informal group of people who liked to swim in the Bosphorus (and sometimes even cross it). Over the years, members became more organized in their meetings, and in 2010 a Facebook group was formed, followed by a WhatsApp group in 2017. In the latter year, Gümüş joined the ever-changing group after meeting some of its members while swimming off Sarayburnu, the European promontory from which the group takes its name.
On July 3, 2018, the conquerors posted their first photo on Instagram (Gümüş is seen at the far left, arms raised and smiling broadly). A month later, they caught the attention of local dailies for their habit of swimming to and from dozens of locations along the Bosphorus, a habit that Istanbulians find quirky, reckless, and fascinating.
Another reason they attracted attention was because they were guardians of the city's sacred seaside pastime. In the 1930s, Istanbul's beach culture was experiencing what many call a golden age, with dozens of sandy beaches and wooden piers dotted on both sides of the strait. But Istanbul's population boom (and subsequent urbanization) in the 1960s led to the pollution of the Bosphorus, and most of these beaches were eventually closed. Coastal development projects gradually turned the sandy beaches into concrete roads, and for many, swimming in the Bosphorus became a nostalgic dream.
But for the conquerors, the dream never died.
The key to navigating dangerous waters is to stay calm. | Photo by Lena Efendi (Thrillist)
The dream doesn't end when the warmer months end. On summer weekends, the group can swell to as many as 60 people, but in winter, the numbers plummet to four or five burly members. Selmet Akyuz is one of those do-or-die swimmers. He started swimming in the Bosphorus in 1973, when he was just 10 years old, and for him, the waters are an extension of his identity.
“I was not a professional swimmer (as a child),” says Akyuz. “I met the Conquerors seven years ago and have been swimming with them ever since, in winter or summer. I have had many unforgettable moments here. The best part is the views: the palace, the Maiden Tower, the bridge, the brilliant lights. Having tea on the shore at sunset, in front of the sea after a swim, is a totally different experience.”
This perspective is hard-won. The Bosphorus is an essential part of Istanbul's soul, always admired and romanticized from the balconies along its banks and the ferries that ply it. But for the past half century, Istanbul's people have become all but out of touch with the water. The nature of commuting here means that the strait is often seen as an obstacle, something that must be crossed as quickly as possible to reach work, home, or friends on the “other side.” Such framing can diminish the strait's importance in people's minds over time, but its conquerors were more aware of it than most.
“If you don't swim in the Bosphorus, you lose your connection to the city and the sea,” Gümüş told me, lamenting the trend. “We are swimming in history. Not many people get to experience that. I'm happy to be able to swim here.”
United by their love for the Bosphorus, the couple enjoy breakfast together before going their separate ways. | Photo by Lena Efendi, Thrillist
As we finished breakfast and began to say our goodbyes, it was clear to see that the water connected these men to each other as much as it connected them to the city they lived in. That's a beautiful thing. I thanked the group and headed home feeling like I was being guided by something bigger than myself.
The next afternoon, Akyuz sent me a screenshot of their swim earlier that morning. I put my coffee down. They started near the Black Sea and returned to Maiden's Tower, nine miles and two hours underwater. They swam almost the entire length of the strait.
“It was great,” said the 61-year-old. “The current was slow today but there was plenty of action and lots of boat traffic. At one point a submarine even passed us.”
“Were you nervous?” I ask, anticipating the answer.
“If you stay calm, there's nothing to worry about.”
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Eric James Bayer is a freelance journalist specializing in travel, culture, and technology. His work has appeared in Culture Trip, The Guide Istanbul, Interesting Engineering, NFT Now, and more. Originally from St. Paul, Minnesota, Eric moved to Istanbul after graduating from the University of Wisconsin-Madison with a BA in Cultural Anthropology, and has lived there ever since. These days, you can find him roaming Turkey's Aegean Sea, searching for secluded bays and ancient olive trees, and petting any stray cats and dogs he comes across.
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