A beautiful day in the south — swimming to Rakiura

Looking towards Rakiura with not far to go.

It is now two weeks since I was lucky enough to enjoy a beautiful swim across Te Ara-a-Kiwa/Foveaux Strait to Rakiura/Stewart Island on Saturday 1 April 2023. For many reasons, this was a lucky swim, characterized by a series of beautiful coincidences and experiences that I wasn’t sure how to do justice to. With every swim they complete, our local swimmers write ever more perceptive and vivid blogs, so there is some pressure to match their originality and eloquence. Just this week I've read Adriana's evocative account of her Taupō swim, and Gráinne’s thoughtful response, written from the perspective of a support person during the swim (as well as her stories of swims here and abroad). Then there’s also Rebecca’s story of a record-breaking swim in Lake Wānaka, Mike’s day in Taupō, and John’s long-awaited crossing between our north and south islands. Their candid reflections make it harder and harder to find a perspective and theme on my own recent swim in southern waters. However, this swim is tied to all of the people I’ve just mentioned (as well as many more), as they’ve all been involved with it in a variety of different ways.

 The story begins over a year ago when on Friday 1 and Saturday 2 April, it was my privilege to be part of the support crew for Rebecca’s double crossing of Lake Taupō. Shortly after her turnaround at the southern end of the lake, in the very dark, very early hours of 2 April, having eaten a squishy portion of ravioli I’d heated on the boat, Rebecca set off on her second 40.2km, and in between offering her signals of encouragement and good cheer, the discussion on the IRB turned to what swim I’d like to do next. After assuring Philip that I wasn’t keen on a double Taupō, I was immediately quietly thrilled that he suggested Foveaux Strait. With the successful feeding strategy that had worked for Cook Strait in December 2021, there seemed to be no reason why this wasn’t a realistic goal. I agreed, cautiously, and so we proceeded up the lake, with no further discussion of the plan until sometime in September.

 The year continued in much the same way as the previous ones. I had an idea that Foveaux Strait would be freezing cold – probably full of icebergs being circled by Great White Sharks while a howling wind screamed across the water from Antarctica – so it was good that over the winter some of us bumped up the cold water training a little.

 Several Wellington swimmers were heading down to the Ice Champs in Alexandra in July, and Gráinne completed an inspiring four-hour training swim in 12.4-degree water as part of her North Channel prep. I felt motivated by these feats to try 90-minute and two-hour sea swims in 11-12ish degree water in subsequent weeks in June and July. As the mercury dropped to 10 degrees and 9 degrees, we stayed in the water longer and longer, and my lingering trepidation about hypothermia (following the March 2021 experience) diminished: swimming as quickly as possible, keeping moving, and sipping hot drinks were the solutions to thriving in the cold. In late May I had a very mild experience of Covid-19, and after completing the seven days of isolation I could get back into the pool and sea.

 The training throughout winter and into spring involved three squad sessions, three sea swims, and some solo pool sessions that became known as ‘secret training.’  On 31 October, a week after the third iteration of The Labour Weekend 30km, it was time to meet with Philip Rush to talk about the next phase of preparation and general swim logistics. I felt very positive after this, remembering his instruction: ‘Get in, don’t muck about, finish, get out.’ Very simple, despite the lingering images of ice floes and other threats. 48 hours after that meeting, things took an unexpected turn. If you’re in the mood to read a lengthy account of training and its vicissitudes (including blood, gore, and broken bones) there is a separate account of it that I’ll post shortly. For now, I’ll jump to the summer.

I was a bit alarmed at the suggestion that we could move the swim window back from late February to late January as at New Year, I certainly didn’t feel on top of my game. Happily, for logistic reasons, this schedule had to be revised, and I felt far more comfortable (relatively speaking) about a late February swim.

 February is a short month, and in 2023, a particularly dramatic one.  Volatile weather affected the whole country, with the catastrophic Cyclone Gabrielle hitting the east coast halfway through the month. The group of us who’d be doing long swims in February (Rebecca, Mike, Adriana, and I) discussed using these swims as a fundraiser for the communities devastated by the flooding. Rebecca set up a Givealittle page, and we had an amusing photo session in the sea. I still felt a little apprehensive about Foveaux, and very under-prepared, but had the idea I’d be able to survive it.

 The unsettled weather continued, however. My bag was packed by the end of February, but the Foveaux window came and went. There was never enough of a settled forecast for the pilot to be confident of a safe swim. Foveaux Strait is shallow, so the wind and currents/tide all need to be going in the same-ish direction. Still, waiting just provided the opportunity for more training, and once March began I felt more like I was approaching the ‘top of my game’. By now Rebecca had done her swim, and then Mike and then Adriana completed theirs, all in triumphant style. I had no idea whether I’d get to swim but thought that if I didn’t, I’d (a) be extremely well prepared for Rangitoto-St Heliers in late April, and (b) be able to pay off the balance of my student loan with the money I’d saved for the swim. Always liking a solid Plan B, I enjoyed training more and more; the ‘secret training’ becoming more intense, along with some great sessions in Timon’s squad focussing on a 400m time trial.

 The end-of-March window approached, and again there was a lot of unsettled weather affecting the entire length of the country. I cautiously glanced at windfinder.com, windy.com, and windhub.com, but the situation in Te Ara-a-Kiwa didn’t look promising. However, on Wednesday 29 March, the first day of the window, Phil rang me to say that the wind for Saturday 1 April looked promising, if we considered the possibility of swimming in the opposite direction: all the swims this century, since Chloe Harris in 2016, had started on Rakiura and finished on the mainland, but if I was happy to start on the mainland and swim to the island, there was a strong possibility of getting in the water. This depended on the approval of our skipper/pilot, John, but I should strongly consider re-jigging the flights to leave Wellington on Friday, swim Saturday, and fly home Sunday. Most of Thursday went by with some training in the morning, walking down to Lyall Bay (Wellington was right in the teeth of a very dramatic southerly storm that flung rocks and seaweed onto the roads around the south coast), and then baking a cake. In the early evening, a crucial phone call! The forecast was good, John was happy, and we were off!  The team would be John in the big boat, Nick Wells from Dunedin, Mike Cochrane in charge of the IRB, and Gráinne as feeder/support.

 At 8.45am on Friday, we flew south, explored the Invercargill Pak'n Save, picnicked in a beautiful park, then drove out to the accommodation near Oreti Beach. Because of a car-racing event just down the road, accommodation in Invercargill was very tricky to find, especially if you needed room for five people, with a decent kitchen. This delightful place was perfect though, and I was very lucky to find it.

Headquarters

Mashed banana, maple syrup, lemon juice 

Delicious mash in the Kai Carriers

By 7.30pm the whole team was assembled, including Phil, who was also able to come down because the weather would be unsuitable for any swimming in Cook Strait on Sunday 2 April. I had spent the afternoon getting my swim food ready, then Gráinne took over the kitchen to make a delicious dinner while I ‘put my feet up’ in a great chair. 

Nearly dinner time

We had to be at Bluff harbour at 6.30am to meet John, which meant a fairly leisurely departure at 6am. Fortunately I slept very well on a large futon, for a full seven hours, and was ready to eat plenty of porridge at 5.30am. Remembering parental instructions, I also made some honey sandwiches to eat en route to the start.

 The morning was chilly, although I was so full of hot porridge and hot tea that the air temperature didn't matter much. We left the harbour, and headed east, aiming at a rock near Barracouta Point. John explained to me how the tides would work, where the wind was coming from, and the depth of the water I’d be swimming in. We couldn’t start until it was light, which suited me.  As always happens, everything then sped up, and it was time for Gráinne to apply sunscreen, zinc, and grease all over me. She did an excellent job because at the end of the day, I had no sunburn anywhere.

Serious discussion 

Suddenly the boat was as near to the start as it could get; Mike, Gráinne and I climbed down into the IRB and headed towards appointed rocks. As with the Cook Strait, this was the moment when the adventure became real. After waiting for so long I couldn’t really believe we were about to start, and the enormity of the work ahead seemed vast. The morning light was very blue, the air was very cold, and my towel was very small. However, there was no piercing Antarctic wind, and I couldn’t see any icebergs, just a lot of very large kelp swirling around the rocks. Moreover, there were some happy things to think about: although 1 April may not seem an auspicious day to undertake this ‘adventure swim’ (although, arguably, only a fool would consider it anyway), ! April was also the anniversary of the start of Rebecca’s double Taupō swim and thus (give or take 18 hours) exactly a year since the possibility of my swim had been first discussed. In addition, it was also the anniversary of Gráinne’s Taupō swim on 1 April 2021, and she had been the last person in Foveaux, having completed a successful crossing from Rakiura to the mainland in March 2022. And, as if those three coincidences weren’t enough to motivate me, I knew that Chloe Harris – who’d been the first person to complete this swim in the twenty-first century – had said she was looking forward to seeing us at Christchurch Airport the next morning. I couldn't let any of these people down.  With so much good augury in the air – as well as the appearance of an albatross – I really had to get on with it.

 The water, as we approached the starting rocks, looked velvety, and was very clear. Mike said ‘when you’re ready, you can get in!’ and so I did. The water was ~15 degrees, and would remain so all day. I breaststroked towards the rock in a sedate manner to navigate the somewhat dynamic kelp situation. Rather like being around the back of Tapu-te-Ranga island, I could feel the sea ‘breathing’ (you can see evidence of this in the photo). Once at the rock, I put on my googles (poorly), gave the IRB team a cautious wave, and set off for Rakiura (conveniently hidden by low cloud).

Navigating big kelp

The start

The first thing I noticed after starting was that everything felt very good. Nothing hurt (always a promising start), and although I could tell that there was strength and direction in the water, both of those were helping me. Initially, I collided with the IRB a few times (at my first feed, after an hour, I heard that the wind was pushing the IRB towards me, and the sea was pushing me towards it), but my steadfast crew pointed at where I should be, and I tried to follow their fingers. My goggles completely fogged up, which suggested it might be chilly in the water and air. However, as I’d put them on so badly, some water got in and helped to dispel the fog. Meanwhile, more albatrosses were coming along to see what on earth we were doing.

Of the many elements of Rebecca’s Wānaka swim that had greatly impressed me was her aim to complete a ‘well-executed swim’ and during my initial hour I started thinking about how I could try something similar. A reasonable person might ask ‘Shouldn’t you have started to think about the execution before you started?’ Well, indeed. However, in a potentially volatile stretch of water, which I knew could either send swimmers along flat out, or, make life very difficult for them, settling on a definite plan before experiencing the conditions seemed unwise and potentially unhelpful. If the plan wasn't working, it could be hard to deal with or discouraging. However, once I was well into my first hour the swimming itself felt good: the water carried me, and I often felt that I was riding the waves, with my arms turning over almost faster than comfortable in order to keep up with the push.

 My first step towards good execution was to set up and maintain a good stroke. I decided to start counting my strokes, breathing to the left, and I’d count them in cycles of 200. After every 200 strokes I’d breathe to the right for the benefit of my neck. This worked well, and allowed me to smile at the big boat. Counting requires concentration and also meant I focussed on my stroke length and tempo.

 I took my first feed after an hour, and it was nice. Feeling warm and nourished I set off for the next half-hour, deciding that the next phase of the well-executed swim would be to minimise the length of my feed stops.  Further to this, I decided that there was a string connecting me to my destination, and rather than my arms grinding their way towards the island, this string was reeling me in.

 During this phase, I also experienced bioluminescence for the first time! It was thrilling: tiny sparkling specks of bright red, green, blue, and silver whizzing towards my face and surrounding my arms. My arms were very white from all the zinc, and appeared to gleam in the water, which was clear and dark grey. At times, the bioluminescence was so intense that it felt overwhelming, a bit like strobe lighting, so I closed my eyes to avoid the excessive stimulation. 

Still counting to 200, I started to think about the next phase of good execution. Back at the end of October, and again in January, we had discussed the potential – if everything went well – of completing the swim in around eight hours.  I had no expectations about the time and had said to Mike that I didn’t want to know (a) how far along we were or (b) how fast I was going.  All I wanted was to be offered my ‘treats’ (flat Coke and some Snickers bar) at the penultimate feed. I decided that I’d make a real effort to keep track of the feeds so I’d know how long I’d been swimming. Thinking back to the six-hour training swim on 31 December, I decided that I’d break my swim into three-hour phases, because I knew I could complete six hours, and after that, any more time in the water would just be a bonus.

 As it transpired this scheme worked beautifully. Three-hour phases were a perfect length, divided by a feed every 30 minutes. My feeds were also delicious, and worked on a repeating cycle:

Feed 1: two Tasti snack balls

Feed 2: mashed banana pouch

Feed 3: a couple of slices of steamed kumara    

Feed 4: two jelly snakes

.Each feed was washed down by about 100ml of concentrated Tailwind and Just Juice diluted in 200ml(ish) of hot water. Nothing hurt my stomach or gave me a stitch, and each feed really felt like a treat. Unlike being in the hectic waters of the Cook Strait, it was much easier in Foveaux to eat and drink while treading water as no chop or splash smacked me around. Again, the ease of feeding felt like a good omen.

I spotted some wildlife! Every so often I’d see a silvery flash of a fish in my peripheral vision, and a couple of amusing ‘fat yellow fish’ moved past, looking solemn. From time to time my fingers struck some seaweed, and one large clump of seaweed tangled around my arm, so I threw it over my shoulder, prompting mirth and applause from the IRB.

 At around four and a half hours in, I became aware of feeling a little chilly. This immediately alarmed me, as I knew I hadn’t been swimming for long, but my back and extremities were cold. And yet, the sun was shining. What to do? After a little internal monologue, I decided to try ‘going faster’ (or at least stronger) to see what would happen. If I still felt cold at my next feed, I’d tell the IRB crew. By this stage, I was just counting my strokes in cycles of 100 rather than 200 (easier to keep track of) so I tried instituting a pattern of 20 faster/stronger strokes and 10 more relaxed strokes, maintaining this pattern for 300 strokes. By this time, we were ready for another feed, and after guzzling down something, off we went again. I realised that I hadn’t mentioned the cold, because I wasn’t cold anymore.  At some other stage, I became aware of a pain in my right forearm, so tried to relax my right hand, and concentrate on how my hand was entering and pulling through the water. This helped to ease the discomfort, although I did ask for some Nurofen at the next feed, and that quickly did the trick. 

After a while, I realised that I could count to 100, and focus on the stroke, while also thinking about other things as they floated through my mind. It became quite diverting: I thought about the Washing Machines and what great people they were, and how encouraging they are every time I see them. I thought about the jar of jelly frogs that Nancy had given me with a cheerful ‘Good Luck!’ note, and which I’d not brought with me! Then I thought about the displays I was planning for work over the next couple of months.  The combination of counting to 100 and thinking about my right arm, along with the accompanying merry carousel of other thoughts made the time fly by. Soon we were at the sixth hour, and despite having said I didn’t want to know where we were or how long I’d been going, I did ask at the next feed if this was six hours. Mike confirmed, and commented it was good to know I was mentally alert! I felt extremely buoyed up by all this affirmation, and also by the knowledge that we were probably entering the later phase of the swim.

Shortly after this (I think) I noticed some interesting pale grey shapes deep (I think) under the water and a little off to the right. The first glimpse suggested a distinctive silhouette and a large group of maybe ten of these creatures that looked to be in stasis. About four were just floating, and the others were slowly moving around them. I couldn’t tell whether they were small/close or larger and far away. I may have made a small ‘eeek’ noise before venturing a final glimpse, and then rapidly moving sideways closer to the IRB. ‘Well, that is interesting,’ I thought, but they seemed to be preoccupied down there, so it didn’t seem worth telling the people in the IRB. And, nothing bit my foot off, so … nothing to worry about. It did occur to me that perhaps I should write to David Attenborough to tell him about the creatures, the fat yellow fish, the biolum, and the general sensations: ‘I’m sure he’d be interested in my unique perspective on this fascinating water…’ Composing the letter in my head offered another diversion.

 During the swim, there were several remarkable changes in the weather. We started off in very overcast conditions, in which everything seemed to be grey. All very beautiful shades and tones, but grey. Later the sun came out, and the warmth on my back and arms felt wonderful. At some point some rain squalls wet the crew, but I didn’t notice. The sun appeared again, along with a rainbow. Rakiura was – seemingly – right there in front of me. During my breath to the right, every 100 strokes, I could see a bit of it in my peripheral vision, but I took care never to look forward. However, I knew from the feed stops that the island was right in front of us, but how far away? I had an idea that Rakiura was a barren windswept landscape, but it turns out it’s very green, and has a very large hill on it. Thus, rather than the island being flat and close, it was hilly and quite far away. I couldn’t let this put me off, and for awhile I thought about Liana Smith who had broken the record in 2021, and knew that (as I approached and passed seven hours of swimming) she already would have been on the boat with her feet up. Rather than being discouraging, this felt quite energizing. How soon would I be there?

The rainbow

Then, surprise! It was time for a feed. I’d decided not to have any more snack balls, as they hadn’t really softened up in the sun (unlike during Cook Strait when they became appealingly gooey) and I kept getting bits of almond stuck in my windpipe. However, rotating between the mashed banana, the kumara, and the snakes, plus Tailwind, continued to be great. During this feed I asked if it was now eight hours. Indeed it was, and Mike said ‘Can we interest you in a gel?’ This made me wonder if I’d been flagging, but I declined. He then said ‘or any of the other treats?’ Aha, perhaps this meant we were on the penultimate feed, and yes, so it was. I now can’t remember if I actually had some treats (snickers, flattish Coke) then, or not, but felt enthused! 

Shortly afterwards, Mike took the IRB to the big boat; Gráinne moved into the big boat, and Philip got into the IRB, and started waving at me in a motivational manner.  Everything suddenly moved up a gear, and I thought I should start to dig in some more. At the next feed, my instructions were to really go, and show everybody what I could do. This seemed like a good albeit very ambitious plan, but more positive than the  ‘go fast now or you’ll be swimming for another three hours’ that could have happened if the tides were less cooperative. On we went, accompanied by more waving and excitement.

After a time I was stopped for a final snack and learned there was one kilometre to go. This news discouraged me, as the rocks looked close, and I wasn’t sure if I could maintain such a pace for another 1000 metres. In the event, however, it was less than that. My arms went around and around, my lungs squeaked and buzzed as they had at the end of the Round the Lighthouse Swim, and my legs attempted a kick but that didn’t work. The water remained deep but I hit more and more loose seaweed, then small sticks. Suddenly, right below me, shallow rocks! I’d been glancing up, as I felt apprehensive about being carried right onto more rocks. As it became shallow so quickly, the swell was breaking with some force, and with a final shove, my hand hit the big finishing rock, and then the rest of my body was shoved into it as well. Finished! Unbelievable! After so much waiting and worry, the thing was done in 9 hours, 21 minutes, and 31 seconds. The photo of me surfacing is so alarming that I won’t put it here.

 

Turning around, I saw some unnervingly large waves steaming in to get me, so sat tight on my ledge and hoped for the best, then immediately struck out for the IRB, scraping myself a bit more. Hauled aboard with very little grace, that was it. My feet were very cold, which made climbing into the big boat quite tricky. I was rubbed violently with rough towels as if I’d just finished the Grand National, and then rugged up in my jacket and sat in a chair. I had an extremely delicious cup of tea and some more Snickers. Although I didn’t feel cold, or at least not seriously cold, my teeth chattered a lot from the general excitement, and after a while it was deemed important that I went inside out of the wind. I sat, contemplated the extraordinary day and my bloodied knee, and then after a while embarked on a fascinating talk about the location of all the best pie vendors between Bluff and Dunedin. Somebody asked what I’d like when we were back on land, and I decided on ice cream – which caused much mirth.

 

Once back in the Oreti Beach crib, Gráinne made a superlative feast of steak, sausages, potato, peas and corn, and salad, sourced from the Bluff Four Square, and everybody had a fine time while we waited for the hot water cylinder to heat up (I really should have checked this the night before) so I could scrub off the grease, zinc, and other sea stuff.  After three hours I was sent into the shower, which offered tremendous heat and outstanding water pressure. And so the day ended. 

As ever after a big swim day, the sleep was less good. I think I went to sleep at midnight, but then woke up at 2am stuck in a dip in the mattress, cast like a sheep, and all seized up. My water bottle was just out of reach, but after a lot of very slow movements, and a lot of coughing (worn-out lungs) I found the water bottle, had a drink, wandered around the house coughing some more, and then returned to my futon to do some crosswords. There was a dramatic storm at around 2.30am, thunder and lightning, driving rain, and whistling winds, and at 2.59am I felt very happy that in three hours I could get up properly. Unfortunately, time suddenly went backwards and it became 2am again (very weird) because the clocks went back. Four more hours of lying down to endure. I dozed some more, feeling very hot and stiff, and had weird dreams about the objets d'art on the shelves adjacent to my bed. It was so good when 6am arrived and it was time to get up and pack up.

 I don’t think I’ve ever had such a day. So many things went extremely well, and the only pain I really felt was in my left forearm, which by bedtime had become quite swollen. I couldn’t really believe that I’d done it. This is not to say, of course, that it was an easy day. Throughout the swim various small things had bothered me, a slightly leaking goggle, my cap felt too tight for most of the swim, and my right arm hurt from time to time. Of course, there were also moments when I felt tired, or the occasional wave went right down my throat. The island did take its time getting closer, despite seeming to be right there, and during the last kilometre my lungs felt full of sandpaper. Overall, though, these were minor inconveniences to be recognised, briefly contemplated, and then put aside.

 None of those minor inconveniences would have felt so minor had it not been for the group of outstanding people who were with me, and whose confidence and encouragement were so motivating. Therefore, I cannot thank enough John our pilot for being happy to go ahead with the swim, and picking such a good day. Then, the rest of the team: Nick keeping me entertained with food discussions in the boat, and Mike who offered a consistent aura of positivity, while ensuring that the IRB didn’t run me over, and of course Philip Rush for letting me have the opportunity to swim, for keeping me on track throughout the year, for putting together the complex logistics of the swim, and then for flying down at the last minute to be there.

Then, driver, chef, towel-wielder, tea-maker, brilliant photographer, and presence of efficiency and calm authority, Double Triple Crown Holder Gráinne. She took several days out of her own training schedule to come on this trip. It is an extraordinary feeling to know that this group of people were so committed to getting me across the water. 

To be only the fifteenth person to have completed this swim under marathon swimming regulations is an extraordinary feeling. To be the first person since 1989 to swim from the mainland to Rakiura/Stewart Island also feels like a great privilege. 1 April is also the latest anybody has done this swim. There's also a unique emotion, that I don't think anybody can express connected with being in open water like this: we're in in the home of birds and animals, accepted by them, in their habitat,but not of it. 

An albatross loses interest in me

Of course, there were also the people back at home, and abroad.  My family, who probably, definitely, think that my activities are unusual and a little dangerous. The Wednesday/Sunday Freyberg Squad. Tthe Tuesday/Thursday WRAC Squad, and the great programme that Timon puts together to challenge us every week. Dougal and the Washing Machines who are always there at the beach for a swim and lots of laughter. The Spud Buds, who are all also very unusual people, but who are again always there to complete a Balaena Bay swim in a violent northerly gale, or a freezing southerly, to race fiercely during Splash and Dash or Round the Lighthouse, and to humour my whims and excesses generally.

 In March we also had some visiting swimmers who were here for Cook Strait, including new record holder Andy Donaldson, Marcia Cleveland, and Oceans Seven completers Dina Levačić and Prabhat Koli and their families, and  the astonishing Bárbara Hernández. They all became part of our swimming group here, generous, friendly, and making light of their extraordinary feats.   Every one of these people is extremely special to me, and just as the fishing line was pulling me towards Stewart Island, they were all at my back to push me on.  

The track