What happened next (Part 2)
So, as of 21 March, the pools are closed - which seems somehow to be of far greater significance than the borders being closed. Strike while the iron is hot we say, and so I decide that an 8am lighthouse swim on Sunday 22 is definitely in order. The day dawns well: light(ish) northerlies and sun. There are lots of people at the beach, getting ready to plunge into our new swimming reality. We all keep our distance from each other though, with much laughter. I am instructed to hold my breath while zipping up somebody's wetsuit. Zipping down, rather: it's one of those wetsuits with a zip that goes down. Weird.
The new status quo (can you have a new status quo?) requires some logistic re-jigging. I've always left my bag on the benches in Fryberg pool, where I am sure it's always perfectly safe. After our swims, we totter back into the pool, collect our stuff, and enjoy a nice hot shower. This is part of the great ritual. Now, the pool is shut! I don't have a car! Where do I put my stuff? The answer is, of course, somebody else's car. This is fine, and there are several generous offers. But immediately this practicality changes some of the feel of swimming: with my bag in somebody else's car, it places a new responsibility on us to swim together, to start and finish at the same time and an element of autonomy is lost. Of course, we all rely on each other for company and safety in the water. Well, if that is what reality now requires, we must all make compromises.
We have a great swim. It is pretty rough by the time we reach the first buoy. Still feeling rather lithe and supple after my massage, days off from swimming on Thursday and Saturday, and only the 7km on Friday, I feel tremendous. Nothing hurts at all. I zoom to the first buoy very easily. I zoom so rapidly (relatively speaking) that I zoom right past the second buoy. And so on to the third buoy. The water is slightly cooler than in Auckland, and the tide is certainly less helpful. Nevertheless, we have a tremendous time. My companions make complimentary remarks about my fitness. Saturday night's sense of panic and doom about said fitness begins to dissipate: there is no better time for planning than during the slightly boring 800 or so metres between the 1km marker buoy and the fountain, so I plan how I'll try to keep fit and quick while we wait for the pools to open. It will all fall into place. I will get a swim watch, so I can time myself. I can do intervals between the fountain and the 1st buoy, or between the rafts, or sprints between the shore and the raft. Of course, the water will start to get colder, and the weather more of a factor. The sense of clarity and perspective that is my favourite thing about open-water swimming is reassuring.
The water is so lovely, and our group mood is good. John H. leaves the water once we're back at the beach, to go orienteering in a cemetery. A fitting activity during a pandemic. Rebecca and I do another lap around the fountain and out to the 1st buoy and straight back in, just for fun.
The lack of a hot shower grates a little bit, and the changing bunker by the beach stinks. Nevertheless, coffee and toasties are still available. A little group of swimmers assemble around two tables, with lots of room in between, to drink coffee, eat, and think about the way to tackle the winter. What is certain, we decide with great relish, is that we're all going to do lots of lighthouse laps. We'll pay close attention to our heart rates; we'll continue getting in 20km a week (water temperature permitting); we'll visit some other beaches for variety; we'll get really tough.
Mann traoch, Gott lauch*
Later on Sunday afternoon, I post my intention to swim daily (or nearly daily) from Freyberg Beach from 7.30am. Later in the autumn, this will have to be 7.45 or 8am, as sunrise gets later. Lots of people reply to the post on the Wellington Ocean Swimmers page, and everybody expresses enthusiasm for the venture. I still feel more than ready to do a 10km, as promised to my donors, and hope for a light southerlies on 28 or 29 March.
Monday morning dawns, or rather doesn't really dawn. A stronger northerly, a complete lack of sun. Urrggggk. Off I go to the beach, on the bus, possessions pared down to the minimum: Snapper card and (for safety) phone. Joyfully, there are lots of people at the beach. A group from City Swim (I think) are doing laps between the shore and the raft, laying out all their gear - fins, paddles etc - on the beach. John C. turns up, and I carefully conceal my fluoro yellow/green bag behind his bike. No thieves will see it there! In retrospect, I doubt very much whether any thieves would have been around that morning. It was fairly dank.
The swim is a bit strange, the sea being dark, and the sky being dark. It's hard to see the yellow buoys because the choppy water and overcast sky merge into one mass of disorientating greyness. Crepuscular, but morning crepuscular. Forgetting about scary things that live in dark sea, I set out to the second buoy, come back to the fountain, go around again, then catch up with John C. and another swimmer at the fountain. We make one last trip to the first buoy and then swim straight to shore.
The changing bunker smells even worse than on Sunday, and the wind blows that sharp imported sand across the carpark. With a bus coming in five minutes I perform many contortions getting out of my togs and into my hoodie and shorts without exposing anything to Oriental Bay's apartment dwellers. To be honest, it's really bleak! And, will only get bleaker. Once home I have a hot shower and set off for work.
Long story short, work hits the wall, but at least I've ordered a DryRobe to help facilitate easier carpark dressing, post-swim! At 2.10pm, waiting in my classroom to teach two tutorials, there is a curious lack of students. In fact, the campus had felt pretty eerie all day. At 2.20pm nobody had turned up, so I looked at the news, and saw that the Prime Minister had announced a Level 3 alert 20 minutes earlier, and the VC had cancelled classes. I hung around until 3.15, in case anybody showed up for the 3.10 tutorial group (they didn't) and set off for home.
Level 3 changed things. We couldn't really meet in groups for swimming, but swimming was still allowed. Undeterred, we made some plans for socially distanced swimming that was still safe: people should announce their intentions, leave a note on their car dashboards saying when they had gone out and when they would come back. We could all keep an eye on each other, and be safe. The bus situation worried me, but of course,I have my bike.
Tuesday. First officially socially distanced swim, at midday. The wind has dropped, making for a pleasant pedal around to Freyberg. John H. is there, and we make a circuit of the lighthouse. Things seem pretty quiet really, a distinct change in atmosphere. Yes, the sun shines, and there are plenty of people out and about, enjoying the sun and giving children an airing. But it's still different. I give all our landmarks a friendly slap...just in case.
After my Monday morning struggles to get dressed in the carpark, I decide to take a minimalist approach to clothing. Shorts and hoodie or jacket over my togs. I can shower and change at home, and will pedal fast enough not to get cold.
On Wednesday, well, it's different again. We are prepared to go to Level Four in the evening. This means a four-week lockdown. The accommodation you are in, and the people you are with at 9pm will be your accommodation and companions for the next four weeks. No swaps, no visiting. All exercise must be local and solitary. Still, as I pedal around to Oriental Bay, there are plenty of people out and about. Too many people, really, treating the situation as a sunny day off. One icecream place remains open. There's a holiday atmosphere, almost. When I arrive at the beach, fairly early, my swim companion is there: he's been listening to the radio in the car. In the time it has taken me to pedal around the bays, an official State of Emergency has been declared, in advance of the lockdown. John decides to head home, and prepare for these new conditions, but - having pedalled into the gusty northerly I need a cool-down. And it may be the last one. In fact, it probably is the last one... for a while.
Wary of being picked up by the police, or the harbourmaster, or whatever authority patrols the inner harbour in a State of Emergency to reprimand obsessive swimmers, a visit to the lighthouse seemed imprudent. Instead, once in the water, I just tool about - but with purpose. The first buoy, the fountain, the rafts, all get a visit as I zig-zag around in the sea. To say I was feeling ALL the emotions would not be an understatement. However, there's no better place to process all the emotions, and scream a little, is in the sea. Rather like walking, when you simply put your legs into auto-mode, and just trundle along cogitating, I could do the same in the sea. Finally, it seemed time to get out, so I loped back to the Freyberg raft for a final dive. But alas, the raft already had an occupant, a hairy man doing some sort of yoga. It didn't seem fair to haul up and disturb his asanas, so I did another lap of the fountain in some anguish. By the time I returned to the raft, yoga guy had disappeared, so I hauled out, unclipped my tow float, and flung it into the water, and prepared for one good dive.
Somewhat disoncerting, then, having experienced this long dark night of the soul while swimming in wonky circles and triangles, to find people still eating icecreams on the beach. Feeling that I had purged my soul and mortified my flesh in a sort of pre-lockdown ritual (and, more to the point, having no wallet) I eschewed a final icecream, put on some clothes, and pedalled home.
How would four weeks, a minimum of four weeks, without swimming work? Would I be able to incorporate at least a little splash in Lyall Bay into my exercise? What, WHAT would happen to my 10x100@1.30 goal? How would I keep insanity at bay, and maintain some cardiovascular fitness? Would my muscle, its magnitude such that it required longer acupuncture needles, turn to flab? These questions seem trivial when a pandemic comes to town, and death could actually be imminent. But, when facing the prospect of four weeks of an unprecedented situation, which I could do nothing to change or control, a reversion to introspect seemed inevitable.
*Mann traoch, Gott lauch = Man plans, God laughs.
('If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.')
The new status quo (can you have a new status quo?) requires some logistic re-jigging. I've always left my bag on the benches in Fryberg pool, where I am sure it's always perfectly safe. After our swims, we totter back into the pool, collect our stuff, and enjoy a nice hot shower. This is part of the great ritual. Now, the pool is shut! I don't have a car! Where do I put my stuff? The answer is, of course, somebody else's car. This is fine, and there are several generous offers. But immediately this practicality changes some of the feel of swimming: with my bag in somebody else's car, it places a new responsibility on us to swim together, to start and finish at the same time and an element of autonomy is lost. Of course, we all rely on each other for company and safety in the water. Well, if that is what reality now requires, we must all make compromises.
We have a great swim. It is pretty rough by the time we reach the first buoy. Still feeling rather lithe and supple after my massage, days off from swimming on Thursday and Saturday, and only the 7km on Friday, I feel tremendous. Nothing hurts at all. I zoom to the first buoy very easily. I zoom so rapidly (relatively speaking) that I zoom right past the second buoy. And so on to the third buoy. The water is slightly cooler than in Auckland, and the tide is certainly less helpful. Nevertheless, we have a tremendous time. My companions make complimentary remarks about my fitness. Saturday night's sense of panic and doom about said fitness begins to dissipate: there is no better time for planning than during the slightly boring 800 or so metres between the 1km marker buoy and the fountain, so I plan how I'll try to keep fit and quick while we wait for the pools to open. It will all fall into place. I will get a swim watch, so I can time myself. I can do intervals between the fountain and the 1st buoy, or between the rafts, or sprints between the shore and the raft. Of course, the water will start to get colder, and the weather more of a factor. The sense of clarity and perspective that is my favourite thing about open-water swimming is reassuring.
The water is so lovely, and our group mood is good. John H. leaves the water once we're back at the beach, to go orienteering in a cemetery. A fitting activity during a pandemic. Rebecca and I do another lap around the fountain and out to the 1st buoy and straight back in, just for fun.
The lack of a hot shower grates a little bit, and the changing bunker by the beach stinks. Nevertheless, coffee and toasties are still available. A little group of swimmers assemble around two tables, with lots of room in between, to drink coffee, eat, and think about the way to tackle the winter. What is certain, we decide with great relish, is that we're all going to do lots of lighthouse laps. We'll pay close attention to our heart rates; we'll continue getting in 20km a week (water temperature permitting); we'll visit some other beaches for variety; we'll get really tough.
Mann traoch, Gott lauch*
Later on Sunday afternoon, I post my intention to swim daily (or nearly daily) from Freyberg Beach from 7.30am. Later in the autumn, this will have to be 7.45 or 8am, as sunrise gets later. Lots of people reply to the post on the Wellington Ocean Swimmers page, and everybody expresses enthusiasm for the venture. I still feel more than ready to do a 10km, as promised to my donors, and hope for a light southerlies on 28 or 29 March.
Monday morning dawns, or rather doesn't really dawn. A stronger northerly, a complete lack of sun. Urrggggk. Off I go to the beach, on the bus, possessions pared down to the minimum: Snapper card and (for safety) phone. Joyfully, there are lots of people at the beach. A group from City Swim (I think) are doing laps between the shore and the raft, laying out all their gear - fins, paddles etc - on the beach. John C. turns up, and I carefully conceal my fluoro yellow/green bag behind his bike. No thieves will see it there! In retrospect, I doubt very much whether any thieves would have been around that morning. It was fairly dank.
The swim is a bit strange, the sea being dark, and the sky being dark. It's hard to see the yellow buoys because the choppy water and overcast sky merge into one mass of disorientating greyness. Crepuscular, but morning crepuscular. Forgetting about scary things that live in dark sea, I set out to the second buoy, come back to the fountain, go around again, then catch up with John C. and another swimmer at the fountain. We make one last trip to the first buoy and then swim straight to shore.
The changing bunker smells even worse than on Sunday, and the wind blows that sharp imported sand across the carpark. With a bus coming in five minutes I perform many contortions getting out of my togs and into my hoodie and shorts without exposing anything to Oriental Bay's apartment dwellers. To be honest, it's really bleak! And, will only get bleaker. Once home I have a hot shower and set off for work.
Long story short, work hits the wall, but at least I've ordered a DryRobe to help facilitate easier carpark dressing, post-swim! At 2.10pm, waiting in my classroom to teach two tutorials, there is a curious lack of students. In fact, the campus had felt pretty eerie all day. At 2.20pm nobody had turned up, so I looked at the news, and saw that the Prime Minister had announced a Level 3 alert 20 minutes earlier, and the VC had cancelled classes. I hung around until 3.15, in case anybody showed up for the 3.10 tutorial group (they didn't) and set off for home.
Level 3 changed things. We couldn't really meet in groups for swimming, but swimming was still allowed. Undeterred, we made some plans for socially distanced swimming that was still safe: people should announce their intentions, leave a note on their car dashboards saying when they had gone out and when they would come back. We could all keep an eye on each other, and be safe. The bus situation worried me, but of course,I have my bike.
Tuesday. First officially socially distanced swim, at midday. The wind has dropped, making for a pleasant pedal around to Freyberg. John H. is there, and we make a circuit of the lighthouse. Things seem pretty quiet really, a distinct change in atmosphere. Yes, the sun shines, and there are plenty of people out and about, enjoying the sun and giving children an airing. But it's still different. I give all our landmarks a friendly slap...just in case.
After my Monday morning struggles to get dressed in the carpark, I decide to take a minimalist approach to clothing. Shorts and hoodie or jacket over my togs. I can shower and change at home, and will pedal fast enough not to get cold.
On Wednesday, well, it's different again. We are prepared to go to Level Four in the evening. This means a four-week lockdown. The accommodation you are in, and the people you are with at 9pm will be your accommodation and companions for the next four weeks. No swaps, no visiting. All exercise must be local and solitary. Still, as I pedal around to Oriental Bay, there are plenty of people out and about. Too many people, really, treating the situation as a sunny day off. One icecream place remains open. There's a holiday atmosphere, almost. When I arrive at the beach, fairly early, my swim companion is there: he's been listening to the radio in the car. In the time it has taken me to pedal around the bays, an official State of Emergency has been declared, in advance of the lockdown. John decides to head home, and prepare for these new conditions, but - having pedalled into the gusty northerly I need a cool-down. And it may be the last one. In fact, it probably is the last one... for a while.
Wary of being picked up by the police, or the harbourmaster, or whatever authority patrols the inner harbour in a State of Emergency to reprimand obsessive swimmers, a visit to the lighthouse seemed imprudent. Instead, once in the water, I just tool about - but with purpose. The first buoy, the fountain, the rafts, all get a visit as I zig-zag around in the sea. To say I was feeling ALL the emotions would not be an understatement. However, there's no better place to process all the emotions, and scream a little, is in the sea. Rather like walking, when you simply put your legs into auto-mode, and just trundle along cogitating, I could do the same in the sea. Finally, it seemed time to get out, so I loped back to the Freyberg raft for a final dive. But alas, the raft already had an occupant, a hairy man doing some sort of yoga. It didn't seem fair to haul up and disturb his asanas, so I did another lap of the fountain in some anguish. By the time I returned to the raft, yoga guy had disappeared, so I hauled out, unclipped my tow float, and flung it into the water, and prepared for one good dive.
Somewhat disoncerting, then, having experienced this long dark night of the soul while swimming in wonky circles and triangles, to find people still eating icecreams on the beach. Feeling that I had purged my soul and mortified my flesh in a sort of pre-lockdown ritual (and, more to the point, having no wallet) I eschewed a final icecream, put on some clothes, and pedalled home.
How would four weeks, a minimum of four weeks, without swimming work? Would I be able to incorporate at least a little splash in Lyall Bay into my exercise? What, WHAT would happen to my 10x100@1.30 goal? How would I keep insanity at bay, and maintain some cardiovascular fitness? Would my muscle, its magnitude such that it required longer acupuncture needles, turn to flab? These questions seem trivial when a pandemic comes to town, and death could actually be imminent. But, when facing the prospect of four weeks of an unprecedented situation, which I could do nothing to change or control, a reversion to introspect seemed inevitable.
*Mann traoch, Gott lauch = Man plans, God laughs.
('If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.')
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