'a plan, and not quite enough time'

On Monday 13 December, two weeks and two days after a six-hour swim at Freyberg Beach – which I’d anticipated being the start of another two months’ training – I found myself covered in grease and sliding off the side of an IRB into the water near Makara to try the whole procedure of swimming to the South Island again (if you want to refresh your memory about events earlier this year, here is the recap of March’s adventure). Overcast sky, misty rain, and alarmingly large waves rendered my outlook somewhat pessimistic, but at least the damp weather meant that I could attribute my shivering to the rain on my skin rather than acute fear.

 There’ll be a complete lack of sensation and drama in this report, but when searching for a pithy title, I remembered that before a pool swim on Saturday 11 December, John had been talking about the new cinematic extravaganza of West Side Story, which I think was opening that very day. The WSS connection reminded me of Leonard Bernstein’s observation that ‘To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan, and not quite enough time.’ Bernstein may have been thinking more about rehearsing Mahler than spending a day in a volatile piece of sea, but he was right in any case. I had a plan but was getting into the water sooner than I’d expected – and I’d been thinking ‘not enough time, not enough time’ since 1 December, when it looked as if the crossing could happen sooner rather than later.

Since May, I had been working through my plan for consistent increases in distance, week by week; in August, as I’ve written elsewhere, In the Spreadsheet of Accountability, I'd sketched out an increase in weekly mileage from 20-25km to 30km, but lockdown intervened. From mid-September I started a regular regime of 30km weeks. Our 30km Labour Weekend formed the start of what I envisaged as a three-month project to prepare for returning to the Cook Strait. We followed those hours in the pool and sea with some more long Saturday swims: the first bigger adventure involved Freyberg Beach–Balaena Bay–Lighthouse–Balaena Bay–Lighthouse–Freyberg (7km) in dramatic fog; then there was a Hataitai– Freyberg return (9km) in 37kmh southerlies, and another Hataitai–Freyberg return with Brett and Omar in a monstrous northerly gale. Throughout November I built to a series of 40km weeks, culminating in the six-hour ‘relocated swimathon’ but also eagerly anticipated more long sea swims and a couple of 100x100m sessions at Wainuiomata Pool.

Having managed fuel and temperature during the long swim on 27 November (a sultry day when being cold was not really an issue), I reported to Phil the results of the swim and learned that (a) there was a tide window after 10 December, and (b) I should probably take it. I felt apprehensive about not yet having done any of the 50km weeks I had planned but agreed, and then hurried off to get ready for the 2,000m Splash and Dash race feeling alarmed. After the race, apprehension was pushed aside by the rawness of my neck chafing (resulting from the six-hour swim and exacerbated by the race) and rather than be concerned about swimming, my primary goal was to ensure that my neck skin healed before any other long swims occurred. Therefore I bought many medical-grade dressings for my neck, and a variety of ointments guaranteed to heal skin fast. It must have looked dramatic because people started greeting me with 'How's your chafing?' instead of the usual civilities. I also stayed out of the sea, embarking on big pool sets instead. Having spent most of the year kicking myself in the shins, figuratively speaking, for making an unnecessary hash of the first swim, and (more significantly) compromising Rebecca’s swim, the need to avoid any sort of inadvertent self-sabotage seemed fundamental to the whole project.

Drawing closer to 10 December, the forecast looked dubious: numerous dramatic weather events were projected to zoom down from the Coral Sea and across the Tasman, bringing gales and torrential rain. Feeling somewhat conflicted, I decided that no swim would happen and that I should proceed with some more decent training, and prepare for 50km weeks over Christmas. At the same time, though, I recruited crew, started rounding up some crucial supplies at the Warehouse in a state of deep scepticism about whether I was remotely prepared for this swim, and whether it would go ahead. Still, I had a plan for the day.

 On reflection I probably could have taken that week a little easier, and achieved a better taper. Instead I swam some very sweaty sets with Eliza at Freyberg, including a fast 10km on Saturday 3 December, and some even sweatier 200s with her on the Tuesday evening after an equally lung-stretching morning squad at WRAC. Then there were a mixed-up 5km by myself on Wednesday, the first Thursday squad session in the long course pool since July (gosh, it’s a long way), lots of 200s and 100s on Friday morning, and a sort of sweaty-almost-tapering swim with John, Sarah, and Grainne on the Saturday morning. A taper of 28km for a swim of 26km is perhaps unorthodox. At this point I remained convinced that that the week ahead would be too windy:  simultaneously frustrating and a relief. By Saturday afternoon, when I woke up from a lengthy sleep, the forecasts looked better, and Monday 13 December appeared particularly promising (I thought I’d saved a screenshot of what the forecast looked like, but apparently this was a figment of my overheated imagination). We had proper Sunday morning squad again, for the first time since the lockdown began in mid-August, and I may have slightly over-exerted myself during this session.

Afterwards, I learnt that a decision would be made about swimming the following day depending on the 1pm and then 7pm forecasts. At 1pm the prospect looked better still, so thereafter I did my shopping, rallied the team (Gráinne), ate a large dinner (peas, spinach, boiled potato, slightly stringy steak, kumara), spent a long time fiddling about with sticky mushy foods, got all the nourishment ready, had a honey sandwich at my mother’s insistence, and went to bed. The swim bag was already packed. Nourishment – sufficient and warm – formed a major feature of the plan for this swim, and as I’ve prepared excessively detailed notes, and to speed things up, you can read all about it here if you like. Shortly after 7pm, it seemed that we were ready to go, meeting at the marina at 7am on Monday.

 On Monday morning I had some porridge, finished dealing with drinks and food, made a couple of honey sandwiches for the journey to the start, and waited for Gráinne to arrive to collect me at 6.25am. The scene at the marina was very tranquil, and soon we were ready to go. On the boat, bouncing around to Makara, everybody had a cup of tea and a raspberry bun, and I was introduced to the great tide bible, learning quite a bit more about what spring and neap tides do in the Strait. 

It looks calm at the marina

Crucial pre-swim nutrition: tea + raspberry bun

The forecast suggested that the wind would drop at around midday, and we waited until about 9.30am to start. Although I wasn’t really thinking about March’s swim, comparisons between the March sunshine, and the December gloom were unavoidable. Phil covered me in vast amounts of grease (some of it was still in my ears three days later), before getting into the IRB and heading towards where I’d go into the water and strike out for the starting rock. Chris, Joy, and Gráinne wished me luck. Despite the earlier quivering and tooth-chattering – and the strong sense of déjà vu that arrived when I got into the IRB – I felt suddenly extremely ready. Grease + gravity made sliding into the water easy (no going back now!) and I splashed to the rock just as breathlessly as in March, touched it, and set off.

Again, in the first few hours, comparing the conditions with those of the March swim was unavoidable. Instead of a rolling swell, there was chaotic chop, but the wind was already behind me and felt powerful. Getting to grips with where the water wanted to push me took some time: I bumped between the side of the IRB, and several metres away from it, waves kept pushing my arms in every wrong direction, and it did feel as if the water decided to offer some immediate tests. However, multiple weekly swims in a tempestuous, albeit much less powerful, Wellington harbour and environs made adjusting to uncooperative water fairly easy. The first hour passed slowly, but the conditions provided plenty of stimuli. My first feed was warm Tailwind+Just Juice, and although I poured it down my throat/all over my face a bit too quickly, it tasted great, and off we went.

Part of my strategy was to switch my brain away from ‘how much longer?’ mode as soon as possible. Counting things worked well, as did making up some weird rhymes and saying them fifty times each. The next feed (banana pouch, and Tailwind) arrived fairly quickly. After that, the 30-minute gaps between feeds started going faster; I decided to see how many times I could count to 200 in half an hour (a lot) and this counting had the added benefit of helping to maintain a consistent stroke rate. I hadn’t specified what I wanted each feed, other than ‘something to eat, and a drink’, and being surprised each time was great. On we went.

 At around midday, as predicted, the wind eased, the chop calmed, and I could feel the water and wind behind me. At times, they even pushed my arms faster than was comfortable, a sensation akin to being on a treadmill going too quickly. While this was a little tiring, it became enjoyable, and rather than thinking of propelling myself through the water, I felt more as if I was being reeled towards the South Island on a fishing line. In a further move to facilitate being happily inside my own head, I didn’t try to remember how many feed stops I’d had. Never having been particularly good at being ‘in the moment’ – generally worrying about what would happen next or dwelling on what had already happened – I soon stopped the counting and other mental gymnastics, thinking only about my arms, and watching whatever was going on in the IRB. The sea wasn’t blue this time, but a very velvety and soporific grey. Even without the sunbeams, the sense of huge depth was strong.

 At one point, I saw urgent signals to stop and look at something, and stopped, wondering if we’d found a whale. Instead, it was the proximity of the Interislander, which had given us three hoots and offered to change course! We thought Rebecca might be on it, so I gave the ferry a wave and kept going (it turned out she was on a later ferry). At a subsequent feed stop, I mentioned some tenderness in my right arm, strangely accompanied by an ache in the left side of my jaw. A couple more feed stops later I was given some painkillers, which magically stopped anything even vaguely uncomfortable. At around this time, also, it was time for the pies to be transferred from the big boat to the IRB. While I’m sure they were delicious pies, from the water the aroma was not appetizing, and I may have swum slightly further from the boat for a while. Everything around here is blurry: vaguely concerned that I should make sure my brain still worked, I did occasional counting, but by this time it felt easier to switch off, concentrate on swimming, and observe changing conditions.

Three hoots from the Interislander

While the wind and waves offered exceptional friendliness, we hit a patch of what felt like complete maelstrom: splashy chop and patches of freezing water made it hard to maintain any sort of competent swimming, but again, plenty of practise in the harbour came in handy.  In fact, we’d been static in some tidal phenomenon for about 20 minutes. I think this occurred just before halfway. At some point around this time, I enjoyed very stewed tea laced with Tailwind.

Static!

I’d wondered when halfway would be reached, and when it was, I didn’t feel bothered that this meant there were still plenty of kilometers to go. At some point, more painkillers appeared, which I carefully dropped into the sea, and then retrieved, swallowed, and went on. I realised that this fumbling may have been a sign that things were going haywire, so I started to think of something I could say at the next feed which would sound convincingly lucid. The best I could come up with was an announcement that ‘I’m not doing Splash and Dash on Wednesday!’ Whether this indicated lucidity I don’t know. At another feed, there was some radio communication between the boat and IRB. I heard Phil say 'We're just getting the swimmer going' and a voice came back saying 'Has she given up?!' This provided some additional motivation. 

After a time, I noticed that Phil and Cory were standing up and gesturing towards something. I hoped we weren’t surrounded by sharks, but at the subsequent feed, they said that after the next feed, I should be ready to give things a nudge. They'd been pointing at bits of the shore. This sounded promising: increased proximity to the South Island! I took my first proper look at where the land was – I deliberately never looked up/forward the rest of the time, until the last 600 metres before the end – saw large dark cliffs, and couldn’t really work out how far away they might be. When the time arrived for the nudge to occur, hearing that the other side was 6km away seemed less encouraging, but I thought ‘That’s just Freyberg to Balaena and back … plus a bit more’ Away from all the familiar landmarks of that familiar route, I wasn’t sure how to gauge progress, but kept going, motivated by some magic drink (flat Coca Cola). At the next feed, I had 3.6km to go, but then hit another wild patch of water, some current or tide going sideways. Holding my stroke together required full focus, and I even tried kicking a little (short-lived). The speed at which salps and jellyfish kept hitting my side, and even going in my mouth, indicated that the water had some speed to it. Just as swiftly as this mad water arrived, it stopped, and the gentle swell returned. 

Rough to smooth!

I had another feed (some Snickers – delicious) and heard to go for it for another 1km. This 1km turned into 1.6km, but for the first time all day I realised that barring catastrophe, the swim was in the bag, and I was still warm/thinking/talking/swimming in a fairly straight line. The plan, to stay fuelled, drink warm drinks, and keep my arms moving, had worked. I’d soon earn a ferry pass!

During these final stages, the conditions appeared and felt beautiful, but we were being pushed down the coast by the tide, so the final 400-600 metres felt akin to running up a descending escalator. The cliffs, which were at first far away, then very close,  still appeared very close but still also far away. My goggles had fogged up completely. After a lot of strokes that felt frenzied (but look slow in the video) a seaweedy rocky ledge and some startled fish appeared beneath me, with the cliff just out of reach, and then I touched it and was done. I heard ‘9 hours 15!’ and was amazed that I’d been in the water for so long: the finish felt anticlimactic, almost a bit sad. 

The end!

Hoisted into the IRB, I landed in a slippery heap with a splash and hit my head on something  (I don’t know what, but there’s a big bump there still), and then wondered whether my eyes would pop out when I removed my goggles and cap. Then it was just general happiness, wobbling onto the big boat, being greeted, towelled vigorously, getting dressed, photos, and sitting down. Perhaps not in that order.

The trip back to the marina was gorgeous: flat sea, magnificent sunset, and some dolphins doing leisurely fishing. Everybody was extremely busy, except for me, and everybody wanted me to put some shoes on. For some time during the last hours of the swim, I was aware that there were some lifeforms inside my togs, making my torso very itchy. After getting dressed and warming up, the scratchiness increased, and I suspected some jellyfish involvement.  Alicia and Omar were waiting at the marina to say hello, but by the time I’d done some hugging, the scratchiness had evolved into stringing and smarting – a bit like stinging nettle – so, very antisocially I took off to the showers to try and wash some of it away. This didn’t really work – and naturally, I forgot to take a towel – so I just ended up with very damp clothes and slightly less stinging. In the grand scheme of things, this was an insignificant injury. 

All the boat unloading and car loading happened while I stood about feeling itchy and ineffectual, and it was time to head home, via the Porirua Pak & Save carpark to charge the car, and then Oriental Bay Parade to see the lights in the Norfolk pines. Once home I had some water, had what Breanna calls a 'placebo shower' and went to bed still slightly greasy. After about four hours asleep I felt very hot, so decided to get up and go to WRAC for a swim-down and proper shower. Walking to the pool in my togs and shorts in the rain felt more amazing than the subsequent haphazard swimming, but on the way home again, I bought a large pie for breakfast. 

More crucial nutrition: breakfast pie

 

It's almost impossible to express the extent of my gratitude to, and respect for the crew, and most especially to Philip Rush for letting me have another go, for ongoing advice and talks about planning and fuel throughout the year, and for the encouragement on the day. It was great to have the presence of IRB driver Cory, skipper Chris, navigator Joy, and most especially Gráinne, chief support person, hair-dryer, and overall reassuring figure. To have the opportunity to swim in Te Moana-o-Raukawa, this powerful piece of water not once, but twice within a year is an extraordinary privilege, made possible only by the support of this experienced group of people who help so many swimmers. 

2020 was a strange enough year, and 2021 has been stranger still. In some ways, we haven’t been too badly off in Wellington, but as the realities of a pandemic that isn’t going away continue to make their presence felt and uncertainties ebb and flow, being part of the local swimming community makes every day better, whether we’re in the sea or the pool. Having this big project in mind helped a lot when work was busy and times were topsy-turvy. There are many people who helped, and here I can name just a few of those whom I see every day, and really need to thank. Throughout the winter, Geraldine and Gráinne were always ready for 7am or 6.30am swims on Wednesday/Friday no matter what the weather and in the dark; Timon offers new challenges at squad every week, and practicing his sets has continued to help my pace and sense of pacing; Tracey and John who kept me conscious after March’s adventure, and whose enthusiasm is always infectious; speedy Sarah, who has made me swim uncomfortably quickly in the sea on many early mornings; Eliza, for the big pool sets, social kick, and majestic swims at Worser Bay; Rebecca, who is always ready for any sort of deranged marine excursion in inhospitable conditions; Vicky, Breanna, Kelvin (and Rosie), Payal, and Caitriona brighten up the pool and the beach every time I see them. I also need to thank and acknowledge my parents – who made sure I learned to swim and got into the sea – and my brother. They are very tolerant of my fixations. There are also the people all over the country who watched the tracker on Monday and sent messages of encouragement and congratulation. Some of them I still haven’t met, but they still took time to send messages. As I wrote earlier in the year, learning that there are so many people who cared genuinely about the swim, and about me, is still surreal. So, the secret to achieving something big requires a plan  not quite enough time, but also a lot of friends. 

The trajectory