writing whims and ocean swims

Palmy to Whale ocean swim: I beat Tony - again

2012-01-30T21:50:00.003+11:00

Before: lining up for ankle timers and caps at Palm Beach

Woo! Just made it in time to post about the Palm Beach to Whale Beach swim before it becomes 'dead in the water'.

I think I've lost the mood so let me limber up to recall the feeling of swimming out the back of the break to Little Head off Palmy at around 10.30am on a muggy, overcast Sunday feeling like I'd never ever get to the right-hand turn that would reveal a glimpse of Whale Beach.

I breathe left, and this 2.5 km destination swim runs south from the northern-most beach on Sydney's 'insular peninsula'. This means I don't get much of a view because I breathe towards the horizon and not the headland and beach.

After: Whale Beach. A perfect pocket of sun, sand and surf

The choppy conditions weren't as wild as the Bondi to Bronte epic (see my post from December 2011) but still challenging. Imagine the wool cycle on your washing machine. The agitator doesn't toss the clothes so much as slosh them about. I was sloshed around like an old wool jumper in sudsy lukewarm water.

The other problem was not really knowing where I was. I didn't see the two small red cans (buoys/booeys) placed as guides on the course along Whale Beach to the finish line. Instead, I had to rely on my fellow swimmers for direction. I know this is bad form but it was hard to look and lift. When I did all I saw was chop. I swallowed ocean and at times I felt alone. How sad am I today?

And so it came to pass that I finally made it to the breakers at Whale Beach, with the finish line in sight. The waves washed me in to shore. I am flotsam (can there be flotsam without jetsam?)

Ah glory days. An old Holden ute. I remember bouncing around in the back of one of these before it became illegal

Here's a few numbers: I finished 1035 out of 1501 competitors. Not happy Jan. In my age group I came 19th out of 37 women (not so many older chicks do it). Last year I finished 17th out of 27. Does this mean I did better this year or that other older women who are slower than me have started to compete?

Still, I did beat the leader of the opposition Tony Abbott who finished in a time of 1.02.58. Hey Tone, ya better shape up or ship out!

The best fun came after the swim when I raided the free fruit stand for competitors, ate four sweet, juicy nectarines and pocketed another three for later. Then my swim squad friend Miss Freeasabird and I went for another swim in the blue Pacific. God, it was beautiful.

This Sunday I expect chaos at the Cole Classic in Manly. I don't care if some of the diehards shun the event because it's gone a bit corporate - I'm excited.

Australia Day and the Great Australian Swim at the Sydney Opera House: I beat Tony Abbott

2012-01-26T17:18:00.000+11:00

A view across the harbour to Mrs Macquarie's Point from the Sydney Opera House

Part 4: I thumped the federal opposition leader Tony Abbott in the 2.2 km swim around Sydney Harbour on Australia Day (just between you and me, so did about 75 per cent of the swimmers in the event). 'Tone' posed for photos with anyone who asked. This is what I love about Australia - a pollie in his budgie smugglers posing for pics with Joe Bloggs and his kids. Where else does this happen? We're all as mad as cut snakes!

Who's got the best abs? Abbott or the bloke on the right? Though you couldn't get more right than our Tone

Part 3: I didn't think once about Bull Sharks in the harbour as I swam through murky salty water (it rained all night) to the first buoy located close to Mrs Macquarie's Point. I continued not to think about them as I continued onto Farm Cove (way too wide of the second buoy). And I definitely didn't entertain the thought that there could be at least seven of the nasty buggers* cruising at a leisurely pace beneath me as I made my way back towards the pontoon at the Sydney Opera House.

Part 2: The event was a shambles at the start. The organisers had set up A-K and L-Z lines for competitors to register, which is stupid when you have at least 500 punters arriving from 7am-8.15am to collect their timing devices and swimming caps. The queues were long, winding and haphazard. It took The Hiss and I at least half an hour to get our stuff.

The Hiss poses in front of the Sydney Opera House

Part 1: The Hiss and I were dropped into Circular Quay on Sydney Harbour by the accommodating Spanner, who couldn't wait to get rid of us so he could do his own thing on this overcast and muggy Australia Day. The Hiss and I argued from the moment we arrived. I can't remember what we bickered about.

HAVE A BRILLIANT AUSTRALIA DAY

*Last year there were seven tagged Bull Sharks in the harbour on Australia Day.

Life after the Flying 11 national regatta at Port Stephens: pick yourself up, dust yourself down and start all over again

2012-01-24T18:02:00.000+11:00

Is this not magnificent? The view from Tomaree Headland. On the left is Zenith Beach; on the right is Shoal Bay

Last week wasn't as happy and carefree as it should have been.

We had driven to the holiday town of Nelson Bay on the NSW mid-north coast for the Flying 11 national regatta. My daughter The Hiss was sailing to win.

It was not to be. During the week we endured her pain - she made us feel it with every tantrum and teary recrimination as she slid down the tally ladder. "Shut up Dad, shut up Mum. You don't know what I'm going through."

She blamed the wind, the waves, the boat, her crew (the little bugger did chow down on two meat pies and a chocolate-flavoured milk before every race) and us for her less than impressive performance.

We were the worst parents on the face of the earth for trying to offer advice. We were uncaring parents for not giving any advice. Arrrgggghhhh.

I don't like to watch The Hiss sail. I find it stressful. It's hard anyway because unless you're out on a boat watching from the sidelines you can't see that much of the action, especially if the course is set a long way out.

Shoal Bay

My partner Spanner likes to watch (that could be another post). He sits with the other mad sailing parents, who view the races through binoculars. I go off and do other stuff.

The pics here show you some of the places I visited while The Hiss was sailing out of the record books and into a minor emotional slump.

Almost a week later, she is back to her usual unpredictable self. I am trying to instill in her the wisdom of one of Australia's sporting greats, John Newcombe, who won 26 grand slams in his tennis career.

In an interview in GoodWeekend magazine on January 21 he says of fear: It immobilises your body and stops your from performing at your best, so you have to learn to control it. Laughter is a great antidote. If you can look at your opponent and imagine they're an elephant or a rat and just start laughing your opponent might think you're mad, but the laughter will help get rid of the fear.

He also talks about competitiveness: ...There was one final when I was 12 - I was losing badly and behaving badly because I was angry with myself. My mother whispered to me as I changed ends, "Why don't you start playing tennis and stop feeling sorry for yourself?"

And Newcombe's motto for life is from Rudyard Kipling's poem If: "If you can meet Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same..."

The next event for The Hiss and me is the 2.2 km swim (the last in the Great Australian Swim Series) in Sydney Harbour on January 26, which is Australia Day. Please stop raining! Murky water means dirty sharky friendly water!

Port Stephens and Nelson Bay: Flying 11 National Regatta at Soldiers Point on Salamander Bay

2012-01-20T14:18:00.003+11:00

Nelson Bay/Port Stephens on the NSW mid-north coast is renowned for its beautiful beaches and the dolphins that inhabit its numerous bays all year round.

We're here for a sailing regatta, which sounds sophisticated and "my she was yar". The reality is different when you're on a budget and hauling a Flying 11 onto a box trailer for the three-hour drive from Sydney with a daughter, Miss Hissy, who has already bundled herself into the loser's corner before the race has begun.

Flying 11s at Soldiers Point on Salamander Bay

Then we're told our accommodation, which I'd rate as "noice", is at the bogan end of town. I don't take issue with that because I suspect my partner Spanner has bogan tendencies, as does Miss Hissy (aka The Hiss) who vomited on the lawn outside our holiday house last night after gorging herself on fish and chips. Ah, my life.

Nelson Bay is a huge resort town. It's built-up with lots of apartments and budget holiday accommodation. Hordes of Sydney and Newcastle retirees have moved up here to play out their twilight years so the town has a golf course and club, a West Diggers club that's gi-normous, a bowling club and its fair share of retirement villages.

Kitsch? Politically incorrect? Just plain bad taste? This home's front yard is neat as a pin and it's obvious the owners take great pride in it.

I must get a pic of the Croation Fisherman's Club for my swimming mate Miss Freeasabird who has thick Croation blood. Must be an established Croation community up here. I can see why*.

Even though Nelson Bay is, in many ways, suburban sprawl and at times I feel like I'm in a replica of so many Australian coastal towns that have sprung up without much thought given to infrastructure, aesthetics or the natural environment, the coast makes up for that. Also, there are corridors of green that include Tomaree National Park. The eucalyptus trees are magnificent and this must have been a heavenly place before the developers got a hold of it.

We're into the second-last day of the regatta and The Hiss is having a breakdown. Shouldn't amateur sport be more fun than this?

Fingal Bay. Look closely and you'll notice the tan line on Spanner's arm. Definitely bogan or defiantly iconoclastic?

*The water is turquoise and the bays are perfect for swimming, fishing and boating. I've never been to Croatia but I believe its coastline is breathtaking.

Avalon Beach 1.5 km Ocean Swim: a swim to remember for better and for worse

2012-01-15T23:06:00.010+11:00

What a day. What a swim.

Take a look at the WARNING DANGEROUS CURRENT sign, which depicts a neat icon of a swimmer in distress. Today I witnessed (easily) two dozen ocean swimmers assuming this pose (in a more animated and flexible fashion than the stick figure) as two surf lifesavers in a rubber ducky and about half a dozen others in the water with flotation devices successfully returned them to the beach.

The Babe Watch team raise money for breast cancer (I didn't say a thing!)

The swimmers in that wave (40-49-year-old males?) had been hammered by breakers rolling in holus-bolus at the northern end of Avalon Beach. I was in the last wave (read: OLDEST) to enter the water and my cohort was held up by the action in the ocean as swimmers too exhausted to make it beyond the relentless sets gave up the fight and raised their arms like white flags.

I wasn't about to surrender. I'd paid $35 and driven for almost an hour in the rain to Avalon on the northern beaches. And I was surrounded by old codgers who couldn't wait to battle it out with Mother Nature. If they could do it, so could I (after all, I'm almost old codgerette material myself but without the beer gut).

They had sized up the logical entry point to the surf, which was off to the left of the start line where there appeared to be less foam and a rip that might help them get out beyond the breakers. The race starter also gave tips on the best way out, though he warned against swimming too far to the left because of the rocks.

The ocean pool at Avalon. These cheeky grommets were jumping into the ocean at the far end of the pool. The surfers get out to the break this way, too

As I ran into the surf on the starter gun, I felt like a player on the losing team in a game of rugby league/American football. Every time I picked up the ball and moved forward, some huge bastard picked me up and pushed me backwards. I'd get back up and go through the whole process again. This happened more than a dozen times as I ducked under frothing wave after wave. It was shallow on the way out for at least 50 metres but I couldn't get a foothold as each wave dragged me into a trough. Finally, I got through it and out to the first can about 500 metres from the shore.

It's an incredible feeling to make it to the back of the break. Maybe heaven is like this. You run the gauntlet to get there and when you make it all is calm and peaceful. I had a lovely time on my clockwise journey south around four cans (I think).

Then I had to get back to the beach.

Maybe hell is like this. As I swam in, I was sure I was checking my back. Obviously not. A surf lifesaver screamed at me: "Hey lady, look out for the wave!" I turned and stared into the jaws of death as the lip of the wave snarled at me in a blind rage. I swear to the Great Divine that the monster wave was two metres-plus high (nothing to a big wave surfer, a lot to a small woman).

Just in the nick, I dived under and into the bloody cauldron. I was gobbled up and shaken like a cocktail. As I held my breath and observed the hectic swirl of bubbles, foam and sand before me I thought: "Remain calm and consider which way is up."

I'm lying. I really thought: "Shit, you stupid bitch. This is it. You're a Gary Goner."

Then the wave finished toying with me and I bobbed up for air. I was ready for the next one. Fortunately, it let me off the hook and I managed to make it in and up the beach.

My numbers might be a bit out but over 600 punters turned up for the swim and 525 finished.

I felt euphoric afterwards. I done good, I done well. Mmm... not that well. My time isn't worth sharing but that's not the point. Ocean swimming is like life. It has many challenges that often have to be met head on. Avalon was challenging but also fulfilling.

The next swim is at Mona Vale, also on the northern beaches. I might not make it to that one as I'm heading up the coast to see Miss Hissy sail in a national regatta. You never know...

PS: The first swimmer home was Josh Beard, in the 15-19 age group, in 15 minutes flat. The first woman was the phenomenal 49-year-old Christie Krenkels in 17 minutes and 33 seconds.

Addendum on January 17: Ocean swims http://oceanswims.blogspot.com/2012/01/little-boy-in-turbulent-sea-at-avalon.html#comment-form reports that there were 53 DNFs (Did Not Finish) at Avalon, which comprises 10 per cent of competitors.

North Bondi Roughwater Ocean Swim 2012: 1km and 2km - a small step forward for this woman

2012-01-08T16:57:00.002+11:00

Dead keen: 30-something blokes running for their lives!

I know this might be too much information, but my left ear keeps getting clogged with water and my ear wax smells like Vegemite. Spanner says only someone with issues sniffs ear wax. He refuses to analyse the strange secretion leaking from my ear. No, I don't lick Vegemite off my fingers and then stick them in my left ear. I don't even know how I came to realise my ear stuff had a scent, of sorts.

Another useless fact is that before an organised ocean swimming event I go to the bathroom at least eight times. Today before the North Bondi Roughwater Ocean Swim I was up at 4am. Unbelievable. It's getting worse.

To the swim. I arrived at 8.30am to witness very different conditions from yesterday when the surf was pumping. Today it was all pumped out - flat swimming pool conditions.

This influenced my decision to go in the 1km and 2km swims, which start from North Bondi. I've never done both before.

The water temperature was perfect at around 20 degrees Celcius and the day was overcast - sunburn conditions which catch out fair-skinned tourists from England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. I lathered my old leather handbag flesh with SPF30. I know it's too late for me and that I'll never have beautiful young skin again but I don't want to look like some old worn-out shoe when I'm 70. I don't dig the QLD Gold Coast/Brazilian/Florida look for women of a certain age.

During the 1km swim I tried to take it easy but it was hard to pace myself. My 'easy' is slow and I didn't want a lousy time. During the swim I and the other couple of hundred swimmers encountered thousands of small jelly blubbers. I pierced their gelatinous bodies with my fingers and felt them break apart. I saw fish, too. At the end of the swim a woman around my age told me she'd paced herself against me but I'd just nabbed her at the finish. I didn't even notice her during the swim!

The 2km was a slog. I'd dumped a lot of engine fuel in the 1km and didn't have a lot left (SERVES ME RIGHT). The swim course started on the beach in front of the surf club and ran south across 'Bondi Bay' and out to Mackenzies Point. I was fine up to the Point. Then I started to flag and bloody Mr Very Big cruised past me again like a friggin' Kluger 4WD overtakes a Mitsubishi Magna Executive. I'm getting sick of him. Any chance he can be put on a boat BACK to Ireland?

Afterwards Mr Very Big told me he was singin' and relaxin' and lookin' up at the helicopter and down at the fishies. He gave me some advice about my stroke, too. He was right, of course. I'd lost the plot and my stroke was short and lacked a "cadence".

However, I did have one small triumph. I finished third in my age group in the 1km swim, something Mr VB will have trouble achieving as there are too many blokes on the ocean swims circuit. Men love to swim and win. Not so much the older sheilas (though as I've told you before, there are some amazing women in my age group who are up there with the young guns - male and female). I won a $20 Running Bare fashion gift voucher.

Boardies? Mate, are you for real?

I was thrilled but I won't be popping open the Bollinger just yet. Tomorrow it's back to the pool as I continue my quest to swim smarter faster.

The day before the North Bondi Ocean Swim: my weakness is the ins and outs

2012-01-07T17:31:00.001+11:00

Tomorrow is the first of several swims at Bondi this season. Sunday's is run by the North Bondi Surf Life Saving Club. I'm pretty nervous because I don't want to bomb out with a lousy time. I also registered for both the 1and 2km swims but already I'm considering pulling out of the 1km. I'm not sure I've got the stamina to do both. I want a good time for the 2km.

This morning I was down at North Bondi for squad, which had a record turn-out. Seems everyone is swimming tomorrow. The weather was beautiful and when I arrived nice and early the beach was already comfortably crowded.

The CanToo swimmers, who raise money for cancer research, were out in force.Then there was Mr Mean's squad of around 50 pumped swimmers, average age 25. I don't have a chance. Even the old codgers in the squad are fast but it gives me the Jimmy Brits that Mr Mean still shoves me in with the slow swimmers when I'm only finishing around two minutes behind Mr Very Big so far this ocean swims season*. That's my gripe and I won't say anything more about it. Let's just hope IT will give me the impetus to rage through the surf tomorrow.

This morning's squad was unrelenting. Lots of swimming in and out. That's where I lose precious seconds. I'm not fast enough or strong enough to plough through the sets on the way out. The squad gets away from me and then I spend time playing catch-up.

And on the way back in today I didn't choose the best routes. On one occasion I'd decided where I was going to come in but changed my mind when I saw the other swimmers head in another direction. I followed them and that turned out to be a big mistake. When I get around to writing my top 10 tips for ocean swimming DO NOT FOLLOW will be up there.

The 1km starts at 9.15am and the 2km at 10.30am. Send out good vibes for me!

*Teacher's pet

''Swimmers are in the way, not on the menu"

2012-01-06T14:58:00.003+11:00

Sharks swimming not in Sydney but the Bahamas: http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photos/best-pod-september-2011/

It's windy and overcast in Sydney.

I got up at 4.30am, looked out the window, turned off my alarm and went back to bed. Some days I can't reach my body switch to flip it back on. This morning the ol' mortal coil groaned and wimpered: "I have suffered enough, let me sleep bitch."

I caved in and missed squad at Bondi.

I'm naughty because I really should be working out for the weekend - this Sunday North Bondi hosts The Roughwater 1km and 2km swims. A lot of punters do both but I'm not sure I'm ready for 3km.

In the meantime, I thought you might be interested in this article from The Sydney Morning Herald, which discusses the misleading use of the term 'shark attack'. The experts interviewed for the story claim us humans are of little interest to sharks for a variety of reasons including our low nutrition rating! Also explored is the concept of the 'rogue shark' made popular by the film Jaws.

One of the experts quoted in the story has tagged bull sharks. She said last year on Australia Day (January 26) when the harbour was choccas with pleasure craft, swimmers and an organised swim off the Sydney Opera House steps, there were seven bullies roaming around the harbour. It's a little off-putting but they are out there.

I noticed Jaws is on Channel 7 on Tuesday night and rated as a 'Thriller' (Jaws 3 is on Saturday at 11.10pm - it's rated as 'Horror').

Here's the link to the SMH story:

http://www.smh.com.au/environment/conservation/shark-attack-term-misleads-people--expert-20120104-1pl8b.html

Think of it this way: it's not an 'attack', rather just a 'bite'.

Bondi Beach can be bliss: swim squad at dawn

2012-01-04T19:35:00.002+11:00

Any beach is beautiful at dawn but Bondi is extra 'spesh' because after the sun is up there's usually no peace for this slice of paradise.

Today I arrived well before swim squad started at 6am (check post from December 21, 2011, to find out what happens to those who arrive late) and soaked up the soft focus on a new day.

There was no surf - flat as - and I reckon that's because poor old Bondi is still recovering from New Year's Day when hordes of hungover Irish, Pommy, Dutch and Scandinavian backpackers collapse onto its golden sands and fry themselves into carcinogenic chips (the South Americans head north to Manly to play beach volleyball).

Dunno where the Americans go, though I suppose there's not many here because of the Australia/US currency rates (apologies to US readers of this blog but would you visit Australia when the Aussie dollar is so strong?* No bloody way. This is why there's so many bloody Australians over in the States. You must be really sick of us. We're everywhere, like a virus)

Back on topic... squad was wonderful. Chief coach Mr Mean was absent but his lovely girlfriend took the slower swimmers, myself included, on a swim from North Bondi to the Bondi club and back. We also did a lot of 'lifting and looking', which I'll talk about in my next post.

Speak soon.

*I visited the USA on several occasions when the Australian dollar sucked so I suppose it shouldn't make much difference.

Bondi on New Year's Day 2012

Newport Beach Pool to Peak 2km Ocean Swim 2012: I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya

2012-01-03T11:34:00.001+11:00

Newport is one of Sydney's glorious northern beaches

About halfway through the Newport ocean swim I wondered if I should have downed 2.5 glasses of champers (a nice Australian drop from Chandon) the night before. At the time I thought nothing of it. In fact, I thought nothing.

How cool is this? A post-swim massage with an unbeatable view

Silly me. The middle of an ocean swim with a healthy dose of chop is no place for regrets. After seeing my Irish swimming mate Mr Very Big amble past me with a grin across his smug mug, I was motivated to carry on.

A further psychological boost came from a swimmer in my age group, who I noticed just before the last of the eight cans that marked the anti-clockwise course. She was starting to inch ahead, which usually wouldn't worry me. But yesterday I thought, 'No way chicky babe. One way or another I'm gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya."

And I did. Just as we were coming in, I powered up and tried to catch every available wave. I didn't have a great deal of success but still managed to get ahead of her to run up the beach to the cheers of Miss Hissy and her friend and Mr Very Big and his family who'd come to the beach to celebrate his birthday.

I was pretty chuffed even though my time wasn't amazing and I'm at least 10 minutes behind the fastest swimmer in my cohort (this is why I never post my times!).

It was a brilliant day. The sun is finally here to stay in ol' Sydney town, which can be a mixed blessing.

I'm loving summer.

Boxes of fresh fruit for placegetters. One day...

New Year's Eve in Balmain in Sydney: a brilliant welcome to 2012

2012-01-01T11:44:00.005+11:00

Spanner has a smart bastard of a brother* who lives on the water in Balmain in Sydney's inner west with an uninterrupted view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Where else would you want to be on New Year's Eve, unless you're friendly with someone who lives in the eastern suburbs who has a view that includes the Sydney Opera House**.

Spanner, The Hiss and I parked the car in the nearby suburb of Rozelle and caught a bus into the heart of Balmain. If you don't know it, the peninsula suburb of Balmain is one of the city's more appealing suburbs because of its low-rise village atmosphere. Spanner doesn't like it because he reckons it's too higgledy-piggledy and congested. But that's Spanner. I love it and lived there in several other lifetimes.

Darling Street is the main road in and out. When you reach the bottom of Darling Street, you've hit Sydney Harbour. People stream into Balmain for the New Year's Eve fireworks because there's parks along the water so the view is bloody beautiful.

There's two lots of fireworks - at 9pm for the families and at midnight for those revellers who want to see in the New Year with a bang. It's been a long time since I've hung around for the midnight fireworks but this year I was determined. Spanner left after the 9pm show. Woo hoo Spanner. Life of the party.

The Hiss and I stayed and rocked on to an excellent covers band The Hippie Hoppies (? I can't find them on Google) whose members looked like they'd been dragged over gravel and tossed around in a cement mixer for 25 years. Appearances can be deceptive. They played in Spanner's brother's yard, which is a lawn the size of a postage stamp (dunno how it didn't get flooded with the recent king tides). The band's note-perfect sets took me back (way too far). The Hiss and I danced the night away to the Doobie Brothers, Creedence, InXs, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Police, The Beatles, T-Rex, Van Morrison and more.

I can't even begin to describe the fireworks, especially the midnight extravaganza where the bridge was ablaze with pyrotechnics for much of the time. Breathtaking. Gasp. Wow. Ooooo. Aaaaaaah. Woo hoo. Gobsmacked.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO YOU ALL

* I am still working out my New Year's resolutions as I didn't have one last year and I do feel a list is worthwhile (even if it ends up as a list of failed promises). On my list will be the usual - do not be jealous of other people and their good fortune (or something like that).

** I will also endeavour to be happy with what I've got (or something similar).

I bet you can't wait to read my list! Mmm... must not be self loathing and arrogant simultaneously.

PS: Would you believe it's a stinker in Sydney today? This is the first real summer day for at least a month. Tomorrow I'm doing Newport swim so I'll post on that.

PPS: I'd like to thank all the regular readers of this blog. It's a small world. I wish you all the very best for 2012. Let's put it out there!

Swim squad at Clovelly and the countdown is on to New Year's Eve

2011-12-30T21:13:00.003+11:00

I'm not sure it's a good idea to reflect on a year of shallow breathing and general breath holding.

The most important thing is that the sun rose this morning and right now it's shining through my window. Wow. I can even hear cicadas.

For the past two nights The Hiss and I have swum at Clovelly with squad. Our coach, the inimitable Mr Mean, is on a holiday somewhere and no doubt causing a squall wherever he goes. God bless him.

Our coach this week is the very young Mr Crack-a-Laugh. He finds it hard to lighten up and when he turns nasty he is criticised for attempting to channel Mr Mean. There's only one Mr Mean so Mr Crack-a-Laugh has a tough challenge ahead to develop his own coaching style.

No worries though. It's been fun. We ducked and dived and mingled with the fishies at low tide (6.30pm), grazing our bodies and fingers along the rocks in the shallows as we sprinted out to the lone white can at the deep end. Take a look at the pics, which should give you an idea of Clovelly's geography. I described it in a recent post but basically it's a long channel that meets the ocean. It's generally a safe beach though when the swell rolls in, it is funnelled back out like someone sucking the last drops of a milkshake through a straw. Getting out at high tide can be a challenge, which is why there are handrails drilled into the walls near the four sets of stairs on either side of the beach.

Hopefully I'll get to post on New Year's Eve after I do squad at Bondi tomorrow morning. See you soon. Sort of.

Sydney to Hobart 2011: the madness of Christmas and the rush to 2012

2011-12-27T21:56:00.002+11:00

How beautiful is this: playground of the rich - accessible to all

Arrrgggghhh. Christmas has already come and gone and I don't know which way is up (not good when you've just been dumped by a wave).

Traditionally, Boxing Day in Sydney is spent watching the Cricket Test Match (at the MCG - Australia versus India) or the start of the Sydney to Hobart yacht race.

In our house, it's always the latter so Spanner, Miss Hissy and I rocked up to Watson's Bay at 9.30am - the race didn't start until 1pm so I had time for a swim before we found a comfy spot close to the cliff edge (you're not allowed to get too close anymore because of all the stupid OHS rules) to observe the 88 boats cruise through the heads accompanied by a huge flotilla of spectator craft and helicopters manned by the media.

I'm writing this at 9.30pm on December 27, which is about 12 hours or so (?) before the maxi yacht Wild Oats XI cruises into the harbour in Hobart, Tasmania to take line honours (as usual)*. Enjoy these happy snaps that capture the beauty of Sydney Harbour on a humid day when the Southerly blew in to make it more challenging for the competitors heading down south:

*amendment: as I write (at 8.15am on December 28) the other maxi-yacht Loyal is also in the running for first across the line. Update on December 29: http://www.smh.com.au/sport/protest-knocks-wind-out-of-winners-sails-20111228-1pcz9.html


The Hiss and Spanner found the best spot to watch the yachts sail through Sydney Heads but later on two German girls came and plonked themselves right in front of us. You can't be mean to tourists so I just scowled and tried to make them feel uncomfortable. It didn't work.

Wild Oats XI has the Channel 7 logo on its mainsail while Loyal has a zebra

Clovelly at dawn: embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty

2011-12-23T21:57:00.003+11:00

Clovelly at dawn: concrete meets open ocean

My android-phone alarm rings at 5am and I stumble out of bed. It rained throughout the night and I wonder if the water at Clovelly Beach in Sydney's eastern suburbs is polluted from the run-off. It's gloomy outside and I wish I could return to bed, but I promised to pick up Miss Freeasabird on the way to squad training so there's no way out.

We arrive at Clovelly well before squad starts (see my last post to find out the consequences for latecomers).

Dawn opens her arms wide and draws us into her silvery light and I'm glad I made the journey. Miss Freeasabird and I marvel at the beauty of Clovelly, which is sort of like an open-ended ocean swimming pool. It has a narrow beach that runs into an ocean 'channel' bordered by concrete for sunbathers to bask upon. The amazing thing about Clovelly is that its reef and accompanying sealife have survived, even though it is a hugely popular destination for swimmers and snorkellers. Families like it because it is calm compared to the neighbouring surf beaches of Bronte and Tamarama.

Clovelly: It's not as calm as it looks

Our coach Mr Mean turns up just before 6am and appears to be in a 'good place'. Later on during squad training he orders half the squad (me included) to do 100 strokes of butterfly after we fail to follow his instructions.

I don't mind. It's a beautiful day and the fish are just starting to wake up as the 15 squad members splash above them. Mr Mean gives us lots of fun things to do. For example, we swim out to a small, round white buoy that is close to where the concrete ends and the open ocean starts. Then we hold our breaths and dive down as far as we can. I'm not good with numbers but it's easily 10 metres to the ocean floor. We're meant to touch the bottom but there's no way I can get there.*

It's one of those days where I feel like I can swim forever (but maybe that has something to do with all the asthma drugs I pump into my lungs).

In many parts of the world, Christmas is celebrated on Sunday. Merry Christmas or (if Christmas isn't your thing) happy holiday.

My gift to you is a quote from scientist and philosopher Albert Einstein:

A human being is part of the whole called by us a 'Universe': a part limited in time and space. He experiences him or herself, his or her thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires, and to our affection for a few persons nearest to us.

Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

*Everyone else in the squad sees a really big groper. Of course, I miss it. Story of my life.

Looking towards the beach

Swim Squad at Bondi Beach at dawn

2011-12-21T11:25:00.001+11:00

Squad is being held at the beach over the Christmas holidays, which means I have to get up extra early to make it by 6am several days a week.

Fortunately I woke up before the alarm, which was set for 5.15am. This was not good for Spanner, who groaned his disapproval and rolled over. (Spanner's attitude to the early mornings may prove to be a problem over the break so I'll have to figure a way to butter him up)

Mistake #1: Because I have BIG issues with time I didn't realise it would take more than 10 minutes to get from my house to where my swim-squad mate Miss Freeasabird waited at a bus stop en-route.

Mistake #2: She leapt into the car and we tooled it down to Bondi but I decided to park a couple of blocks away from the beach.

Mistake #3: We arrived at 6am - on the bloody dot. I then made a 30-second detour to the toilet block, which was locked.

By then it was too late. Numero Uno Supremo Swimming Squad Coach, Mr Mean, was taking no prisoners. "You're late. Get out. You won't be swimming with us today."*

I looked at the digital clock affixed to the wall of the surf life saving club. It was still on 6am but Mr Mean didn't care. I was out. I was the example - this is what happens to those who arrive late to squad.

I made one attempt to get back in. "I tried to go to the loo but it was shut," I said, failing to keep that awful, crawly pleading tone out of my voice.

Mr Mean waved me away with a dismissive hand. The rest of the squad did what groups of human beings do when one of their own is being publicly humiliated by a head honcho. They suddenly found somewhere else to look. I didn't exist for them. I was no longer a group member. They were thinking: "Better her than me."

I wasn't upset because, as I've mentioned in a past post, Mr Mean has every right to be cranky when people are late. Because he's responsible for squad members, if they turn up late and wander into the surf without him being aware of it he could get into trouble if things go awry.

I swallowed my foolish pride and decided to walk along the beach, take a dip and meet up afterwards with Miss Freeasabird (who also got a talking-to but wasn't ostracised).

Fifteen minutes later, as I strolled back up the beach, I heard my name being called. Mr Mean is a bit of a softy and I reckon he saw my forlorn figure and took pity. I was allowed back into squad.

I know this story might sound pathetic to some but it's all a bit of fun as far as I'm concerned. What would life be like without people like Mr Mean (who isn't really mean at all)?

The rest of the session was wonderful. The water was warm at around 21 degrees (my guess), there was a reasonable surf and a strong north-running current. We swam out through the break and I looked around me. At that moment the sun came out and its rays coated the beach in a golden hue.

The water was clear and sand whiting (I could be guessing but it was milky white and on the sand!) were foraging for bits and pieces as we ploughed our way in and out trying to catch waves on the way in.

I hope you enjoy the pics I snapped during my 'warm-up' walk.

PS: I've found another good website for beach conditions. It's http://www.environment.nsw.gov.au/beachapp/OceanBulletin.aspx

*This isn't verbatim but it's close enough.

Manly LSC Blue Dolphins Swim: a shark sighting but no sign of Leonardo DiCaprio or Bill Gates

2011-12-19T10:38:00.004+11:00

Manly Beach

After a week of big surf and on-again off-again rain, the Great Spirit in the Sky took a flexi on Sunday. The surf was relatively flat and the sun crept tentatively out from behind its grey blanket and managed to warm the sand underfoot.

Miss Hissy accompanied me to the Northern Beaches for the Manly LSC Blue Dolphins Swim. I did this swim early in 2011 but the club has moved the date to December to avoid doubling up with other ocean-swimming events during the height of the season.

Manly has got the goods which would be one of the reasons why Fairfax Media latched onto the Cole Classic, held in Manly on the first Sunday in February.

It's a stunning location and the swim follows a course that takes punters over the most beautiful ocean 'terrain'.

While the Cole costs $52 for earlybird entries and now starts on the calm foreshore of Shelly Beach (because the organisers had to take into account novice swimmers) the LSC Blue Dolphins Swim costs $25 and begins on the surf beach in front of the steps that lead to the shopping precinct, The Corso.

After Miss Hissy ran into the surf with her cohort - Under 20s - I sized up the conditions and decided the swim would be 'easy peasy'. That was before my goggles got knocked off because I failed to notice a wave coming in as I was swimming out. Initially I thought I'd lost my goggles and contemplated retiring early. I then decided to swim without them. "I am a legend." But that feeling didn't last long - I discovered my goggles sitting around my neck. "I am a goose."

This was time wasted and my cohort - the old and infirm - were but a blur in the distance. I adjusted my goggles, gritted my teeth and did what every trooper does - forged ahead with a heavy yet determined heart.

It was 600 metres to the first can, then I chucked a right and cruised* into the picture-perfect Shelly Beach before heading back to South Steyne via Cabbage Tree Bay.

During the swim I saw schools of fish pottering over the reef and scuba divers lounging underneath me, their bubbles tickling my skin. Afterwards one of my swimming mates said he saw a 'shadow' glide under him, and it wasn't a scuba diver. The area is a nursery for the the dusky whaler shark and there have been sightings of up to 14 babies at once, each about a metre long. Port Jackson sharks, wobbegongs and hammerheads have also been spotted in this marine life reserve.

The 1 km swim started at Shelly Beach and finished at South Steyne

Here's a link to a YouTube video where sharks scoot below unsuspecting participants in the 2011 Cole Classic as the swimmers head around the can at Cabbage Tree Bay. If you can't be bothered with the whole 4.38 minutes, the sharks make an appearance just before the 3-minute mark. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_pOb-4LmAM

There are no more organised swims before Christmas but there is some training at the beach. I'll keep you posted. Have a good week.

*I like to make it sound easy. I was swimming my little bum off in order to catch up to my peers.

(AN ASIDE: I'M SITTING HERE AT MY DESK, HAVING JUST RETURNED FROM WALKING LE CHIEN UNDER A LEADEN SKY, AND IT'S STARTED TO RAIN. THIS UNSEASONAL WEATHER IS DRIVING SYDNEYSIDERS MAD. ACCORDING TO THE WEATHER BUREAU, IT HASN'T BEEN THIS 'BLAH' SINCE 1960. I LOVE THE RAIN BUT A FEW DAYS OF SUN WOULDN'T GO ASTRAY, EVEN IF JUST TO IMPRESS LEONARDO DICAPRIO AND BILL GATES AND FAMILY WHO ARE VISITING SYDNEY, THE FORMER FOR THE GREAT GATSBY AND THE LATTER FOR A HOLIDAY)

Check it out: sites for surf, sun and ocean swimming

2011-12-14T13:22:00.003+11:00

Will the rain ever stop? Find out by visiting a weather website

I'd love to live within walking distance of a beach in Sydney.

Fancy waking up every day and strolling down to the beach for a swim before work. I envy the lucky buggers who can do it.

For me the beach is, on a good traffic day, a 40 minute drive with the eastern suburbs and northern beaches being a similar distance (maybe east is a bit closer, say, 30 minutes sans traffic).

If I plan to do an ocean swim, I like to check out the conditions via my friend Mrs Loveachat, who lives near the beach at Mona Vale on the 'insular peninsular'*. But Mrs Loveachat doesn't have a handle on what's happening at the other beaches so I check out websites to help me gain an overview.

I thought you might like the links to a couple of the useful sites I've discovered since I started ocean swimming. My daughter The Hiss and partner Spanner love to sail and they introduced me to http://www.seabreeze.com.au/

Seabreeze started out as a resource for kiteboarders down in Victoria but has expanded so it now gives weather statistics nationally. I use the seven day wind and wave forecast to keep an eye on wave height.

Another great site is http://www.willyweather.com.au/nsw.html

There's lots to look at on this site. Willy Weather gets stuff from the Bureau of Meteorology and features radar, satellite and synoptic charts (exciting).

Oh dear, Willy Weather predicts rain for the rest of the week and over the weekend. What is going on in Sydney? It's madness. We should be complaining about the sweltering heat. Instead, we're all wearing jumpers and carrying brollies.

I'M OVER IT. I WANT TO WHINGE ABOUT THE ENERVATING HEAT AND LIE IN BED AT NIGHT WITH A TRILLION MOSQUITOES BUZZING AROUND MY EARLOBES. I HAVE ONLY SEEN TWO FLIES SO FAR THIS SUMMER. IT'S NOT NATURAL. IT'S UN-ORSTRAILEEAN.

The other site I love is http://www.coastalwatch.com/

Coastalwatch is designed specifically for surfers but anyone involved in water sports will find it informative. I love the surfcams so I can see what's happening in real time at beaches across Australia. I use it to check out beaches from Bondi to Palmy. I can even look at Sydney Harbour. Have a squizz: http://www.coastalwatch.com/camera/cameras_large.aspx?cam=3700&state=NSW&t=11:34:12%20AM&camName=Sydney%20Harbour How cool is that? The surf reports are written by enthusiasts who obviously have insider information.

Finally, where would I be without http://www.oceanswims.com/

This is where I head for all the news and gossip on ocean swims locally, nationally and overseas. It's an excellent resource, created by one of those boofy blokes you often see on the beach who was baptised in salt water and can read the ocean at a glance.

There's a swim at Manly this Sunday. I might see you there though Christmas has caught me by surprise and I still have lots to do before December 25.

*Simple explanation of a blinkered mindset: Like 'The Shire' down south, the 'insular peninsular' up north is named so because its inhabitants tend to view their slice of heaven as being superior to the rest of Sydney. It's parochialism on a micro scale. Could that then be parochialism within parochialism? It devolves into itself... hey, I could do a PhD on this topic and rant on for 80,000 words about life in the 'burbs. I take no responsibility for this opinion. This is how it is.

Bilgola Ocean Swim 2012: a Northern Beaches gem

2011-12-11T18:47:00.001+11:00

Will I? Won't I? Will I? Won't I? Will I do the Bilgola ocean swim?

Sometimes I do my own head in.

The problem was the prediction for a big surf on Sunday. I don't like big surf. It's scary. I've been dumped, smashed and mashed by dumpers more times than I care to remember. I've also been creamed at Bilgola, which is the reason for the tedious procrastination.

The 1.5 km Bilgola swim starts at 11am. At 8.30 I made up my mind, dragged Miss Hissy into the car and hooned it up the highway to the Northern Beaches. My friend Mrs Loveachat lives at Mona Vale, so we stopped at her place and chucked her in the car. When we arrived at Bilgola we bumped into my friends Mr and Mrs Snorkel. It's always good to have a cheer squad to boost the ego when you stagger across the finish line.

By the way, it was a beautiful day - you can see that from the photos. The surf was up but not as gnarly as I thought it would be so I forked out the $30 late registration fee and joined the other mug punters on the sand at the starting line.

Bilgola is one of my favourite Sydney beaches. It's a sheet of golden sand tucked in between two headlands at the bottom of a narrow winding road, where a small number of luxurious residences nestle in the bushland. A secret hideaway.

At its southern end is an ocean pool where the less adventurous can doddle or do laps. If the surf's up the waves crash over the concrete barrier and flow into the pool. I'm sighing as I think of it. Sublime.

The swim's start and finish was towards the northern end of the beach. The course was clearly marked with cylindrical orange buoys (the best type). Two of these each had a balloon attached so the swimmers had a good guide.

I was in the last wave to enter the water. We were lucky because there was a lull in the sets coming through - the wave of swimmers before us copped some big ones. I made it out to the first buoy much quicker than I expected. The rest of the swim was a delight. It was so different from the conditions in last Sunday's Bondi to Bronte. I managed to get a rhythm going with my stroke as there was no unruly swell to hinder me. Getting back in was harder and I did a naughty thing by ducking back under a wave rather than trying to catch it.

The Hiss, the Snorkels and Mrs Loveachat clapped and shouted as I ran (if that's the word for it) up the beach.

About 45 minutes later the Southerly came in and the weather turned nasty. This is happening a lot in Sydney - sun-drenched mornings followed by rain-soaked afternoons. The Hiss and I drove home in a storm, shuddering every time lightning blitzed the sky.

A letter from Paris

2011-12-09T17:21:00.007+11:00

It's not really a letter but a series of text messages from my daughter Precious Princess (PP) who has spread her wings and flown to Europe - with China South Air (that's another story).

The word 'letter' sounds way more exotic and adventurous than 'text' or 'SMS'.

It's hard being here in Sydney* and contemplating yet another weekend of rain and rough surf conditions while PP is having a ball on the other side of the world.

She has constantly updated me on her activities since she left the country on Monday - something she never does in Sydney when I'm worried sick because she's failed to respond to my neurotic text messages (Where are you?) sent at one-minute intervals until she replies - with a smiley face.

My mum recently gave me a wad of letters I wrote to her and Dad on my first trip abroad. That was in the dark ages when the only way of keeping in touch with family back home was to make a reverse-charges call on a payphone and to send an aerogram.

Now I know exactly where PP is as the messages flow in on a daily basis. I love it. I guess the only problem is that text messages are brief and temporary. Unless I can print them out, the messages are gone - hit the delete button and the conversation is forgotten.

In a total act of self indulgence I've decided to publish some of the text exchanges between PP and moi. She and her boyfriend are in the City of Lights.Paris. Here's part of our exchange (including PP's overuse of exclamation marks):

PP: At Gare du Nord train station! Peak hour so insanely busy and we are walking on the left and everyone is walking on the right!

Me: Love you. Have an amazing day.

PP: In the Louvre right now! Saw Mona Lisa and walked through Napoleon III's amazing amazing house, all the ceilings were made of gold and detailed. We've been hiring bikes and riding around the city and our apartment is in this little Parisian courtyard and a walk away from the Notre Dame (which we climbed to the top of yesterday). Having a great time and eating great food.

Me: Screaming going on here as Miss Hissy prepares for science fair. Dog depressed. It's raining. Have you gone to Disneyland yet? Are the French being nice to you?

PP: Going to Disneyland today! It is 5am but we can't sleep, too excited and jetlagged. And last night we walked all the way along the Champs Elysees and it was all lit up and Christmas markets all the way down! I'm so glad we came in winter, it's so beautiful and everyone is so fashionable. I think the dog needs a holiday, I know these things burden her.

PP: French people are so nice, most speak English and are so helpful. Most of them also know we are English even before we say anything in English. Our accents must be terrible.

Me: Wow. Jealousy.

PP: Disneyland is the happiest place in the world!!! So so impressed, everything in such detail and so magical!!!

Those exclamation marks are killing me. I'll keep you posted on PP's progress through Europe**.

Briefly back to swimming Bilgola swim this Sunday but the weather is looking 'iffy' and the surf could be really big - 2 metres is huge to someone like me who stands at 165 centimetres on a tall day.

My friend who lives up that way on the Northern Beaches, Mrs Loveachat, says she'll check out the conditions for me tomorrow and early Sunday morning.

*It's really not that hard. I can think of worse places to be - having just gorged myself on a mango and a banana.

**Note to Tim: Hi Tim. Thanks for reading my blog and making me feel almost famous. Please keep this a secret from PP or she won't send me any more text messages.

Bondi to Bronte ocean swim 2011: a bugger of a swim but worth it in the end

2011-12-04T16:15:00.006+11:00

If the day had started the way it ended I wouldn't have done the Bondi to Bronte swim. But this morning the sun was out and the surf was, according to www.seabreeze.com.au .8 of a metre. I thought, 'I can do this.'

Before: Bondi around 8.30am

I arrived early at Bondi - that's the trick to getting a parking spot. The wind was already blowing in at 8am and the surf was mimimal. I think it's kind of cute that even when there's barely a wave, the boys on their boards are already out there... wishin' and hopin' for the curly ones to arrive. Hope springs eternal for the old farts with their long boards (because at that age, size does matter).

I'm going off topic! The water temperature was supposedly 18.2 degrees. I'll get back to that later.

With the swim scheduled to start at 9.30, I was worried the Southerly buster was going to kick in with a vengeance and shove up the wave height. That turned out not to be so much of an issue compared to the challenging conditions it caused out the back of the break.

Bronte after the swim

The swim started slap-bang in the middle of Bondi Beach and we headed towards New Zealand before taking a sharp right at Mackenzie's Point.

Bear with me as I indulge in a stream of consciousness in order to sum up the swim: up and down and up and back down and up again swallow some ocean and swallow some more and someone's kicked me and I hate this no I love it but how can I when I'm drowning I'm tired I'm cold yo ho heave ho and up the swell we go and now we slide back down again yo ho heave swallow more water ho...

Once I made it to Mackenzie's I turned right with the mob and travelled south past Mackenzie's Bay (apparently, it's a nice place to take your dog and have a dip when the conditions are mild) and then past the notorious Tamarama Beach. I didn't see a whole lot of beach action because I breathe to the left. I tried to breathe right but I'm useless at it.

Coming into Bronte, I followed the stream of coloured caps and swam over a few people and had a few swim over me. I accidentally clipped some bloke in a black cap (I think black means 'fast wanker') who was swimming aggressively - a man thing. I didn't mean to hit him but he just charged over me like I wasn't there. That's ocean swimming and I guess you've got to cop the biff occasionally.

I got into the beach okay but I was pretty stuffed as I ran up the sand. There was lots of aluminium foil being wrapped around some of those swimmers who couldn't manage the cooler water temperatures.

Coming in at Bronte: can you see the aluminium?

By the time I found my bag among the thousands of others that had been transported from Bondi and dumped on the grass in a big disorderly heap at Bronte, I was bloody freezing. The weather had turned nasty and I felt sorry for the swimmers still coming in.

An ambulance, siren blaring, was wending its way towards Bronte as I walked back towards Bondi. I suspect it was going to pick up some poor person with a severe case of hypothermia.

Did I enjoy this swim? There were moments of absolute joy before I got sick and tired in the swell. No matter. On a perfect day the Bondi to Bronte swim is a beautiful journey along a magnificent coastline (even though I didn't get to see much of it). I was out in the open ocean, swimming in cool clear water to a different destination. I don't think you can ask for anything more.

PS: My guts are full of ocean. Not a good feeling.
PPS: My mum just called and said it is the coldest day in Sydney in December in more than 40 years. The thermometer here at home puts it at 16 degrees. You call this summer?

After: Bondi at lunchtime. Brrr...

Jelly blubbers, vibrant green weed and a slap in the face: a swim around Wedding Cake Island at Coogee

2011-11-28T12:03:00.006+11:00

It rained all week. The downpour started after the Dawny swim at Balmain on Sunday November 20 and continued unabated for six days. I kid you not. Then, after a torrential onslaught on Saturday morning, it stopped. The sun shone, the clouds evaporated and it was like it had never rained at all. Hallelujah.

Sunday morning was blue and blustery. My swimming partner Davo and I drove to Coogee in the eastern suburbs and spent 20 minutes looking for a parking spot. It's a fact of life in Sydney, especially near the beach. Everyone drives and everyone feels entitled to a parking space right next to the beach.

If you let 'em, they'd park on the bloody sand just like they do in those crappy Toyota ads that are trying to sell the concept of freedom to well-off Gen Xers who like to pop those horrid 'this is my family' stickers on the rear window of their 4WDs (for the millions of readers in the USA, I'm referring to SUVs). I'm ranting and raving because I'm a woman of a certain age. BACK TO THE SWIM.

Davo and I found a parking space about 1 kilometre from the action. We walked down a steep hill to the beach, which was decked out for the 1 km and 2.4 km swims. When we arrived the 1 km swim had started and the first finisher was almost across the line.

The sun was fierce and I could feel my skin begging for lotion and a shady place. After a warm-up in 18-degree water (though one bloke I was talking to reckoned it was more like 17 degrees), I was ready. The conditions were reasonable but we were told it was choppy out the back of Wedding Cake Island, which is why the support crew on their kayaks were sent out there to keep swimmers well clear of the rocks.

If you know Coogee, you'll be familiar with Wedding Cake Island; in simple terms it's a big lump of rocks/reef (about 15 metres long and 400 metres wide) that juts out of the ocean about one kilometre from the beach. Check it out at this scuba-diving website: http://www.michaelmcfadyenscuba.info/viewpage.php?page_id=34

The first wave of swimmers headed off and drifted to the left on a north-running current. My tactics for this swim were the same as for Dawny: 1. don't stop 2. try not to spend too much time looking up 3. maintain a race pace (I failed at this one).

It was a pleasant trek past the first three pointy pink cans. My goggles half filled and I thought, 'bugger it'. It would have been too easy to stop and empty them. I guessed they'd probably just fill again and I'd get cranky and neurotic. The salt water in my eyes was manageable.

Getting around the back of the island was difficult. The chop was full-on and slapped me around, so there was no point trying to maintain a rhythm. I wasn't sure where I was and did what one shouldn't do in ocean swimming - I followed the pack.

I almost forgot to mention the jelly blubbers hanging around the back. Though my vision was limited, I could see thousands of them just like in Finding Nemo. Unlike the nasties in the movie, they were about the size of a golf ball, translucent and non-stinging. I sloshed through them and even pierced one with my finger. Some people don't enjoy swimming through blubbers but I like the soft gelatinous feel of them against my skin.

Another swim highlight was the reef. Because the water was clear as a bell I could see the rocky ocean floor peppered with lime-green weed contrasted against mauve soft corals. There were lots of fishies, too.

Once I got around the island I thought all my troubles would be over but it was still a long way to the finish line on the beach and the chop was rougher than Saturday night at the Coogee Bay Hotel.

I couldn't see the big cylindrical orange can - the last marker into the beach. Again, I followed the other swimmers. Then I spotted a bloke who was easily 15 years older than me (maybe not - must look at results!). He seemed to know what he was doing and kept looking up to check the direction. I fell in just behind him and followed him home. A bad move? Maybe, maybe not. All of a sudden the orange can appeared in front of me and I pulled on my reserves for last 50 metres. There were no waves to speak of, just shallow dumpers, so the run out of the surf was stress-free.

Afterwards, everyone said the swim was longer than 2.4 kilometres. I'd like to think so, considering my time.

Davo came in after me but he's already sneaking up on me now we're in the surf. Last week I finished 10 minutes ahead, this week only four minutes (he'll comment on that).

How would I rate the Coogee swim? It was well-run but there was no fresh fruit offered to swimmers who completed the event. I reckon that's a tiny bit stingy, since it's $40 for the 2.4 km swim. Many punters do both and pay $50 for the privilege.

Next Sunday is Bondi to Bronte. I don't think Davo is doing it and I haven't decided.

I'll keep you posted.

Back to Balmain for the 2011 Dawny's swim around Cockatoo Island on Sydney Harbour

2011-11-20T14:57:00.004+11:00

Dawny's Baths, with the right-hand corner of Cockatoo Island in the distance. We headed out to the derrick (named after a bloke called Derrick?) crane to circumnavigate the island in an anti-clockwise direction

A dip in Sydney Harbour on Sunday morning isn't everyone's cup of tea. But a growing number of mug punters are turning up for the annual Dawny's swim around Cockatoo Island.

If you read www.oceanswims.com you'll know this swim used to be regarded as the first swim of the ocean-swimming season in NSW. It's now pipped at the post by Collaroy and Narrabeen on Sydney's Northern Beaches.

I still see it as numero uno as it coincides with the start of summer and gives me a chance to test myself in reasonably calm conditions without the pressure of the run in and out of the surf.

Dawny's starts in the harbour just outside the Dawn Fraser Baths, which was built in the early 1880s making it the oldest pool in Australia. Last year I'm pretty sure the 2.5 km course ran clockwise around Cockatoo Island but this year it was anti-clockwise. The swim is on nice and early at 9.10am so it's over before the ferries start to transport tourists to and from the island. Today was hot and steamy so it was a relief to get out of the water and into the shade before the sun got serious.

As is tradition, before the swim I liaised with my ocean swims' mate of five years, Davo.

Davo, who happens to be my brother-in-law, said he hadn't swum all winter though he does bootcamp three mornings a week with a couple of blokes and a personal trainer. He's pretty fit for an old bloke (that'll get a comment from him - or his dog). Have a gander at his arm. He insisted on a photo to commemorate his first swim. Winner or loser?

This arm means business

There are two Dawny's swims, a 2.5 km and a 1 km swim that is run as soon as the longer distance swimmers have left - again, this is tied into ferry timetables.

Davo and I jumped off the jetty/pontoon with a couple of hundred swimmers in our age group and waited for the gun. We were left to tread water for at least five minutes. I was a bit jumpy about THEY WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED and lifted my legs instinctively whenever they knocked another person's. Fortunately, the only things to worry about were jelly blubbers and a bit of weed.

The water temp was a comfortable 21 degrees (my guess) and the water quality seemed okay, though after the swim I had grease on my face, probably from motorcraft exhausts and the moored boats close to the finish.

My goals in this swim were to 1. not stop 2. maintain a consistent pace 3. keep to the course.

I did well with the first two. Last year I stopped a couple of times, which is lovely in one respect because I got a geek at the harbour, the island and the Sydney Harbour Bridge in the distance. This year I missed all that because I kept my head down and really only noticed the other swimmers and two of the derrick cranes and a chimney that are the island's landmarks.

The chop on the right-hand corner and around the back of the island was pronounced. I didn't look up as I swallowed salty harbour but guessed it was caused by boats heading towards the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

I'm still not good at sticking to an optimal course - there were times when all the other swimmers seemed to be hugging the island while I was out wide. Also, the sun got in my eyes on the way back in. I remember this from 2010. It's hard to see where you are because of the glare and the moored boats that block a view of the pontoon and jetty. When I got to the pontoon ladder a couple of volunteers helped me get out. It's hard to get your land legs after a long swim.

Afterwards, I waited for Davo. It's usually the other way around so either my squad training has paid off or Davo's slow to get started this season (that'll get a comment).

When Davo did 'land' on the pontoon he got a cramp in his calf muscle, which he put down to a couple of volunteers hauling him out a bit too enthusiastically. Whatever, it looked dramatic from a distance. He came good and we queued on the boardwalk at Dawny's for a complimentary* fry-up of bacon, eggs, sausage and salad on a roll.

Next week is Coogee. Sand, surf and loads more competitors.

*The entry fee is $35, which is good value as half a mango, oranges and fry-up are included in cost.

Misty morning at Bondi and a humiliating moment in a day in the life of a woman of a certain age

2011-11-19T15:29:00.003+11:00

Bondi Beach: it's not smog, it's fog

Today Ms Fivestar came to the beach. She'd heard my stories about the head-honcho swim coach Mr Mean and wanted to meet the man who refers to himself as "old school".

Mr Mean is a product of the good old days before political correctness brought the Western World to its knees and took all the fun out of blonde jokes (thank God the Irish can still laugh at themselves). Mr Mean likes to shout a lot and make examples of those not doing it his way. He is definitely a 'my way or the highway' sort of bloke.

This used to get my back up, when Mr Mean would occasionally berate me or another squad member in front of our peers. After a while I got used to it. You might think my resignation is lame and that I'm spineless for not biting back.

But Mr Mean was right to pull me up for not paying attention while he was talking - often about himself but also about stroke technique - and for being late for squad.

I could have got mad and stormed off, which is what I did one morning when he lambasted me for arriving late to squad. He basically told me to piss off if I couldn't be punctual. I was furious. I mean, no one talks like that to a woman of a certain age.

Anyway, after stewing in my own juices, I returned the next week and I've never been late since.

Today I wasn't listening again and ran into the surf with a bunch of the elite squad members when I was meant to be with the rookies.

Ms Fivestar, who was relaxing on the sand, heard Mr Mean shout out my name not once, but three times. She said it was funny. I was mortified when I finally heard him and turned to face the group that remained on the beach. I then had to run back to the group who looked embarrassed on my behalf.

C'est la vie. Overall, it was a fantastic morning but check out the pics. The mist covered Bondi for the duration of squad and was still hovering around at 11am. Ms Fivestar and I reckon the cooler air off the water collided with warmer air floating over the land, with the resulting haze. The water temp was a crisp 19 degrees (my guess). On the drive home, my car's temperature gauge sat on 35 degrees Celsius.

Tomorrow is the Dawny swim at Balmain on the harbour in Sydney's inner-west. My teeth are already chattering... and not just because I'm thinking about the water temperature. It's what lies beneath that makes me shudder.

I hope to post tomorrow night unless of course I get a fright because a sharky took a bite... ARRRGGGHHHHHH!

I do not like that hat: why women of a certain age cannot wear bad hats

2011-11-16T10:55:00.001+11:00

Being a 'woman of a certain age' has its challenges. For example, I have to constantly stop myself from talking out loud while alone in public. This habit has become more pronounced as I've aged and sometimes I can start a 'self-chat' on Pitt Street before I remember where I am. Crazy lady.

I've also become slack about my fashion choices, with a tendency to shop for practical rather than aesthetic items.

The bad hat is an example of this. It is a pink cotton hat with a floppy brim. I bought it because it keeps the sun off my face.

I wore it all last summer with not a peep from anyone in my family (I could plonk a stuffed cat on my head and Spanner wouldn't notice). But a couple of weeks ago my swimming coach Mr Mean made an observation that highlighted my fall from style icon to dowdy matron.

Mr Mean said: "Is your daughter pregnant?"

I said: "No... I hope not. Why?"

Mr Mean said: "Because you're wearing a grandma hat."

Mr Mean likes to stir the possum. He is a ratbag with no manners.

Deep down I knew he was right but that didn't stop me from wearing the bad hat to Sculpture by the Sea with Ms Onyabike and Mrs Snorkel, where I told them about the unpleasant exchange.

I expected their support but received a general lack of empathy.

That night I received an email from Mrs Snorkel, which she cc'd to Ms Onyabike.

Mrs Snorkel wrote: If you really want my opinion, that hat looks like it is either your very small child's or your mother's that even they don't wear anymore but that you found in the boot when you realised you'd forgotten to bring a real hat. I am only being a true friend and I am still very happy to be seen with you while you are wearing it.

Ms Onyabike added: cruel, but fair.

That's what true friends are for.

I now have a new hat. It looks like the bad hat is going to the Salvo's shop because my mum doesn't want it. She says it makes her look old and frumpy.

Another weekend, another squad at North Bondi and dreams about bull sharks at Balmain

2011-11-13T21:13:00.002+11:00

No surf. No rip. No current. Swimming pool for squad on Sat'dee.

These pics show North Bondi at its 'funnest' on Saturday morning before the hordes of tourists and daytrippers pop in just so they can say, bin there dun that.

I can't remember if I told you about the weekend before when I counted 16 tourist buses and saw tourists wearing face masks (I have photographic evidence but chose not to use it). People are strange. Something else that is strange is that the majority of tourists choose not to walk on the sand. They stand on the stairs to take their happy snaps but 90 per cent do not walk on the beach.

The conditions on Saturday were perfect for training for the Dawny's swim on November 20, which takes place in Balmain on the harbour (I WILL NOT THINK ABOUT BULL SHARKS, I WILL NOT OBSESS ABOUT BULL SHARKS AND CLEAN HARBOUR WATER).

Sculpture by the Sea 2011 and a snorkel at Gordons Bay for good measure

2011-11-08T20:23:00.003+11:00

It could be somewhere in Europe but it's not: Gordons Bay

Just because I'm sick as a dog doesn't mean I can't stuff myself with paracetamol and join my mates Ms Onyabike and Mrs Snorkel for a frolic by the sea.

It was Mrs Snorkel's idea to go to Gordons Bay, which is around the corner from Clovelly beach in Sydney's eastern suburbs. On a good day at Gordons Bay punters can catch glimpses of wobbegongs and blue gropers. On Monday the water was so clear you could see all the way to the ocean floor - even as far out as the open sea.

It was chilly but the experience of snorkelling is, as Ms Onyabike noted, theraputic. This is because, when wearing the snorkel and goggles, you become conscious of the sound of your breathing. It's all you hear - the deep regular 'in' and 'out' of your own breath as your eyes scan the scene below for - anything!

In my former posts, I've written about my talent for scaring away marine life. My theory is that a sonar warning* is relayed to the creatures of the deep that alerts them to my presence in the immediate vicinity. This sends them scurrying under the nearest big rocks to avoid my curious gaze.

And so it was on Monday. Mrs Snorkel bobbed to the surface and removed her mouthpiece to proclaim: "I've never seen it so quiet down there. I haven't seen anything yet."

IT'S BECAUSE OF MOI. I could never get a job with Trawler Men.

I did manage to spot a few obliging anemone (maybe it's because they're stuck to the rocks and can't go anywhere), one ray (pretending to be sand), a herd of tiny zebra fish and another fish that looked like he was wearing khaki (obviously camouflage).

The only two real gripes I have with Gordons Bay is that no one tells you about the litter washed up on the beach. And that some arsehole has put out lobster pots when I'm sure this little part of the world is a marine wildlife reserve. But hey, that's Australia. You can never escape that sense of entitlement that has become so much a part of the Aussie makeup (that's a whole other post).

Everything including the bathroom sink

On a lighter note... afterwards we basked for a moment in the sun before heading around to Tamarama Beach to view the Sculpture by the Sea 2011 exhibition, which features sculptures all the way along the coastal walk to Bondi Beach.

Inside the tyre turtle was a cubby house filled with bric-a-brac

I've popped in some of the more creative sculptures in this incredible annual event that now has offshoots around the globe in countries such as Denmark (due in part, I think, to Australian-born Princess Mary).

Easter Island meets Tamarama Beach

Later we cooled off at Tamarama, a narrow beach renowned for its semi-permanent rip.

Mrs Snorkel and Ms Onyabike with the vacationing Buddha, who is wearing shorts and thongs

*I suspect there is a sea creature on watch who has in its possession an identikit photo of me kitted out in full snorkelling gear. Not fair.

North Bondi squad, snorkelling at Gordons Bay and Sculpture by the Sea

2011-11-08T07:55:00.000+11:00

Apologies for the long absence but my Blogger dashboard did this weird thing and went blank so I haven't been able to post anything for days. Now I'm back with the old dashboard. Fingers crossed.

Sydney has switched on summer so I've been swimming in the ocean. Saturday was squad at North Bondi and almost everyone except me was seal-like (shark bait?) in a steamer.

With a water temp of 18-19 degrees I don't think this is necessary, especially as we were on the move the whole session (1.5 hours), galavanting in and out of the surf like lemmings.

The squad's coach, Mr Mean, is unrelenting. He shouts a lot. He gets cranky if we do wimpy stuff, like swimming back out and under a dumper when we're supposed to be swimming into the shore. To my mind this is a good tactic. I don't want to get churned around and spat out on the sand looking like an eejit. Mr Mean sees it this way: "Go with the wave ya pussycats. What's wrong with doing a few somersaults on the way in. At least you're not losing ground." I guess there's always two points of view. But I prefer to get out of it alive.

Afterwards, I was shattered. Getting out past the break was a major effort and there was a massive north-running current.

On Sunday I woke up with the beginnnings of a head cold and slept for two hours in the afternoon.

Yesterday the offer of a day at the Sculpture by the Sea 2011 exhibition was too good to refuse. But I'll save that - and the snorkel at Gordons Bay - for my next post.

Another glorious coastal retreat is under constant threat from developers

2011-10-30T13:08:00.001+11:00

Spanner and I drove to Newcastle yesterday and on the way I made him stop at Catherine Hill Bay.

Not many people know about Catherine Hill Bay (CHB) - except the lucky locals. Oh, and the developers who want to carve up the land and allow 600 homes to be built there. Is this a big deal? You should have a geek at the rampant f'ugly residential development along the Australian coastline and you'll realise it is.

Gawd, a stroll along the sand from Broadbeach to Burleigh on the Qld Gold Coast highlights row upon row of gaudy, tawdry and tasteless mansions. Some of these houses could be mistaken for RSL clubs except they're bigger and uglier (if that's possible).

Head down the NSW South Coast for the light and sleazy versions that are slapped up almost overnight on acreage that used to be remnant forest or dairy cattle land.

CHB is unusual because it is one of the few remaining examples of an 'intact Australian company town', which features the fibro and timber miners' cottages built to house the workers when the town's jetty was used to load coal.

I don't much about the town's heritage but I do know it's a special place that has managed to escape the claws of developers because of the vigilance of its residents, determined to save CHB from becoming another soulless beachside 'burb.

You can get involved in the fight by joining the Friends of Catherine Hill Bay http://www.catherinehillbay.org.au/save_the_bay_campaign/save_the_bay_campaign.htm#

Back to the swim. Spanner sat in the car and figured out how to use the iPod (sad, isn't it?) while I threw myself into an icy Pacific Ocean. The air temp was around 28 but I reckon the water was more like 17. Brrrrrrrr. I then took some snaps of the jetty, which the locals are also fighting to save from demolition. It is not only historically significant but also a work of art that must be preserved for future generations.

Burleigh Ocean Swim: embrace the turtle within

2011-10-25T21:36:00.003+11:00

Heading north to the start of the 2km swim

With a heavy heart I must report that my swim times are still crapulous, despite training throughout winter.

I should have listened to Spanner's advice, for he is *wise. The Wise One (that's Spanner) has always said that I need to acknowledge my slow-swimmer genes and embrace the turtle within.

On Sunday at Burleigh Heads on the Gold Coast in Queensland I finally looked the turtle in the eye.

At the start line

It was a beautiful day, which dawned at 4.30am. That's when the sun bloody well rises in Queensland because the state doesn't have daylight savings. This far north the sand is blindingly white and fine.

My friend Ms Fivestar, who came to Burleigh as my **support person, created this lovely analogy: she said Queensland sand squeaks under the feet like haloumi cheese in the mouth. If you've got some haloumi handy, get a piece and chew on it. That is the sound of Qld sand between the toes.

The ocean is shades of blue and green, and white as the waves break and roll onto the shore.

Woo hoo: I wish I could say I looked that athletic

Ms Five Star and I stayed on the 16th floor of an apartment on The Esplanade. The views were spectacular. I will never get over how lucky we are to live in a country with so much coast. It's glorious. And the sound of the surf, though loud and continuous, is therapeutic. I love it.

About the swim. I did the 2km event, which started at 7am about half-way up the beach from the Burleigh Heads Mowbray Park Surf Club. There is a reason for the early start. As the day progresses, the wind blows in and the surf can become choppy and unpredictable. On the Saturday, bluebottles were driven into shore by a robust nor-easterly wind. The surf was ragged and a strong current ran north.

At 7am on Sunday, the ocean was in a better mood (a local described it as "flat as") and the wind hadn't yet arrived.

My age group ran into the shallow water about 15 minutes past the hour, after three other younger age groups. I did the usual - adjusting and emptying goggles (I am sooo neurotic) and then got into it. It was a lovely swim through clean clear water back down the beach to the club. I didn't go that hard (must be my turtle brain).

Getting back in was more of an effort, a bit like 'one foot forward two steps back' as the small waves gave me a gentle shove forward only to drag me back as they retreated from the shore. The 'run' up the beach started with a tip-toe through the shallows trying to avoid breaking an ankle in sandy pot holes. This was followed by a 50 metre sprint (in my case a turtle toddle) up soft sand to the finish. Five swimmers ran past me before I crossed to the line.

I did the swim in 40 minutes and finished in the bottom third of around 230 swimmers (maybe even lower but, as you know, I'm bad at maths). I really should have made the distance in 35 minutes.

Nemesis: the bluebottle

Not to worry. The turtle and I had a chat and decided there's nothing wrong with being slow. I'm out there and doing it. That's what counts.

*Spanner might be wise but for some reason he finds it impossible to install a bathroom mirror or fix the TV antenna so we have reception when it rains.

**Ms Fivestar carries the towels and water. She also takes over as chief photographer. She is the CAMEL. I know what I'd rather be.

Always read the signs and follow the advice

PS: If you're ever in Burleigh Heads head to the Commune Cafe on the highway. It may not have ocean views but it has yummy food, a great vibe and wonderful service. It is run on eco-friendly and fair trade principles. Highly recommended.

Burleigh Ocean swim coming soon: too much beach is never enough

2011-10-24T21:28:00.002+11:00

The view to Tallebudgera surf beach from Burleigh Heads National Park. As we walked down the hill we saw sting rays swimming in the shallow surf.

Walking back from Broad Beach. This man was probably fishing for bream.

View of Surfer's Paradise from Burleigh Heads National Park. The sand is white and fine but check out the black volcanic rock.

View with a room: looking left to Surfer's Paradise

Then turn right to Burleigh Heads

I'll write about the Burleigh Heads swim in the next post. In the meantime, here are some photos to whet your appetite. When you look at these pics, you'll wonder why Australians whinge (and we do - about anything and everything). THERE IS NOTHING TO WHINGE ABOUT. EXCEPT THERE'S TOO MUCH BEACH. TOO MUCH SURF. IT GOES ON AND ON AND ON.

I have arithmophobia and tax confusion syndrome

2011-10-20T22:01:00.000+11:00

I would rather visit the dentist, eyeball a shark or shake hands with Tony Abbott than see my accountant. I hate numbers. They make me feel stupid because the only thing I can do with them is basic arithmetic. Once numbers move into the realm of tax matters such as GST, PAYG and annual Tax Returns, I become tangled in a jungle of obscure financial terms and sneaky calculations.

When a letter arrives from the Australian Taxation office (ATO), my heart gets hectic, my palms moisten and any logic or rational thought escapes me. The same symptoms afflict me when I have to see my accountant.

She's a nice woman who does her best to calm me down when I enter her home office, a spacious room that is sparsely furnished with a desk, two chairs and a bookcase filled with accounting tomes. As I sit down, the chair legs scrape on the cold, tiled floor. This teeth-grinding screech echoes the chaos in my head.

My accountant is like her office - neat and efficient. She dresses in a white blouse, black trousers and comfortable shoes. It's unnerving, like being sent to the school principal.

She never admonishes, but I reckon she secretly worries that one day I'll lose it. She gently walks me through the annual tax return process, but what should take an hour usually takes three because: a. I've forgotten to bring vital information or b. I've made a mistake with my calculations.

I pay my taxes and keep my head down but the ATO likes to play with my head by sending threats of fines for late payments and by readjusting my PAYG payments so I don't know if I'm coming or going.

Maybe I'm the only person in the entire universe who suffers from tax confusion syndrome. The last time I phoned the ATO I sobbed down the line as I explained how hard it was for me to open their letters and decipher the hieroglyphics within. They left me alone for a few years after that.

But now they're onto me again. You'd think I was James Packer or Gina Reinhart. But I'm eensy-teensy fry, sizzling in the pan as the ATO attempts to cook me to a crisp.

They've found a reason to fine me again so it's back to the accountant's and those cold cold tiles.

I'm an amortal flying into the portal out of the tortal

2011-10-17T21:37:00.001+11:00

What the frick is an amortal? Some opportunistic pop psychologist from the US has written a wanky book about amortals. She invented this term to describe older people who refuse to grow old, a bit like myself (I'm not classified as old unless you're under 30).

I read about it in an opinion piece in The Sydney Morning Herald.

Apparently, I'm doing all those things young people do like exercise, trying to look my best without resembling mutton dressed as lamb, going to gigs and getting on with my kids by treating them as equals. This is considered selfish and delusional, as older people are required to fulfill some cultural norm where we grow old gracefully by wearing rayon frocks (I guess men wear corduroy trousers), becoming sedentary, going to church and maintaining the appropriate emotional distance from our kids as they get older.

Amortals also fear death. Seriously, who doesn't except eejits who think it's all about pink marshallow clouds, ethereal creatures with soft wings and floating around without any hunger pangs, desire for a glass of Veuve or a quick f****. Death happens to the best of us and the rest of us. It's a fact of life.

I am not ashamed to admit I fear death. I think about it a lot. I don't want to die. I want to swim in the ocean with the fishies, write a bestselling novel (also an amortal characteristic), eat a lot of good food, play loud music, watch sunsets while gurgling Veuve, walk along the beach holding the hand of my ageing partner (after we've had a quick f***), laugh with my kids because we can be friends and enjoy my freakin' life without being told I'm a superficial old prat.

Old age is inevitable. I'm not that stupid to think I can do what I am doing now forever. But why not do it for as long as I can without looking like a fool? I know my kids will set me straight if I get up to anything even mildly embarrassing.

There, now that's off my chest I'm going to bed. After all, it's almost 9.30pm.

Squad at North Bondi on an overcast Saturday

2011-10-15T17:24:00.000+11:00

Surf lifesavers at North Bondi

Just when I get my act together and decide that, yes, I will do the Saturday squad at North Bondi, it rains.

I don't live near the beach so it is a major triumph for someone like me (creature of habit, slave to routine) to get to the beach on a Saturday.

As I was driving out of the city towards Bondi it poured but there was no turning back. I arrived early and got a great parking space in one of the few spots that isn't meter or two-hour limit parking (that's Sydney). I then visited the yummy organic bakery, where Davo and I go during the ocean-swimming season. I bought a spelt scone. Sounds boring but it was studded with raspberries and melted in the mouth.

Because I'm also extra careful I carted a golf umbrella down to the beach with all my gear and waited for the squad to arrive. It was a good opportunity to observe the eastern suburbs scene on a Saturday and, let me tell you, it's bootcamp city on Bondi Beach.

Before the sun came out

Everywhere you turn, there are personal fitness trainers doing sessions with their charges - they squat, sprint, step, crunch and punch. It's a hive of feverish activity. I was exhausted before I even started.

The squad I swim with also does running and bike, so many of the members had already been out doing their fitness thing before they got to the beach. I felt like a sloth.

The rain was holding off when we ran into the water. There were two groups. I was in the slowest. I'd say there were around 20 people participating. I and another man were the only swimmers in the squad NOT wearing wetsuits.

The thing about wetsuits is they keep you warm and they also make you more buoyant. This is why die-hard ocean swimmers are agin them. They give the swimmer a distinct advantage. I don't think I did too bad for someone doing it naked, except for the cossie.

I lasted an hour - the squad is an hour and 15 minutes - before calling it a day. I was a bit cold but it wasn't too bad. My guess is the water temperature was 18-19 degrees. That's manageable.

The surf was pretty flat, with only small waves. We did a lot of swimming out over the reef past the rock swimming pool and a lot of swimming back in, running around the flags and then back in again.

I was pooped. The ocean, even without waves, is more challenging than the swimming pool. I've got Burleigh Heads next week and I don't feel at all prepared.

After I left the beach the sun broke through the clouds.

It's a lovely day in Sydney.

A long weekend on the NSW South Coast

2011-10-04T16:51:00.000+11:00

A long weekend of rain, howling winds and more rain. Still, nothing can dampen your enthusiasm when on Friday, at dusk, you spot a whale and its calf passing through Mollymook on the NSW South Coast on the way to the Antarctic. As mamma whale does a dive her tail rises above the water for the benefit of those landlubbers watching from the rocks.

Saturday's highlight was dinner with sister Ms Nobull at Rick Stein's restaurant at Bannister's. And Sunday's was heading out for a walk after spotting a sunny spot in the sky. As soon as we were on our way the rain bucketed down.

What a feeling!

Back in Sydney reality bites.

Old pop stars on tour: Alice Cooper, Rod Stewart, Stevie Nicks, Suzi Quatro and Daryl and John

2011-09-25T21:27:00.000+10:00

Ageing rock stars and bands reforming and touring is nothing new. But lately I've had a case of serious deja vu along with a series of flashbacks to my misspent youth. It's amazing how many old codgers are heading Down Under so they can get cashed up for Christmas.

And why not? The Australian dollar is strong (or it was until last week when the market went belly-up) and us Aussies apparently have spare cash spilling from every orifice.

I could drown in a blast from the past by forking out to see -

Daryl Hall and John Oates (supported by Icehouse): The tour is branded 'Two bands that Defined a Generation'. Here's my take - I had a crush on the moustachioed duo (ok, only one had a mo but I wanted to use the word 'moustachioed') and I used to perform a whiny rendition of She's Gone while I sobbed out my teen angst. I also had a mini crush on Iva Davies, lead singer of Icehouse (an Australian band). Then again, I had crushes on every boy pop star back then - except Gary Glitter (he was always super creepy). To say these performers 'defined a generation' is stretching it. Does this mean the children of the '70s are all lightweights? (DON'T ANSWER THAT)

Suzi Quatro: When I was 13, I phoned a radio station and won tickets to see Suzi Quatro at the Hordern Pavilion. This was back in the day when Quatro had a scary bikie following. She was and still is, aged 61, a trouper. And she still looks and dresses the same - like a '70s rock chick. I'd be in it just to hear Devil Gate Drive live again - if I won a ticket to the show.

Rod Stewart: I saw RS when I was 14. My friend Kathy Mullaney was obsessed with the kilt-wearing Scotsman - she had Maggie May on replay on her record player - and bought us tickets to his SCG concert. We'd never been to an 'arena' style show and modelled our dress-code on Woodstock. We wore our bikinis under our jeans and T-shirts. Now Rod is much older and I am much wiser.

Alice Cooper: I used to catch the bus to school every day and Liz Kenny, who was in my year, was at the same stop ranting on about her obsession with Alice. I never warmed to Liz... or Alice. Still, School's Out remains the school-leavers' anthem after almost 40 years. But I have no desire to return to the bus stop.

Stevie Nicks: I almost forgot to mention sweet Stevie, who must have THE best cosmetic surgeon because, despite years of drug and alcohol abuse, she looks amazing. I saw (sort of) Fleetwood Mac, Santana, Little River Band (and some other group I should remember but don't) at a concert at the SCG the day after I finished my final Higher School Certificate (HSC) exam and school was out forever. I just happened to be off my face at the time (having plundered the Esky), consuming enough booze to sedate a rampaging hippo. I'm embarrassed to admit I can't recall much of anything from that night.

And that's just around half-a-dozen old codgers on tour. Stevie Wonder's coming too and I would love to see him live but the platinum tickets for his only Australian gig at the Star Casino cost $979.90.

What a joke. I'll have to make do with a Best of Stevie Wonder CD.

Swims and snorkels at Fairy Bower in Sydney: spring has finally arrived

2011-09-18T14:33:00.001+10:00

Manly is a stone's throw from Fairy Bower

I don't enjoy swimming in freezing cold water but yesterday I was tempted to dive into the ocean for the first time since June when I last swam at Byron Bay (a dreadful admission from someone who has the temerity to call herself an ocean swimmer).

I met Ms Onyabike and Mr and Mrs Snorkel at Fairy Bower, the only place in the world you'd want to be. As I waited for them to arrive a carefully groomed, 30-something bloke strolled past with another couple and a small child (the must-have accessory after the cockadoodle whateveritis spaniel combo).

He said of the shimmering scene before him: "It's all very Euro."

You can see Shelly Beach from Fairy Bower

He's sort of right but not. Fairy Bower is in Cabbage Tree Bay, a stone's throw from the calm waters of Shelly Beach and the surf beach at Manly.

I'd say the 30-something bloke looked at the sparkling bay and saw the colours of the Mediterranean that are Photoshopped in tourist brochures - aquamarine, turquoise and indigo on the one palette.

There's no sand either, just smoothish caramel rocks and a small man-made harbour pool. The walkway from Manly to Shelly is bustling with human traffic, people walking dogs, riding bikes, pushing strollers and jogging. A whitewashed cafe with outdoor seating could be in some little village on The Riviera but I bet the coffee's better at FB.

On the rocks. Look at Mr Snorkel's skinny old pegs

To me this Sydney in a nutshell.

When my friends arrived we did go for a swim. I don't have a wetsuit so it was in (brrr!) and swim - no time to think about the cold. After I got used to it, I can't tell you how wonderful it felt to be back in the ocean again, especially since the swim takes you over a shallow reef that is home to an abundance of sea life. As Mrs Snorkel noted, there were lots of nice looking "eating" fish hanging at the Bower.

My guess is the water temperature was 17-18 degrees Celcius. The air temp was more like 26 degrees.

Simply Perfect. Simply Sydney*.

* Simply cliched!

The demise of the aqua cossie: when too much flesh equals too much information

2011-09-12T17:13:00.004+10:00

Argh! Borat's cossie is a little too revealing

So, I arrive at this morning's swim squad, peel off my clothes and saunter over to the group, which is in three discrete sections for lanes 8, 7 and 6. I ingratiate myself into the lane 7 group next to my friend Mr Very Big (VB) and we await instructions from our coach Mr Nice Guy.

VB has a cheeky grin when he says in that charming Irish brogue, "You'll be needing a new cossie then."

I don't understand what he means so he helps out with: "This one's full of holes."

My aqua swimming costume has done the hard yards since I bought it a couple of ocean swims' seasons ago and I knew it was time to get a new one. But because I like to wear things to the point of falling apart, I kept pushing my luck. Today my luck ran out.

I gaze in horror to where he's pointing at my left side. The stitching that holds together the vertical seam down one side of my cossie has split from knickers' height to just below my boob. I plaster my arm along my side in the hope that no one else has witnessed this ghastly sight of middle-aged woman blubber.

VB jokes about turning it into a bikini but I'm not laughing. The Irish accent only has so much pulling power.

Rather than turn around and go home, I decide to forge ahead regardless of the outcome. If the thing falls apart while I'm swimming I'll just have to wear it (or not).

When I hop out of the pool - last - after one-and-a-half hours, the cossie has split a little more. Way too much flesh is on display.

I love my aqua cossie but tonight it goes in the bin.

Where were you on 9/11?

2011-09-11T09:36:00.000+10:00

I was at the gym. This was my routine in 2001: wake at 5.15am, dress and drive to peasants' gym (I couldn't afford the cost of the ruling-class gym), arrive at 5.30am. It's still dark. The gym, a cold and uninviting space located in a disused factory, is opened by a part-time uni student. He is underpaid and not too concerned that he's 15 minutes late.

Once inside, I start my routine and hop onto the stationary bike while the uni student fiddles with the remote control that activates two wall-mounted TVs.

And there it is, a vision so terrifying that it takes a couple of minutes for anything to sink in. What is this? Is it for real? As news reporters confirm that we're not watching some ridiculous stunt, the two of us look on, horrified, as New York's Twin Towers collapse in a pile of 'stuff' that seems to evaporate into gigantic billowing clouds and monstrous licking flames before our eyes.

This scene is repeated over and over and over again for the benefit of Sydneysiders who've just woken up to a brand new day.

I don't have a mobile phone. So, I go through the motions. What else can I do? I watch the TV as I do my weights workout.

I recall that I'd gone to the top floor of the World Trade Center in 1990 and stood mesmerised by the breathtaking views over Manhattan.

At 6.30am I arrive home and wake everyone up, though Spanner's already up and blissfully unaware of the horrific events that took place while we were sleeping. I flick on the TV and we watch the World Trade Center implode again and again.

And still, 10 years on I watch horrified as that gut-wrenching moment is replayed.

My heart is with all those who lost someone in 9/11 and my thoughts are with those who continue to live with the nightmare.

The Bunker Bay shark attack is a tragic case of wrong time, wrong place

2011-09-05T10:45:00.000+10:00

Bunker Bay, WA, where a body surfer was mauled to death by a shark

Readers of this blog know I'm an advocate for sharks and follow the mantra "don't swim in the surf at dawn or dusk" because that's when these primordial animals are usually out hunting for something tasty to eat.

Sadly, there are exceptions to the rule. In Western Australia, what is thought to have been a great white shark yesterday "savaged" and killed a body surfer. The attack occurred at midday.

The 21-year-old was catching waves at popular surf spot Boneyards Break, Bunker Bay.

Here's part of the story published at WAToday.com (WT) that might help explain this tragedy:

'The attack occurred in an area popular with surfers and anglers and close to a seal colony, to the west of Cape Naturaliste, a noted whale-watching spot about three hours' drive south of Perth.

"You could have described it as perfect shark conditions . . . dark and gloomy water, overcast skies, light rain falling. There was whale action earlier in the morning in the bay, and there were seals about," Sergeant Craig Anderson from the Dunsborough police said.'

The death of this young bloke appears to be a case of mistaken identity. Is it a seal? Let's take a bite and see.

In 2009, Perth Now reported that there had been 18 shark attacks in WA since 1997, four of them fatal.

The story in WT ends with: 'Yesterday's attack is the third fatal shark mauling in Australia in just over 12 months, and the second in WA's south-west.

The attack happened about an hour’s drive from Gracetown, where 31-year-old Nicholas Edwards was killed by a shark on August 17 last year.

In February, an abalone diver was taken by two sharks, believed to be great whites, at Coffin Bay, South Australia.'

I feel it's important to remember here that it's not the shark's fault. It was cruising its territory doing what predatory animals do - looking for the next meal. Or it may have just been curious. The awful outcome is that someone has died as a result.

PS: Photo of Bunker Bay from WT

A colonoscopy has nothing to do with Uranus, or does it?

2011-09-03T14:11:00.000+10:00

I'm not going to explore the ins and outs of the colonoscopy. Suffice to say I had one on Friday (my mum had colon cancer so I'm also at risk) and the best thing about it was being knocked out and waking up again to a cup of milky tea and a tuna and salad sandwich.

The colonoscopy got me thinking about Uranus. Traditionally the seventh planet from the Sun was pronounced 'Yoor-ay-nus'.

But somewhere along the way I suspect the Americans, god bless their cotton socks, decided this was too crude and changed it to 'Yoor-uh-nuhs'. Dictionary.com notes Uranus, when pronounced this way, can become confused with the word 'urinous'.

Thing is, it was always pronounced 'YOOR-AY-NUS' when I was growing up. What the frick is wrong with that?

When I point at the night sky and say, "Uranus is somewhere out there" no one is going to become confused about my meaning. Let's behave like adults. How often do I (or you) talk to others about their anuses. "By the way, how's your anus?" Mmm, maybe in certain circles...

That conveniently brings me to the word 'route'. In the song Route 66, made famous by Chuck Berry and The Rolling Stones, route was pronounced 'root', making it a homophone. But that's all changed with the introduction of the word 'rowt' for 'route'.

I still say, "What root/route are you taking?"

The meaning is clear enough. And if I were to say, "I feel like a root" it's obvious I'm not talking about hopping on a bus, although it does sound as though I'm hoping to embark on another type of physical journey.

My final gripe is with ARSEHOLE. Why is it spelt 'asshole'? An ass is a donkey. But now it's also a bum. What's wrong with 'arsehole'? Wikipedia notes that 'arse may refer to the British/Irish English vulgarism for the buttocks...'

Which brings me full circle: back to Uranus.

The end.

The end is in 5 billion years so let's swim

2011-09-01T21:08:00.000+10:00

I heard an astronomer talking on the radio yesterday. He said Planet Earth would "evaporate" in 5 billion years when the sun finally petered out - but not before exploding in a spectacular fashion to take us with it.

Of course, I won't be around in 5 billion years. That's ridiculous. That's like, way beyond my pea-brain comprehension. But my guess is that we will have nuked our poor old abused planet well before its natural use-by-date.

Oddly enough, the thought of there one day not being anything made me feel really sad. So I booked a flight to the Gold Coast.

There are lots of ocean swims in incredible locations coming up in the next few months. I couldn't afford the Hamilton or Heron Island swims on the Great Barrier Reef. For the cost of the airfares, accommodation, etc... to get to those locations I could fly to the States and back on a seven day holiday package. And have money to spare.

The other value for money option was the swim at Burleigh Heads on the Gold Coast on October 23. It's a 2km swim along a lovely stretch of Queensland coastline. Airfares to the Gold Coast are reasonably priced and there's loads of great accommodation that won't break the bank.

I know you can't beat the reef but this isn't half bad.

Find out more about the swim at: http://www.oceanswims.com/Events.asp?EventID=13

or go to the Burleigh Heads Mowbray Park Surf Life Saving Club's website at: http://www.burleighslsc.com.au/

I feel better now. Or I will soon. Possibly. But the 5 billion years is a killer. I won't dwell on it. I'll focus on sun, surf and sand... but not sand that gets into the crotch of your cossies or blows into your eyes. I want golden sand that doesn't move and isn't too hot underfoot... 5 billion years...

What it feels like to lose: RIP rooster and netball grand final hopes come crashing down

2011-08-28T13:37:00.003+10:00

Reaching for the stars but it wasn't to be

The day started on an ominous note. No rooster crow at 4am. And nothing since. I think I'm grieving over a stupid bird. And dumber still is that this morning I woke automatically at 4am. SILENCE.

Let's assume the rooster has "passed" as people like to say nowadays. I prefer the word "dead" but for some reason it's taboo. THE ROOSTER HAS DIED. HE IS AS DEAD AS A DOOR NAIL. DEAD DEAD DEAD. I feel better now.

As for the grand final for Miss Hissy's (The Hiss) division 3 netball team, Motley Crew, versus the Rough as Guts team, the less said the better. But here I go anyway.

The Hiss woke up feeling sick. She informed me that she'd vomited at 4am (what is it with this time of day/night?). Not once but three times. Great.

I put the spews down to pre-match nerves and told her to snap out of it. After a brief altercation, I raced up to the shops and spent a small fortune on a hand of bananas - for which I swore I'd never pay more than $5 a kilo.

She ate a banana and we headed off to the netball courts with Spanner and my parents.

I won't go into boring detail, suffice to say it was all downhill from the second quarter. The Hiss, who was Wing Defence, staggered off the court towards the end of the first quarter when MC was still a couple of points ahead. She looked ill - pasty face and clammy skin.

The RAG team went on to win 32-24 or something like that.

In all fairness, MC played a shambolic game and lost the plot. We seriously choked and RAG deserved to win.

So close and yet so far away. Maybe next year. But there won't be a next year for the poor rooster... May he Rest In Peace (or pieces).

The proof is in the poultry: one last look at a dirty chook

2011-08-26T21:19:00.000+10:00

I've used my two best jokes in the headline so this post will be brief. I thought you might like to see the doomed rooster from two doors up whose fate is sealed (probably in a tasty white wine sauce).

If you read the previous two posts, you'll know the story so far. And there's no happy ending (not for the rooster, that is).

Today, I snuck around to our neighbours' back fence so I could gather photographic evidence of the rooster's existence. This wasn't an easy task because the fence is elevated so I had to climb onto a cement retaining wall and cling to the rickety palings to get my happy snaps. I could have hauled a leg over, and then the other, and stepped onto the neighbours' property but I would have looked a right eejit had I been caught.

As it was, the house's back sliding doors were open. I knew Mr 'whatever I called him in the last post' (for now, I'll make do with 'Mr Murderer') was home because he was in the front yard hammering up a new fence (I must tell him the back one needs fixing too).

I wasn't sure if his wife was home so there was no way I was going to trespass. I'm a middle-aged woman for godsake. I am an eejit.

The pics aren't too sharp because I had to zoom in, and the sun was in the way. However, these 'grainy' pics may be the last ever taken of the plucky rooster who crowed at 4am - on the dot - every day.

We'll know by the end of the weekend if the rooster's still with us. If it's a silent Sunday at 4am we'll know he's passed over to the other side of the fence into fowl heaven, where 70 vestel virgin chicky babes await his arrival.

I hope so.

Hang the rooster, hang the rooster, hang the rooster: No, spare the rooster!

2011-08-24T21:37:00.004+10:00

The mildly dramatic headline is meant to be sung to the tune of The Smiths' Panic, which has a lilting melody.

But I did want something attention-grabbing because there's a potential crisis looming. Anyone reading my blog, and there's millions of you out there, will know that a rooster has moved into our street - just two doors up. The said rooster has woken my partner Spanner and I up at 4am with its godawful crowing since its arrival on Sunday.

Today Spanner talked to the neighbour who owns said rooster and told him "the bird has to go". What Spanner meant was that the bird should be moved to a farm where it could happily impregnate chickens and live a happy long life - that might be five or six years. Maybe more.

But our neighbour Mr Callous told Spanner he would "get rid" of the bird on the weekend even though he'd planned to keep it for a month so he could "fatten it up".

I didn't know roosters could be roasted (Doh! Red Rooster). I thought fresh chicken breasts came from hens.

I said to Spanner: What does this mean?

Spanner replied: I guess he's gonna kill it and eat it.

Earlier I'd peeked over our neighbours' fence and into their backyard where the rooster is being kept in a narrow chicken run with a cardboard box as its bed. We made eye contact.

I said to Spanner: We can't let this happen.

Spanner replied: There's nothing we can do.

I reckon Mr Callous paid at least $14 for this beautiful looking bird. That's how much it costs to buy one at the local charcoal chook shop. Why didn't he just buy a cooked chook? Why does he have to murder the rooster? We're in the 'burbs for heaven's sake. We shop. Not chop.

I said to Spanner: We could set him* free.

Spanner replied: A fox or cat would get him.

I said to Spanner: Do you know anyone who owns a farm? We could kidnap him and relocate him.

Spanner replied: Sure.

I'm not sure what to do next. How does one save a rooster from the chopping block?

This whole experience has turned me off roast chicken. I wish I'd never made eye contact.

*He is no longer an 'it'. He has become a 'somebody'.

When the dog barks and the rooster crows it's time to take action

2011-08-23T19:01:00.003+10:00

My friend Ms Fivestar is having a terrible time with her neighbours' barking dog.

When the neighbours leave the house their senile pooch starts YAP-YAP-YAPPING. And it doesn't stop until they return.

Understandably, this is driving Ms Fivestar round the bend. She's exhausted. This isn't good because here is a woman naturally on edge who has now reached (how do you say it?) "tipping point".

I dropped by her place a couple of weekends ago to find her in a murderous mood. She'd spent the afternoon gathering incriminating evidence against her canine nemesis by recording his incessent barking, which she planned to broadcast over the back fence for her neighbours' displeasure. No one messes with Ms Fivestar.

This must have gone down a treat. On Monday I received this text message: "I'll have to miss Pilates this week as I'll be in local justice mediation with neighbours re: their dog on Thursday. Can you believe it?"

I'm afraid I can, Ms Fivestar. This is the way of the world. In the old days the dog would mysteriously disappear... (sorry, getting carried away here. I love dogs!).

Coincidentally, we've had a similar unbearable-noise experience in our street. On the weekend Spanner and I were in the backyard when we first heard it.

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO.

But a rooster's crow doesn't really sound like that, it's more like someone being throttled - over and over.

At the time, Spanner said: "That's nice. Someone's got a rooster."

Two days later he's on the warpath, having been woken up by the cock's strangulated cries every morning before dawn.

Spanner's not the sort of bloke to cry 'fowl' (I had to include one bad pun) without good reason. He's buggered! This thing never shuts up. This arvo he went on a fact-finding mission to locate the offending creature. He arrived home victorious - it's two houses up cooped up (ha!) in a chicken run down the side driveway.

I Googled our local council for the rules on keeping roosters and found a paragraph in a document titled Offensive Noise Management Policy. Here it is: "In particular, Council may order a person who is keeping animals or birds inappropriately to keep them in a specified manner or to cease keeping them. For example, Council may order the owner of a rooster that is causing a nuisance by crowing to cease keeping the rooster."

Don't you just love council speak. In other words, if the bloody bird is driving the neighbours nuts they can complain to the council which can order the rooster's owners to get rid of it.

"I demand that you cease keeping this rooster!"

I have a feeling the rooster two doors up might just mysteriously disappear...

What it feels like to be in lane 7: thrown to the lions

2011-08-21T16:41:00.001+10:00

If you're a regular reader of this blog you'll know that a couple of posts back I set a personal swimming squad goal to move from the slow lane 8 to the faster lane 7. The really fast squad members swim in lane 6 (a no-go zone).

To cut a short story really short, I believe I've been promoted to lane 7 well ahead of my predicted goal of July 2012.

Why? That's the question I asked myself when my coach Mr Nice Guy told me to scoot over to lane 7 on Monday.

I reasoned that it was a quiet morning, with some squad members not attending because they'd run in the City2Surf, Australia's major annual fun run that attracts 85,000 participants, the day before.

I thought I could handle lane 7 in the absence of the "gun" swimmers. I coped pretty well by hanging at the back of the group which is where I belong.

On Wednesday I slinked back into lane 8 only to be told to move across to 7. It was a busier session and the guns were back. "Why are you kicking me out?" I asked Mr Nice Guy. I may as well have added: "...of my comfort zone" to the question.

Sometimes I ask dumb questions. I already knew his answer. Lane 7 would make me fitter and, hopefully, faster.

The problem is I feel like I've been thrown to the lions. This lane 7 mob are fast, plus they cheat a bit by not always following the time repeats. I feel like I'm thrashing around just trying to keep up because they're not stopping at the wall when they're supposed to.

On Friday I tried to sneak into lane 8 again but was discovered by the Boss Man coach who only comes to the pool on Fridays to bestow his swimming wisdom upon us. I jumped into lane 7 quick smart. No one argues with the Boss Man.

So it looks like I'm in the middle group of swimmers for good if I continue to make three squad sessions a week. I'm quietly freaking out because I'm the oldest person in that lane by a good couple of years. I'm also the loudest. One thing I've noticed as I've grown older is that I don't care as much about what people think of me. I can be a right pain but who cares apart from everyone else in the lane? Maybe I can wear/slow them down that way!

PS: If you read my last post about The Hiss and her netball team Motley Crew (MC) making it into next week's grand final, you'll know the Systemic Catholic Girls (SCG) had to fight it out with another team in a play-off this weekend. Amazingly the other team, Rough as Guts (RAG) beat SCG. This means MC plays RAG next Saturday. It's gonna be bigger than Ben Hur. More on this amazing event next week.

What it feels like to win

2011-08-13T16:39:00.003+10:00

It's fair to say the sport of netball is akin to a rites of passage for hundreds of thousands of Australian girls. It's as bloody Australian as the bloody beach, the bloody barbecue and bloody rugby league (I'm writing this in bloody NSW).

Where we live, netball is a Saturday morning ritual during winter. The local netball association is manned by volunteers who are passionate about the game. They're a bunch of officious old girls decked out in satin-shine white trackie daks with a dashing purple stripe down the outside arm and leg. They wear blindingly-white runners, carry clip boards and go to the same hairdresser. Think 1960s perms with red rinse. Think Stepford netball ladies.

But really, they're wonderful. I wish I was that passionate about anything. These women live for Saturday and with it the sight of thousands of girls in their club uniforms and the sounds of scuffing runners on 30 all-weather hard courts, the continual bleet of umpires' whistles and the cries of jubilation or despair as games are won or lost.

My youngest daughter Miss Hissy (aka The Hiss) plays in a division 3 team in the role of either wing defence or goal defence. For those of you unfamiliar with netball there are three rules* you need to know (let's keep it simple): 1. when a player catches the ball she can only take 1.5 steps before throwing it to another player on her team 2. a player can hold on to the ball for no longer than three seconds before getting rid of it 3. no contact.

The idea is that the team of seven gets the ball into their goal circle, where the two goal shooters (goal shooter and goal attack) attempt to shoot it through the goal-post ring.

Today The Hiss and her team Motley Crew (the MCs) played for a place in the grand final against another team angling for the same prize. Let's call the other team Systemic Catholic Girls' (SCGs) - I'm not trying to be nasty, I just can't help it.

The MCs and SCGs had played each other last week, where it all got a little bit out of hand with accusations of aggressive behaviour flying from both sides. The MCs won the game by a whisker.

This week tension was high on court 7. The Hiss was to spend the third quarter sitting it out (there's four 15 minute quarters). But in the second quarter, when the game was tighter than Spanner's hip pocket, she choked!

For those of you unfamiliar with the Aussie vernacular, "to choke" means to cave in under pressure. The Hiss fell over after she and her opposition player collided. It wasn't a heavy fall and she bounced back onto her feet with the team and parents calling out encouragement. But it was all too much for the Hiss who came off sobbing into my arms.

Concerned and loving mother: What's wrong with you?

The Hiss (imagine really hard sobbing): It's... it's... it's... the hormones.

Concerned and loving mother: Don't be ridiculous.

The Hiss: She tripped me.

Concerned and loving mother: No she didn't. It was an accident.

The Hiss (showing me the grazed palms of her hands): Look.

Concerned and loving mother: They're not even bleeding.

And so on and so forth.

After this exchange, The Hiss managed to stop hyperventilating and went on to play the final half of the game.And we won! Not that I'm taking any credit for my tough love approach but she played like she was on fire. Must've been the hormones.

The win takes the MCs into the grand final in a fortnight, where they may end up facing the SCGs in the battle for first place in division three of the local Saturday comp**.

Let's hope The Hiss can keep her hormones in check and avoid the choke.

*Of course, there are other rules I haven't talked about, many of them a mystery to me.

**I'm just putting the whole thing into perspective.

The photo is of elite netball players, who play the game indoors.

When the world is in turmoil there's only one thing to do: write a list

2011-08-10T14:13:00.003+10:00

Sometimes it's hard to justify the existence of human kind. We're nasty buggers hell-bent on bringing the planet to its knees.

I've been thinking long and hard (about 5 mins) about the messy state of the world and have had a breakthrough thought**.

Here it is: if everyone learnt to swim and swam regularly the world would be a better place. Simple as...

I have contained my reasons for this in an easy-to-read list:

Compulsory swimming could potentially save the world because:

* it tones and strengthens the muscles and doesn't involve any jarring movements.

* during laps, it's possible to meditate, think imaginative thoughts and plan the day ahead.

* it burns off aggression and leaves the swimmer feeling calm and ready to take on the world in a nice and positive way, not in a destructive and negative way.

* it feels pretty sexy to plunge into silky water and pretend you're faster than a shark.

* it gets everyone together in the pool or at the beach.

* it introduces people to the beauty and power of nature (when swimming in the ocean).

* it encourages people to appreciate what they've got and not what they haven't.

* it can be done by everyone from bubs to octogenarians.

* it's not about size - you don't have to be slim to swim. I get thrashed by people twice my size.

* you can swim without a limb. Seriously, some of the most accomplished ocean swimmers have a disability.

SO WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? ALL THE WORLD SHOULD SWIM IN PERFECT HARMONY.

**Definition of breakthrough thought: a fleeting moment of pure inspiration that, when reflected upon, turns out to be utterly ridiculous and implausible but still worth a mention in a blog that has 22 followers (one of them a dog).

The urge to get back to the beach as winter drags on and SAD kicks in; and beware the weever

2011-08-08T11:36:00.003+10:00

I need to get back to the beach and into the ocean. The withdrawal symptoms are starting to kick in: restlessness, lack of concentration, a tendency to daydream (more frequently than usual), short fuse, no focus, alcohol dependency (any excuse will do) and sluggishness (no slime thank you very much).

I've convinced myself my symptoms reflect those of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).

The Mayo Clinic website says less daylight in autumn and winter, genetics and age are all factors that could contribute to SAD.

You can read more about the role melatonin plays in the condition at

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/sad/MY00371

The Mayo Clinic's experts suggest light therapy, which is fine if you live in a country where there's hardly any daylight. But in Australia even in winter the sun shines brightly enough to have the same effect as a special light contraption, though the contraption's only advantage is it doesn't emit UV rays.

My issues are I don't live close to a beach so tend not to go unless the weather's hot and there's an organised ocean swim. Also, I don't have a wet suit and, to be honest, I don't feel like swimming for long periods in 16 degree Celsius water in winter. I can see the die-hards roll their eyes and hear them "tsk tsk". I can't go there without a seal suit!

So that will be my next purchase when Spanner isn't looking.

And on another topic - BELIEVE IT OR NOT - England has a poisonous fish species! This summer more than 1000 holidaymakers swimming at the seaside in the UK have been spiked by the weever, the country's most venomous fish.

Lordy lord, I just Googled 'the weever' and it's a shocker. The culprit is the lesser weever (not its relative the greater weever), a sandy coloured six-inch long fish, which buries itself in the sand. Unsuspecting bathers step on it and its spiky dorsal fin becomes embedded in the flesh and releases venom.

Andy Horton of the British Marine Life Study Society writes that the pain is "excruciating" and at its most "intense" for the first two hours. As with bluebottles, the method of treatment is to put the affected limb into really hot water.

Apparently, weevers have always been a nuisance in summer on the south-west coast but this year they've sprung up at Hastings on the south coast and North Yorkshire. The reason? Warmer sea temperatures.

The wimpy lesser weever won't kill you though, so Australia still retains bragging rights on its vast array of DEADLY venomous creatures. So there Poms... take that *fish slap*.

It's a sad day when the king of lane 8 gets promoted to lane 7

2011-08-01T12:29:00.004+10:00

As I've said in a recent post, swim squad members know their place. I'm in the slowest lane, lane 8, which I share with a group of nice people who aren't too competitive. By this, I mean they aren't like the faster swimmers in lane 7 who pull out all stops to lead the lane in their quest to move into the stellar lane 8.

So, today it was with great sadness that I farewelled my lane buddy Mr Really Big (with apologies to Candace Bushnell but I couldn't think of anything original because it's Monday and, the thing is, Mr RB is just that. He's easily six foot and quite stocky in a nice sort of 'Mr Big' way, which I'd never reveal to Spanner ... I'm rambling, so I'd better get back to the story).

Mr RB and I had a lot of fun in lane 8. I'd swim in his bubbly wake and tap his toes just to remind him that he was always in danger of being overtaken (it nearly killed me). Then he upped his squad attendance and before I knew it his toes were a distant memory as I struggled to even see his bubbles.

Today Mr RB's hard work finally paid off. He started the morning in lane 8 but our coach quickly moved him into lane 7.

I must admit to feeling a sense of loss. No more fun for me.

After the one-and-a-half-hour session he was buggered! Mr RB and I are the same age, so I can understand why. Lane 7 is brimming with 20-somethings who have bucket-loads of energy and all the time in the world to swim, cycle and run.

Farewell Mr RB, maybe you'll return to lane 8 one day - after suffering a minor heart attack.

PS: I bet Mr RB will try to sneak back into lane 8 at the next squad session. It's a safe haven in a world driven by blind ambition.

It's no wonder I swim: life in the madhouse

2011-07-30T18:21:00.001+10:00

I live in a madhouse. This is partly because I have one mad (as a meat axe) daughter, The Hiss, who spends the weekend working herself into a hysterical lather because of an impending maths test (on other weekends replace 'maths' with science).

Because the logic of the square root eludes her she vents her anger on Spanner and me. I try to keep out of it but her wild rants inevitably suck me into her whirlpool of rage and bitter recriminations.

"What would you know about maths, Mum. Keep out of it. Leave me alone." This is delivered in a scream as I try to intervene to protect Spanner, who has attempted to break down the mystery of Pythagorean theory into a simple sentence. He fails miserably because The Hiss listens to no one. All she hears is the crashing of numbers as they threaten to smother her in their infinite configurations.

Poor Hiss. If only she realised that maths is just numbers and that accountants can do the hard stuff once you're my age. But she doesn't get it. So we all suffer. Even the poor dog covers her ears and follows me out of the room when the books, pencils and pens start to fly.

It could be worse. I guess.

Back to the pool where my efforts to follow the clock induce the same level of panic that I'm sure is experienced by The Hiss.

Like mother like daughter.

The hierachy of the swim squad: from the fast lane 6 to the slow lane 8

2011-07-22T12:05:00.001+10:00

I've learnt a lot about the human condition since I started to attend a swim squad.

Social researchers would benefit from observing the hierarchy of my squad. In so many ways it fits the model that defines school playground and office politics. Life really.

When I first joined, I sensed resentment from a couple of my peers in lane 8. I often wondered if it was just me as I tried to find my place in the gang. Initially, I failed to endear myself to one woman - easily my age - because I didn't understand the 'clock', red and black caps and time repeats. She gave me the cold shoulder but didn't offer to educate me. And no one bothered to acknowledge let alone talk to me.

It was the same in the change room, where all the lanes merge to queue for the showers.

I felt like a fish out of water, way out of my depth.

Then, slowly, I ingratiated myself into the lane 8 'inner circle'. It's taken this long, but I've worked on my image as an easy-going sort of sheila who likes a joke and plays by the rules (no cheating the clock). Ha ha!

The woman who originally hated my guts now chats to me and I'm mates with the blokes who make sure I never catch up to them (men - but that's another story). I know my place in the group.

Of course, lanes 7 and 6 are out of bounds to those in lane 8. These are the faster swimmers (many in lane 6 are elite triathletes) who don't even glance at the motley lot in lane 8.

However, the lane 7 swimmers in particular have to guard their territory because lane 8 is not immune to ambition. For some in 8, 7 is the impossible dream, sort of like Everest but nothing like it at all.

Being in lane 8 is like the first year of high school. The older more experienced students who've been at the school longer know the ropes and have mastered the skills of survival. They abhor the newbies who haven't proven themselves worthy of inclusion in the exclusive upper eschelons.

Lane 8 is uncool. And worst of all, we're slow.

One day I would like to be in lane 7, and when that day comes I'll let you know.

PS: I'm thinking that if everything goes according to plan and I maintain my current three days a week, it will take around 12 months.

PPS: I also have to take into account that I'm no spring chicken and the average age of the women in the squad would be mid-20s. For me, those days are long gone and so is the energy!

The key to swimming faster is to join a squad and stick with it, I think

2011-07-20T20:41:00.010+10:00

This morning the wind howled and the rain slammed down as I crept out of the house at 5.42am and bolted for the car.

I'm now in the habit of doing this three days a week come rain, hail or shine.

My partner Spanner does all he can to sabotage me. Why? he asks. It's so warm and cosy here. Don't go.

Spanner is jealous (that's what I like to think - I must mean more to him than 'bed warmer'). But I don't care. I'm heading off to 6am swimming squad and he can't bear it that I have a hobby I love (not more than him but it is a toss of the coin).

My addiction to swimming squad has grown since Christmas, when I first joined and attended intermittently. Then things got serious. I befriended several of my peers in lane 8. We agreed we were relaxed about squad and carried on about how we loved the slow lane and had no aspirations to move into lane 7 with the faster swimmers (there's also the 'elite' lane 6 but that's the impossible dream).

After a while I noticed my mates' times were getting faster while I stayed the same. And it transpired that they were putting in the hard yards while I was tucked up in a cosy bed with Spanner whose attempts to undermine my swimming career have become far more sophisticated and devious.

Now the gloves are off. I've decided the only way to improve and prepare for the summer ocean swimming season is to do squad three times a week.

Let's see how long this lasts!

Here's some trivia for English and Irish readers of this blog (I'm sure there's thousands of you out there): I guarantee there are more Poms and Irish in the pool (and in my squad) than there are Aussies. And they're mad.

They come to Australia and throw themselves into outdoor sports like they've only got a minute left to live. My theory is it's because they've existed for years in a dark and gloomy climate and now they feel they have to make up for all that lost time spent in a cosy bed. That's what I call jealousy.

PS: This is a photo of the English swimming team training in Edinburgh for the 2012 London Olympics. Brrrr.

PPS: I'll keep you informed of my progress. Don't hold your breath.

Winter blues in Sydney with dreams of swimming in Fiji and the Dardanelles

2011-07-18T11:58:00.001+10:00

If I were a rich woman with time on my hands I'd do a couple of the overseas ocean swims to break up the monotony of winter in an overcast, cold Sydney.

The website www.oceanswims.com promotes several fantastic looking excursions to faraway places, with adventurous swims included in the deal.

While I should be working, I've been dreaming about swimming in pristine conditions in the South Pacific. From August 25-27, the Beachcomber Island swims in Fiji offer a 19 km relay, a 2.7 km and 1 km swim. The prices seem hefty - it costs $175 to register for the 2.7 km swim. I think it's bumped up another 100 bucks if you want to add the relay. Maybe you get a nice lunch after? Dunno. But it's a lot.

After all this is over, and you are really rich with not a care in the world, you can hang around for the Yasawas SwimCruise from August 14-19 (see below).

Still in Fiji, from September 16-18 you can do the Mana Island swims and then stay until September 25 for another Yasawas SwimCruise. The Yasawas are a an "island chain"* and this trip is a non-competitive swimming holiday where lucky lucky participants do a different swim every day.

I AM GREEN WITH ENVY.

Also on the ocean swims calendar is one swim I would like to attempt before I fall off this planet and into the arms of the cosmos. It's the Dardanelles swim on August 30, which happens to be Turkish National Day. Swimmers cross the 4.5 km stretch of sea from Eceabat on the European side of the Dardanelles to Canakkale on the Asian side. The water temperature is 27 degrees Celsius, but the conditions are unpredictable and last year's swim was a doozy - I don't think I would've made it.

Here's the link:

http://www.militaryhistorytours.com.au/site/Dardanelles_Swim_2011.asp

I have borrowed the pic of lucky chickens swimming in the Yasawas from the Ocean Swims website. I think you have to see how beautiful it is to understand why I am thumping my head on the keyboard in order to dull the pain of knowing I won't be in that pic this year. Maybe 2012 - the year of great possibilities for all!

*This is the Ocean Swims description, which reminds me of a sparkling emerald necklace.

Crying: when is the right time to shed a tear?

2011-07-16T15:47:00.008+10:00

My youngest daughter Miss Hissy (aka The Hiss) is at a leadership camp. As if that isn't funny enough, The Hiss has sent two text messages from camp HQ that have caused much merriment in our household.

The first came after I asked her, via text message, how it was going.

She wrote: Everyone here is so emotional but in a good way.

In a good way? I immediately imagined a gathering of precocious teens locked into a group hug after each had made public some tragic aspect of their cossetted life.

My response: Emotional? Gawd!

You may think I'm being harsh but let me put you in the picture. In our house there has to be a good reason for tears. For example: death of dog or other pet variety (though you're stretching it with gold fish and axolotls), broken bones (fingers and toes don't count, only important bones) and the final episode of MasterChef for 2011.

My mother's advice was to stop crying over trivial matters. For example: acrimonious divorce, loss of job and frustration from dealing with ungrateful spouse and selfish children.

I'll admit there is stuff that makes me spontaneously cry like today in the supermarket when the man on the PA system told shoppers the grocery packers at each checkout were scouts raising money to get to the world jamboree in Sweden. That sense of community touched me and I got all teary.

And there are certain songs that make me cry like U2's One Love, which was also playing in the supermarket today and probably caused me to toss into the shopping trolley items I wouldn't usually buy.

This 'empathy for others' type of crying is acceptable. It's the 'woa is me' type of crying that gets my goat.

For sure, I bawled my eyes out during my acrimonious divorce but I didn't bore the rest of the world with my venting. In fact, I did a lot of it while I was in the car and found that driving and crying works a treat for downloading excess 'woa is me' grief.

Seriously, try it. In January, I drove in a highly-charged hormonal state from Sydney to Belmont and sobbed all the way from the start of the F3. By the time I arrived I felt great.

The Hiss's second text message was: Yeah, everyone is crying except me!

My response: Ha ha, go girl!

I realise teenagers are over-emotional creatures and the world revolves around them. But it won't always. My point is if a child falls over and it's just a grazed knee there's no reason to cry. Get back up, check everything's OK and get on with it.

PS: I bet The Hiss was desperate to cry and probably did everything in her power (pinched herself, thought of dog dying) to eek a trace of moisture from those stubbornly dry eyes.

A stiff breeze and a stiff drink

2011-07-05T12:52:00.001+10:00

It's blowing a gale here in Cleveland, Queensland. Not Cleveland, Ohio.

I'll head out to Manly, Queensland (not Manly, Sydney), later today with fingers crossed that The Hiss has sailed into the record books and not into last place on the final day of the regatta.

There will be dire consequences for Spanner and me if she fails in her quest to dominate world sailing. I fear I will be forced to consume a bottle of red in order to numb the pain of her verbal abuse.

I haven't yet heard from Spanner, and that's not good. If The Hiss does well Spanner is more buoyant than a cork. Sadly, he lives vicariously through his children. In this case it is the second child as his first-born failed to embrace sailing, the only sport on the planet that Spanner cares about.

Geez, I'm freaking out. Why hasn't he called? She must be coming bloody last. Capsized on Moreton Bay. Screaming blue murder. This is a nightmare.

Worse still, we have left our home in Sydney and our dog (I LOVE MY DOG) in the care of my eldest daughter, Precious Princess. She's 20. Say no bloody more.

As 'Anonymous' wrote in the comment section of my last post, it is highly likely that my castle has been trashed by a horde of Gen-Ys with nothing at all on their minds. EMPTY VESSELS IN SEARCH OF FUN.

I sent a text message to PP on Sunday night. Here it is:

Me: 'How are you going?'
PP: 'Balls deep.'
Me: 'What?'
Me: 'Is it OK?'
PP: Sorry, that was Charlotte. Going good. Just having a movie night. Dog is happy in her basket.'
Me: 'If anything happens to dog I blame Charlotte.'
PP: 'She will not be left alone with dog.'
Me:'Dog will tell me everything.'

Realistically, the dog won't be telling me anything. How I wish she could talk.

Arrgghhh, another gust of wind. It's an ill wind that blows no good!

P.S. I've added another post to my writing blog. Click on the shaynesands link to read all about my experience in the Valerie Parv Award.

Sailing not swimming: Manly in Queensland not Sydney

2011-07-04T11:21:00.004+10:00

Flying 11s, 29ers and Lasers at the Royal Queensland Yacht Squadron on Manly Harbour

When tourists come to Sydney they often visit Manly Beach, an enticing strip of golden sand that forms the backdrop for a surf beach world-renowned for its gnarly breaks. Up until recently, I'd never realised there was another Manly in Australia.

But here I am, not far from Manly in Brisbane, Qld, where Miss Hissy is sailing in a regatta on Moreton Bay. I'm not familiar with Brisbane at all. When I was here two years ago for an RWA conference, I spent most of my time at the hotel in workshops, so only glimpsed the city. It'll be interesting to see how it's changed since the floods early this year that swept away the riverside walk.

We're staying in Cleveland, which is an outer suburb. It's also a 20 minute drive to Manly (it looked closer on the map when Spanner booked the accommodation).

This morning I went for a walk around Cleveland's Raby Bay, which is crammed with mega-mansions that sit cheek-by-jowl and consume every centimetre of the land they occupy.

They come in every style, with the only common factor being that size matters. They are bloody gi-normous - there's no room for modesty here. I can't begin to imagine the resources that were gobbled up in their construction or the energy it must take to maintain them. Bali inspired, US White House, angular deco, Swiss Alps and RSL club architect-designed homes jostle for prime position along the man-made canals. One home for sale boasted a block 2373 square metres with its own private jetty.

The area is flat - excellent for weekend cyclists, it reminds me of Port Phillip Bay in Melbourne in that respect - because Moreton and Raby Bays must have, a long time ago, been filled with mangroves. In Raby Bay it seems most of the mangroves have been tarred over and replaced with sparsely spaced palm trees.

I didn't see a lot of people in Raby Bay and not one car on the tessellated bricks roads, but the few dog walkers I passed greeted me with big smiles (something that doesn't happen a lot in 'sour-puss bum face we're too busy to bother being friendly' Sydney).

However, the lack of human activity led me to speculate that some of the residents may have got lost as they rattled around their own homes and eventually died. The mansions have become mausoleums that will one day sink back into the mud from which they rose.

It's just a thought...

Back to the sailing: there's not one breath of wind to be had today. So Miss Hissy will 'choke'. She loses her mojo when there's no breeze so she'll be in a foul mood when she and Spanner get back to Cleveland this evening.

I can't wait.

Byron Bay dolphins hate me

2011-06-29T15:52:00.004+10:00

Wategos Beach at Byron Bay

Sunset at Wategos Beach


Sunset at Wategos beach I went to Byron Bay for Ms Fivestar's birthday bash, which was a huge success. The weather was bee-ewd-ifull, so I swam every day even though the water was a 'refreshing' 17 degrees (that's my 'guess'-timate). Before I caught the flight home on Monday afternoon I did a kayaking tour in search of dolphins, whales and turtles. The dolphins, which were in abundance that morning, disappeared as soon as my friend, Mr Irish, and I, paddled out. I had warned Mr Irish about my relationship with dolphins. When they see me coming, they swim in the other direction. Our guide, a laid-back older surfie boy (circa 1978), told us it was going to be a good day for wildlife because the ocean was flat, and early that morning he'd seen heaps of dolphins fishing and frolicking in the bay. I said nothing, but I knew otherwise. I would love to be a child of the ocean who attracted dolphins in their hundreds. But dolphins hate me. When they know I'm around, they send out a sonar message to clear out of the immediate area ASAP. I don't know what it is about me that they find unattractive. I think they must latch on to my desperate desire to have them love me. Maybe they think I'm too needy. Or neurotic. And that affects their own sense of well-being and 'dolphin-ness'. Know what I mean? I swear that every dolphin-spotting tour I've done has been a flop, that leaves tour guides scratching their heads: "I can't understand why the dolphins aren't here today," a guide commented when I took the kids on a dolphin cruise at Port Stephens several years ago. He added: "Yesterday a pod of 50 came right up to the boat and swam with us the whole trip." That's not to say that we didn't see anything during our seven kilometre paddle (what a workout). We spotted: a whale's spout in the distance, a green turtle popping his head out of the water, several dolphin fins in the distance and a mako shark leaping out of the water - yes, it's true. But, as usual, I was looking the other way and only saw the splash. I blame the dolphins; they were playing with my head.

Gotta whoel lotta love (meeeeeeew) gotta whole lotta love (meeeeeeew): off to ByronBay AGAIN

2011-06-24T11:59:00.001+10:00

Today I'm off to Byron Bay to celebrate the life and times of Ms Fivestar, who turns SPECIAL tomorrow when she hits life's halfway mark.

Now, to you the definition of halfway may differ from mine. Used to be that mid-life was around 40, and if you talk to my daughters it's more like 25.

It's funny how we view the world when we're young.

I do remember my sex education teacher (that's what they called it back then) in high school, Mrs Grey (or was it Day?). She would sit and explain to us the intricacies of male and female genitalia in a soothing matter-of-fact tone, and I would stare at her skin. She had a habit of resting her hand on her cheek, and this had the effect of pushing her skin into crepe-paper creases. I found this fascinating. I thought she was ancient. Many years later I realsised she was probably 50 at the time. Poor Mrs Grey Day. Who'd wanna be a teacher?

My favourite comment directed at me from a students is: "Gee, I bet you were good looking when you were young." And just lately, one of my students said I reminded her of the actress in Boston Legal. Turns out she was talking about Candace Bergen. I wonder how much work she's had done? I wonder how bloody old she is!

Life is a cruel mistress, but going to Byron Bay for the weekend isn't a bad way to wallow in one's own misplaced vanity.

Gotta whole lot of love... gotta whole lotta love...

PS: Sorry, no pics as off to airport and not working on my computer, which is broken

Bin a long time, bin a long lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely time... why I hate winter in Sydney

2011-06-20T21:40:00.003+10:00

Sitting next to bar heater in small, cramped poorly-lit room, eating cheddar cheese Sakatas from the packet (feel sick) and drinking cheap red wine while marking students' exam papers and trying to block out bad vibes from lounge room where Spanner is attempting a miracle - to convince our daughter Miss Hissy (aka The Hiss) of the value of the square root in everyday life.

Seriously, the real square root is the one you have with your partner of 16 years, but you can't explain the truth of the matter to a 15 year old who would be, understandably, grossed out.

There's not enough MSG cheesy flavour on the crackers. I will write a letter of complaint to Sakata first thing tomorrow.

I have made a really nice stewy braised beef with tomatoes, which is in the oven and needs no interference for another hour. But Spanner can't help himself. He's already poking and prodding it.

Brings me back to square roots.

I hate winter in Sydney.

More than 73 million sharks are killed each year

2011-06-09T19:59:00.005+10:00

Do you know why?

For soup.

Fishermen catch the sharks and hack off their fins before tossing them overboard. Sharks need to be constantly moving so their gills can extract oxygen from the water. Without their fins, they sink to the ocean floor where they starve to death, drown or are eaten alive by other fish.

A fisherman who kills sharks and sells their fins can make $US700 per kilogram.

The fins are in huge demand from restaurants, particularly in Hong Kong and mainland China, where they are mostly used in gourmet Chinese soups*.

Global Shark Conservation at the Pew Environment Group (PEG) claims that "finning" is responsible for a 90 per cent decline in some shark species.

The group recently reported that 30 per cent of all shark species are immediately threatened or near threatened with extinction.

The thing is, without sharks we're stuffed. The website http://www.stopsharkfinning.net/ says if sharks disappear "all hell with break loose". It explains that the large shark species are "apex" predators and "ecological stabilisers". For example, on the USA east coast the elimination of several large shark species has led to the proliferation of smaller sharks, rays and skate. These smaller fish have devoured the shellfish population. The role of shellfish is to filter the water, but now they're gone water quality has been seriously damaged.

"Once you remove apex predators from an ecosystem the result is the same as removing foundations from a building - total collapse," says Stop Shark Finning.

I know we're all torn between supporting numerous causes and the shark isn't the first creature that comes to mind when considering how to help the environment.

*However, you can make a small difference by BOYCOTTING restaurants where shark fin soup is served and by passing this information on to your friends. AUSTRALIA IS INDIRECTLY INVOLVED IN FINNING BY ALLOWING RESTAURANTS TO SERVE SHARK FIN SOUP. Go to this link for a list of restaurants in Australia that serve shark fin soup:

http://www.stopsharkfinning.net/boycott-australia.htm