Good Friday: Fresh conditions at the Freshwater SLSC Barney Mullins Swim Classic 2013

I wasn't going to start with the fact that I beat Mr Mild Mannered in this 1.5km swim at Freshwater Beach. Nope. Definitely not. As I always say, save the best for last...

I was going to start this post close to the end of the swim when I started to swim back towards the shore and slowed my stroke to gasp at the sight of the sea spray flying off the white tops of waves as they broke in quick succession.

I remembered I hadn't even thought about Good Friday in my haste to get to the beach. I kept swimming and apologised to Jesus for forgetting about this important day on the Christian calendar.

"Hi Jesus, I know you're probably otherwise occupied what with all those stations of the cross re-enactments and church services all over the place. But if you could just spare a thought for me for a minute or two*. I mean really, even thirty seconds is OK.

"I know, I know, I'm in two minds about all this religion stuff. I know I know, I should commit one way or the other. But if you could just give me a gentle set on the way in I could be persuaded in your direction.

"Shit, don't be so stupid, just swim through it. The waves aren't that bad. It's been an easy summer with mostly flat conditions. Just because this is the first real OCEAN swim since Palmy to Whale at the end of January, you're freaking out. Just swim in. You're a pro. This is nothing."

BLAH. It really wasn't that bad. It's just, I get a bit nervy when confronted by a solid wall of water poised to crash down and suck in anything in its path.

I got tossed around twice on the way in, but the waves were more showy than serious. Through the foamy bubbles I could find my way to the surface without too much trouble.

After the swim, Mr Mild Mannered said a woman swimming close to him on the way in put up her hand for a tow in from the surf life savers. I guess that shows how daunting some of the sets were.

The conditions were challenging because of a combination of full moon, high tide and a powerful wind blowing in (not sure where from, will have to check). It was breezy and the surf had built overnight.

My eldest daughter Precious Princess came with me, prepared to do her first ocean swim since November. She managed the surf OK but did back stroke for some of the way in, in order to keep an eye on the waves building behind her.

Before the swim started we caught up with Mr Mild Mannered, The Masseuse, Mr Smith of the Smiths of Taree and Sharkman.

The Masseuse and Mr Smith tried to scare us with comments such as "Looks pretty ugly out there" but we weren't about to fall for their head-game patter.

We just had to get around the four cans lined up in a 1.5 km rectangular course with a dog leg at the end.

By the time my wave, the fourth, started it was evident the swimmers ahead of us were veering to the left to take advantage of a rip running out.

I should have followed The Masseuse, who went in that direction, but I ran straight ahead on the starter hooter and into a set that kept dragging me back to shore. I must have ducked under a dozen waves before I got to clear water.

The challenges kept coming. The first buoy was a long way out and it seemed to take forever to reach. Also, my goggles filled several times and I stopped each time to empty them. Argh.

One of the swim highlights was the reef that seemed to teem with fish. I don't know if anyone else saw all the creatures? Amazing and beautiful.

It wasn't easy getting a rhythm as the swell heaved in dramatic sweeps. I was reminded of Byron Bay 2012, where swimmers got the ride of their lives on massive wave rollercoasters.

After finally turning at the first can, I caught up with and passed some of my pink-capped peers. Then many of the older blue-capped swimmers who started in the last wave began to overtake me. You can't win in this caper!

Turning right around the second buoy I was able to catch the swell that had buffeted me on the way out. It's such a pleasure to rest on the swell as it gently helps you move to your final destination.      

And you know the rest of the story.

Except for this. On only one other occasion have I claimed a better finish time than Mr Mild Mannered. That was two years ago at the Bondi to Bronte swim, a shocker of a marathon. Mr Mild Mannered has always been able to explain that I only garnered a superior time because his peloton took at battering at the swim's start when a massive set rolled in to Bondi as they attempted to get out past it.

But yesterday? Mmm. Really, there's no excuse for the 23 second defeat.

I'll catch up with Mr Mild Mannered tomorrow at the Bondi swim.

Can't wait.   


**How obscenely selfish is that? Spare a thought for me? I wasn't even worried about Precious Princess doing her first swim for four months. No no no. It's all about the old duck!

Warriewood to Mona Vale ocean swim: the outcome of lousy ins and outs, and heels as soft as velvet

The day unfolded thus:

Drove to the northern beaches past burnt-out pockets of bushland and still-smouldering sections of national park. It's been a long hot summer and it ain't over yet.

However, yesterday's weather was mild and even a bit drizzly later in the day.

The Hiss and I met Mrs Haveachat in the Mona Vale beach carpark and we jumped on the government charter bus that ferried punters and hangers' on south to Warriewood beach.

The bus pulled up at the top of the hill in front of a cluster of funky cafes, all well patronised on an overcast Sunday morning.

Down the long flight of concrete stairs and on to the golden sands of Warriewood. As with so many of the ocean swims, I'd never swum at Warriewood until I started this swimming caper in 2007. 
 
I didn't do the swim in 2012. Dunno why. Maybe I had more of a life this time last year.
 
I have unashamedly stolen this description of Warriewood beach from the Pittwater Council website: it runs for 500m from the northern cliff face and rocks to the base of Turrimetta Head, which protects it from the south, causing it to curve around and face the north east. A single attached bar runs to the north and is cut by a permanent rip that flows out over the southern rocks known as pot rock.

Because the tide was low, Mrs Haveachat and The Hiss decided to walk around the northern cliff face and along Mona Vale beach to the finish line, 1.6km as the crow flies. The Hiss volunteered to carry my backpack as any good daughter should. 

Warriewood often has a reasonable surf and the breeze had set up some chop out the back. The waves were manageable and I felt quietly confident that I could get out to the first of the six buoys on the course without a hassle. 

The course ran north from Warriewood and turned in to the beach almost in front of Mona Vale surf club. I don't think I've done a destination swim this season. This was the first. I was happy because I'd be able to see the beach and better sight the cans - all big and cylindrical - during the swim. 

The Hiss took this pic. It's her favourite. She's not fussy about beer handles!

Another great pic from The Hiss. Desperate old blokes.

I started with the second last group of swimmers, men and women, in pink caps. First mistake - trying to stride through smallish waves. I should have dived shallow underneath. My coach would be appalled at such laziness. 

The waves pushed me back and I got a lousy start. It lost me a couple of minutes. 

BUT - let me share this with you - once I started, having cleared foggy goggles on loan from The Hiss, I was on fire. I surged out to the first can. I passed HEAPS of pink caps.  


DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR...


Of course those barrels with stick legs, the ruddy-faced old timers in the green caps, had to come along and crush my fantasy. Several of them drifted by me as though they'd flicked a switch into hyperdrive. I hate 'em. 

I didn't let 'em dent the fragile ego that could turn on me at any second. It remained intact. 

Just.

Turn to breathe, face the shore. A ribbon of sand and a small dune behind. Blow bubbles into the glassy ocean. Breathe. Watch my hands, my arms, clean and shimmering champagne sparkle.  

Tick off the cans - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and lucky six - two big pink cubes lashed together for easy sighting.

On the way in I aimed for a group of pink-capped swimmers ahead of me. The surf was medium sized, not killer waves, but enough to put me on alert. I haven't done enough practise in real ocean-swimming conditions this season. This was the real thing. A lot of good surf swimmers would have used the rolling sets to their advantage. 

I freaked out a bit. And I was worried I'd lose The Hiss's goggles so I hesitated and, rather than try to catch a wave, I turned and dived back under it. When I did catch one I collided with another swimmer in a pink cap - I basically went over the top of him. It took longer than I would have liked to get back in. 

The walk around the rocks from Warriewood to Mona Vale.

The end snapped by The Hiss.

The Hiss and Mrs Haveachat were waiting. I asked The Hiss for my towel, which was in my backpack. No towel No backpack. The Hiss couldn't remember whether she'd carried it from Warriewood to Mona Vale. Sometimes I wonder. 

The Hiss and I jumped on the bus back to Warriewood, scrambled down the steps and ran on to the sand. Let me correct that - I ran on to the sand. The bus driver said he'd wait for us and The Hiss, who hadn't just swum 1.6km, complained about being tired. 

I ran and ran and ran - more like tottered teetered tottered across the soft sand towards the surf lifesaving tent at the northern end. Then I heard my name being called. "MUM MUM MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM!"

The Hiss found the backpack at the southern end of the beach. Repeat: Tottered teetered tottered.

Huffed and puffed back up the steps.

And there he stood at the top. Our lovely bus driver had kept his promise.  


The kindness of strangers.

Back at Mona Vale, Mrs Haveachat had recorded the winners in my age group on her iPhone. The attack of the Lisas. These women are hubots. I hate 'em.

Then we sat through the raffle. Over 30 prizes and only a hundred or so desperate people still hanging around. 

Tore up the ticket, went to have a swim near the rockpool swimming pool and discovered a heel cream company promotion with massage therapists giving free five minute foot massages. Mrs Haveachat and I couldn't resist*.


Then we had a swim through reedy green sea grass the colour of fresh peas. It got a bit chilly - hard to believe considering the temperature hit 48 degrees Celsius at home on Friday.

Cold showers followed by flat white, soy latte and spicy thick cut chips at the cafe on the beach. 

A big catchup with Mrs Haveachat, who should have her own talk-back radio show.

     
Exhausted but happy.

Score out of 10: 10

Any gripes: I can only whinge so much about local member Bronwyn Bishop. In her favour, she's pretty handy with a starter gun/horn and yesterday she wore a snazzy white capri pants suit rather reminiscent of the early 1980s.

Seriously, nothing to complain about except  

bottled water should be banned 

Give finishers water in paper cups. Bottles are left on the beach and it's up to those in the community who value the environment to clean up the mess made by lazy slobs. 

The event's pros:
*Free parking in Mona Vale beach car park, especially for the swim 
*Bag drop
*Started on time
*BIG CANS AND ENOUGH OF THEM GUIDING SWIMMERS IN A STRAIGHT LINE to the last can
*Lots of assistance on the water
*Harris Farm came through with the fresh fruit. I made myself ill on watermelon. The Hiss nicked half a dozen bananas (we do shop there)
*Presentation started on time
*The raffle is a good incentive to hang around
*The bus service is a winner: our bus driver drives the local route to Manly and to the city return during the week and volunteers as a surf lifesaver at the club on weekends. He is a legend.


*Afterwards, Mrs Haveachat ended up with a box of leftover heel cream. I took around 100 packs. She's got around 1000. In a couple of weeks we'll have heels softer than velvet. What more could you want?

PS: I only noticed when looking through the results that the number of men in yesterday's swim seemed exceptionally large. Out of 571 starters, 396 were male and 175 female. I'm sure there are usually more women. Maybe it's just the first time I've noticed the unevenness in ratio of men to women.

Mrs Haveachat and The Hiss. Where's my backpack?

Now for something completely different in the lead-up to Christmas: let's talk about sharks

I picked up a postcard that advertised an exhibition at the National Maritime Museum called Planet Shark - Predator or Prey. It's on until the February 27, 2011.

As an ocean swimmer, I find sharks fascinating and terrifying. I don't think about them every time I enter the open water, but when I get separated from the peloton (I told you I was slow and lacked a sense of direction) my imagination goes into overdrive as I consider the sonar signals my kicking size-7 feet might send out to a horde of ravenous carnivores.

Bruce the vegetarian shark does not exist. Sharks eat meat using their multiple rows of monstrous dagger-shaped teeth to tear into human flesh as the victim thrashes in a sea of her own blood while her limbs are severed - one by one. And so on and so forth. Blah blah blah.

But because I'm a rational person, I know my chances of being attacked by a shark are miniscule. On http://www.funny2.com/, there's a list of odds, which claims the chance of dying from a shark attack is 1 in 300,000,000.

This American website says 1 in 3 people will die from heart disease (go easy on the plum pudding and custard on Christmas Day) and there's a 1 in 18,585 chance of carking it in a car accident. And to really get you in a festive mood, the chance of dying from any kind of injury during the next year is 1 in 1820.

Sharks are seriously dangerous and I'm not gonna dangle my tootsies off most of the coast of South Australia or WA, but I'm also not getting my knickers in a knot when all the ocean swimming events I enter put swimmer safety first.

Here's what Time Out magazine says of the Maritime Museum exhibition:
Explore the murky myths and fascinating facts which have surrounded one of the most misunderstood animals on earth for centuries. Journey through Planet Shark and see full-scale specimen models, fossils, real teeth and jaws, original items from the 1975 movie Jaws and interviews with shark attack survivors. Gain a new level of respect and understanding for the oceans oldest predator.

Survivors of shark attacks often become sharks' greatest advocates. Navy diver Paul de Gelder, who lost his right hand and lower leg when he was attacked by a bull shark in Sydney Harbour in 2009, now lobbies the UN for stronger international trade regulations to protect sharks.

In an interview in September, de Gelder said: "Do we have the right to drive any animal to the brink of extinction before any action is taken? Regardless of what an animal does according to its base instincts of survival, it has its place in our world. We have an obligation to protect and maintain the natural balance of our delicate ecosystems."

Off to watch sailing in Tassie

We're off to the Apple Isle for a week to watch Miss Hissy sail, so I'll miss out on two Sydney ocean swims.

The first is this Sunday at Bondi. Apparently there's been a record number of entries, so I don't really mind that I won't be there. It could be a bun fight.

The week after is Avalon, which is a beautiful beach on the northern peninsula. I must admit I prefer the northern beaches to the eastern suburbs. Bondi might be iconic, but it's always crowded - heaps of Irish and English trying to get a sun tan (there's a laugh) - and too showy for mine (A-list celebrities hanging out at Icebergs).

When I return I plan to start another blog specifically dedicated to writing. It's too hard to juggle ocean swimming and romance writing in the one blog. Some people just aren't interested in ocean swimming and others don't care two hoots about my writing goals and all the other trivia concerning life in the 'burbs.

I'll be back on board after January 18. See you soon and take care.

Mollymook Beach Ocean Classic: the mother of all swims

About 200 mad men and women braved the wild Sunday weather to swim in the Mollymook Beach Ocean Classic on the NSW south coast. Davo and I wuz there and we dunnit.

Prior to the 2km swim, we stood shivering on the sand at North Mollymook while the race starter read the riot act, which always includes stuff about sharks, stingers and how if we die during the swim the surf club takes no responsibility, etc etc blah blah blah. He reached the end of the spiel, reminded us there was always next year, and asked: "Are there any questions?"

From the back of the pack came: "Why are we doing this?" Nervous laughter all round - it was Davo's minute of fame (You've got 14 minutes left Davo).

Why? WHY? WHY? would we battle three-metre swells, blinding rain and a massive surf on the way in and out?

Because we're flaming eejits, that's why. And because bloody Davo is soooooo competitive - he made me do it!

This should be an easy swim. It's what the ocean swimming crowd call a "journey" swim because it starts at one end of the beach and ends at the other. For the past three years the conditions have been idyllic - blue skies and crystal clear water with hardly any chop.

But the Southerly that blew in on the Saturday night had done its job and transformed the ocean from a benign creature into a scary beast.

It took me over five minutes to make it to the first can at the 300 metre mark. The swell was relentless and unforgiving. I could only breathe on my left side because I got a gut full of ocean if I turned my head to the right. As usual, I lagged behind and felt like the lone open swimmer - until I spotted another blue cap up ahead.

I followed that cap like it was a beacon. I had no idea where I was because the ocean was slapping me around like a rag doll. I couldn't see the orange booey at the one kilometre mark because the swell formed a wall blocking the view. My fellow blue-capped swimmer asked directions of a surf lifesaver in a rubber dinghy who had picked up an exhausted swimmer. We were instructed to swim out towards the heads as we were too close to the shore where the swell gathered even more momentum.

Finally, land was in sight as I battled my way around the last booey (the bloody thing kept banging into me). As I got closer to shore, visibility in the water decreased as the drag from the surf churned up the sand. I was careful and checked behind me, ducking under the breaking waves and letting them dictate my arrival. It was a relief when my feet felt the firm sand.

Davo finished two minutes earlier. My blue-capped friend arrived a couple of minutes later and said she was glad to have the company! I am no spring chicken but I would estimate this woman to be around 60. She is a legend.

WE ARE LEGEND!

PS: The photo is of the 500 metre swim held at the southern end of the beach two hours earlier. My 12-year-old, Miss Hissy, swam in this event.

romance & swimming are oceans apart

After trying to work out how to combine the two in one blog, I have concluded that ocean swimming and romance writing don't mix.

I mean, are ocean-swimming afficionados at all interested in the internal struggles of an aspiring romance writer?

And do those followers of all things romantic give a toss about a group of nutbags offering themselves up as sharkbait to the great ocean god for a couple of months each year?

I think not.

After many sleepless nights (possibly caused by my guzzling on the cooking wine) I have decided to maintain All at sea for ocean swimming and to create another blog dedicated solely to my other passion - writing.

I'll keep you* posted.

*Who am I kidding? My good friend Ms Smug recently threw this well-intended comment my way: "I don't understand how people can get a kick out of writing something that no one else reads." I wonder if she was talking about me or those zillions of lonely souls who float about in the blogosphere in general? Anyway, if you are reading this Ms Smug you'll have to eat your words!