Swimming Taupō in February 2024
For offshore readers, who may be interested in investigating this swim, Lake Taupō, or Taupō Moana, is the largest lake in the country, located in the central north island, just north the great volcanoes Ruapehu, Tongariro, and Ngāuruhoe of the Tongariro stratovolcanic complex. Lively geothermal activity occurs all around the lake, which is itself a giant caldara. This map shows the location of hot activity, but luckily the water is also very deep in the middle of the lake, so the likelihood of being boiled while swimming is remote. The swim itself is a minimum of 40.2km from Lttle Waihi near Tokaanu to the Taupō Yacht Club at the north end, near the start of Waikato Te Awa (Waikato River). The lake is extremely deep, and the water crystal clear with great visibility. It also tastes nice.
After completing an often-rugged crossing of the Cook Strait at
the end of 2021, and then a very fun crossing of Foveaux in April
2023, Taupō inevitably had to be next, but inexplicably I felt far more
apprehension about this swim than the previous two for various and largely
irrational reasons. I understood that with ocean swims there exist various
factors beyond the control of the swimmer that could bring a swim to an abrupt
or protracted premature end: tides and currents, unpredictable wind, apex
predator activity, and prolonged immersion in cold water are among the most
obvious examples. The warm, safe, and probably serene lake offered none of
these factors (leaving aside the potential for a monumental volcanic eruption) so failure to reach the beach at Taupō Yacht Club could only
be ascribed to some lamentable failure of preparation.
My preparation followed a similar pattern to that of previous
years. In September I made my commitment to the swim with Philip Rush, and
received instructions that despite my enthusiasm for training I should be
reasonable about it, and not go all-out too soon. At that point my weekly
distances were around 24km per week. Some people are interested in
training, and others, quite understandably, are not, so in the interests of
some brevity, I’ve made a separate post about training for this swim.
By the end of January all interested parties said that I appeared
to be physically ready, with the swim date set for around the second weekend of
February. By this stage I felt convinced that I was probably not physically
prepared and resigned myself to some disaster inevitably taking place in the
region of Rangatira Point. Time marched on, and my indomitable support team of
Gráinne and Rebecca (with four Taupo crossings between them, as well as some
solid support experience) exuded enthusiasm and confidence. Finally, we had a swim
date, Monday 12 February, and made arrangements for travelling up to Tūrangi on
11 February. I booked a motel at Tokaanu and made sure my bags were packed.
Come the 10th of February, I went to Pak and Save to purchase the
feed supplies. In the produce area, a problem confronted me: where the kumara
selection is usually arrayed there were ... only potatoes. 'Curious,' I
thought, and went on with my shopping; 'there'll be kumara at Countdown, I go
there next.' I crossed the road to Countdown, and were the kumara usually sits,
I was confronted by a vast display of yams. At this point I started scratching
my head in confusion, and Googled 'kumara shortage'. Sure enough, there
was a national kumara shortage, the result of the cyclones in
early 2023 that wiped out huge amounts of that year's crops and plants. Now,
here was a crisis. Kumara, lightly steamed, formed a critical source of
nutrition for my swims. Rice pudding, and at a pinch, boiled potatoes might be
a substitute, but at such a late stage, I felt certain that the lack of
appropriate root vegetables would spell doom. I alerted the crew, who the next
morning before we departed from Wellington, checked the veggie markets.
Meanwhile, I rang every supermarket in Wellington, and ascertained that
Thorndon New World held a small supply of Red Kumara (Owairaka), which I scooped up.
Travel went smoothly, we checked into the motel, Rebecca and
Gráinne set off to do the car shuttle thing to Taupō and I started preparing my
food and cooking some spuds for dinner. Just before the drivers returned, I
felt I should have a pre-dinner snack; I’d just posted half a sandwich into my
mouth when my phone rang, announcing a problem: Phil had arrived at the
southern end of the lake with the boat and IRB, but the IRB motor had decided
not to start. Consternation! He would have to go back to Taupō to get the motor
checked and fixed, as it was too late to try and do the swim just beside the
big boat. I was happy to swim on Tuesday. Rebecca and Gráinne returned from their car
excursion, generously agreed to the new arrangement and made various adjustments
to their work schedules, while I booked an extra night at the motel.
Come Monday morning we had a leisurely breakfast, went to Little
Waihi for a test swim (I can recommend this, as I learnt in daylight how
slippery the boat ramp was (with the lake’s water levels being very high), as
well as getting to grips with the waterweed forest at the start. We took a
walk, explored all the sights of Tokaanu, and went to Taupō to meet with Phil,
Hana, and Ben for lunch. On the drive, the lake looked friendly and sparkling,
and I didn’t feel at all uncomfortable observing the important landmarks that
I’d swim past the next day. After lunch Gráinne had some very important calls
to make, so Rebecca and I sat at the lakeside for awhile and talked about some
of the great and fast swims that had happened in the past, such as Anna
Marshall’s incredible record, Eliza’s heroic double attempt (during which she
nearly equalled the record on her southbound lap) and other related matters.
At 3:59am on Tuesday 13 February I walked down the slippery boat ramp at Little Waihi, slipped off the side of it with a small scream, and then swam 40.2km to Taupo. As this narrative could become interminable, I’m going to change tack slightly, and consider what went well, what went less well, and how I felt about my modes of execution:
Less than optimal execution
- The Dark: while I had no fear about swimming in the dark (there
was nothing in the water to get me) and have done weekly swims in the dark sea
in Wellington), I found it far more challenging to swim beside the IRB in the
dark than I’d anticipated. I realise that in Wellington harbour, I am used to
the lights and landmarks of Oriental Bay and CentrePort staying still, while I
move past them. Even on very windy mornings with big chop, I can still
orientate myself by these lights – and the red light on the Pt Jerningham
Lighthouse – and swim relatively straight. In the lake, the IRB was lit up like
a Christmas tree, but I was moving and the IRB was moving too, which I found
extremely disorientating. For what seemed like forever, I collided with the
side of the IRB (this can hurt!) and felt as if we were going around in
circles. Try as I might, I couldn’t
straighten myself out. After many collisions, and some instructions (‘we decide
which way you’re going!’) a change of goggles was suggested, so I switched from
the pale blue ones (basically almost clear) to orange goggles. This may have
helped, but I also wonder if the brief pause to change goggles also gave me a
moment to recalibrate in the conditions.
- Referring to ‘the conditions’ brings us to the chop: after about
an hour of swimming, as daybreak approached and brought with it subtle
atmospheric changes, the lake water chopped up. Choppy water is something I’m
familiar with, and some suspect me of deliberately seeking it out. However, the
choppy water in Taupō, while not mountainous, provided different challenges to
the steep, fast northerly ‘ripples’ we get in Wellington harbour and Worser
Bay, or indeed the immensely strong splashy chop I encountered in Cook Strait.
In the sea, there’s usually some direction involved, depending on where the
wind comes from; in the lake the unsettled water had not perceivable direction,
it was just choppy everywhere, with no rhythm. Without the supportive qualities
of salty seawater, it felt as if the water kept trying to bury me. In these
circumstances in the sea I would push my chest downwards, keep my chin down,
and imagine I was swimming down hill, which elevates the feet and legs, but
this didn’t work. Trying to negotiate with this intransigent water quickly lost
its novelty and made it hard to count my strokes.
- My legs: in all
the confusion, my legs started tingling in the weirdest way, feeling
simultaneously heavy and like cotton wool, which I’d never felt before. This
feeling also made it hard to count my strokes and combined with the
disorientation of the darkness and the hectic water, I very quickly became
paranoid that these tinglings certainly indicated a major heart attack or similar
medical catastrophe. The only question was, should I alert the crew to imminent
disaster, or just assume that they’d pull me out? I decided to continue to the
next feed before alerting the crew. When that feed arrived, I made some
enquiries about whether tingling legs were normal, or should I be worried? Phil
said, ‘I’ll check Wikipedia … meanwhile, maybe try using your legs, and they
won’t tingle.’ This bracing advice made me laugh, and we set off again but with
legs that didn’t tingle any more.
- Where's the focus: eventually the chop went away too, but the messy conditions, and a small technical crew hitch that had occurred near the start unsettled me a bit, and I couldn’t get into a good counting situation. In Foveaux, counting my strokes to 200 or 100 was both soothing and motivating, it required concentration and helped me focus on maintaining a good stroke. Evenafter the sun came up and the water calmed, it took time to rediscover this good rhythm. In retrospect, I should have not worried about it for so long. Anyway, once everything was normal again, I announced to the IRB crew, now Ben and Gráinne, that I’d recovered from my crisis, and they kindly said they hadn’t noticed I’d been having one. This point leads me to …
Better execution
- The crisis: not complaining about it while it was happening, and
then re-establishing a nice happy state.
- The start: I’d felt unsure about how to pace the start of the
swim. I knew from many sources that starting at a conservative pace would be a
recipe for disaster (start slow, get slower; start strong, stay strong). I knew
how to start strongly in the sea, where one also has to get a feel for the sea
state, the strength of the chop, and the wind (this had gone well in Foveaux).
However, I judged the starting pace well, and immediately felt that I had some
strong ‘easy speed’.
- Nutrition: my feed plan remained the same as Foveaux: first feed after an hour, and then every 30 minutes. I would cycle through:
Feed 1: Pouch of mashed banana
with maple syrup and lemon juice.
Feed 2: Two Tasti Snackballs
Feed 3: Some steamed kumara
slices
Feed 4: Two Natural Confectionary
jelly snakes (or dinosaurs?)
A Pure gel every few hours
Drink with each feed: were all
warm, a mixture of concentrated Tailwind/Just Juice with hot water.
All the food worked well. The Owairaka kumara was chewier and more fibrous than my preferred orange Beauregard variety, but in the lake feeding is more relaxed so more chewing didn’t waste time. After about seven hours, I was entertained that exactly 150 strokes after each feed, I would burp resonantly and with great relish; unlike the sea, there's little diversion in the lake, no jellyfish, no sharks, no bioluminescence, no fat yellow fish, and so you have to find fun where you can.
- Staying awake: the lake is a little soporific, and the
only nutrition hing I’d change, in retrospect, would be to have some more caffeine: I
brought only one Pure gel with caffeine, which I asked for at around 1pm, as I
felt in need of a wake-up. A couple more of these in the afternoon would have
done wonders, I think. Interestingly,
the jelly snakes, which always gave me a big boost during my Cook Strait and
Foveaux swims, ceased to do much for me on this swim. Maybe because the sugar
is more significant in salt water? I noticed that after the jelly snakes, I
would be feeling depleted well before the next feed, whereas the banana pouches
and kumara didn’t let this happen. The snack balls were always good, and
swimming in fresh water meant I could wash them down with a gulp of lake.
- The passing of time: after three hours (I think the three-hour
mark is typically the witching hour for my swims, when I’m past the ‘warm up’
stage, and reality (‘this is going to take ages’) hits. You can only recognise
and accept that reality (which can take awhile) and keep going. It doesn’t take
long for the pessimistic feeling to go away. As I’ve said, there was a rough patch early in
the swim, but once that was over, and particularly in the second half of the
swim, I felt calm and happy, knowing we were making good progress, and not
needing any ‘instructions’ or other external motivation.
- The island: I resolved not to look around at all during the
first hours of the swim. I knew that Motuaiko, the famous island marks
(approximately) the halfway mark; swimmers have commented that it takes a
lifetime to pass the island. During my feed stops, I deliberately looked only
at the IRB and the crew, or in a westerly direction. After one feed (I thought
I’d been keeping track of them) I asked Ben and Gráinne if we were at seven and
a half hours. No! They said, just past six and a half hours! I took a little
look around and realised that Motuaiko was behind us. This filled me with
confidence: I still felt comfortable and confident, we were 20km down, and I
had at least another 20km in me.
White cliffs in the background - The point: the stretch between Motuaiko and Rangatira Point
(taking you to just past 30km) is infamous for being interminable. I took a few
surreptitious glances at the Point during subsequent feeds, and while it
initially seemed very far away, it came closer at a more reassuring rate
than I’d expected. From supporting other people’s swims, I knew that it took a
long time for the green blur on the Point to resolve itself into identifiably
individual trees (longer if you’re short-sighted and not wearing prescription
goggles). However, during one feed, I took off my goggles off briefly and admired
the scenery. First, I took in Ruapehu, which looks magnificent from the water.
Then, the white cliffs on the east side of the lake (Vicky had told me to look
at these), and back at the island, then the mysterious western reaches of the
lake. Finally, I looked towards Rangatira Point and I could see individual
trees, more significantly the big tree that stands right out on the pointiest
bit.. This seemed positive, so I said to Rebecca, who was in the IRB, ‘I can
see trees!’ She firmly put me back in my place: ‘don’t get too excited. They’re
a long way yet.’ I put my goggles back on and returned to work.
- The last seven kilometres: without telling me, as the crew like to
have their secrets, they’d masterminded a plan to get me around the Point and
into the bay nice and quickly. The lake had a lot of water in it, and Mercury
had opened up their control gates to let plenty of water out into the Waikato.
This creates a nice pull, and can speed up the final leg of the swim
considerably. I had to wait a little longer for a couple of feeds, so we could
get around the point (I didn’t know this, although did think it was a long 30
minutes) and start the home straight. Once we achieved the Point, the sight of rocks under the water thrilled me – the first ‘land’ I’d seen beneath me
since 3:59am – and the huge rocks looked magnificent in the crystal-clear blue
water. After a few moments to admire them, we were off again, and the lake
bottom disappeared again. In this final big stretch, the water became a little
choppy, but this time the chop was helpful. Everybody seemed cheerful, and
other nice things happened: people on a passing catamaran waving at me, and
another boat giving me some encouraging blares on its horn. Very soon Rebecca
told me I had just 6km to go, ‘Balaena Bay and 1k’, which seemed doable, and –
woohoo – that it would soon be treat time (the traditional Mars Bar on the
penultimate and final feeds). Treats, however, went by the board: subsequent
feeds only had half the treats (some flat and syrupy Coca Cola), and by this
stage I was getting quite hungry, and visions of ravioli floated in my head. We
splashed on, and then I was stopped to hear some magic words: ‘1500 metres to
go; if you can do it in half an hour, you’ll beat 13 hours. GO!’
- The finish: I set out on the great 1500m sprint feeling very keyed
up, but also quite tired. Phil, Rebecca, and Gráinne were all in the IRB
cheering and waving and whistling, and Ben was sitting up on the big boat
shouting too. Telling myself this wasn’t as far as the Splash and Dash course,
I set to work and tried moving my arms up a gear. They felt reluctant, and
while my shoulders didn’t hurt, my forearms, lungs, neck, and hips all
complained. I knew that the lake bottom would appear a long way before reaching
the beach, and decided I’d hold off kicking until I could see it. Gripping the
water also proved difficult, and my lungs objected to the new tempo. However,
with so much encouragement from the boats, no option existed other than trying
to increase the speed. I felt as if I rocketed along (later, after viewing the
video from this moment, I thought ‘surely you could find some more speed’ as it
looked laborious). The lake bottom appeared, big boulders with the occasional
catfish flitting around. The attempt at kicking was short-lived, as it gave me
toe-cramp, so I let that leg dangle and kicked with the other one: I didn’t
want cramp to go further up my leg. The Yacht Club building had looked far
away, but then I could see little sailboats in the water, and people milling
around on the beach. It entertainmed that they were just out enjoying the
afternoon, while all this drama took place in the water. A little more kicking,
and a little more arm tempo … I would swim until my fingers touched the sand,
and then hope I could stand up. The final stretch, with the sand just out of
reach (but various diversions to look at – an old bucket, a golf ball, a
mysterious pipe sticking up ready to impale me) took some time, but then my
hand hit the sand, and determined to beat 13 hours, I stood up and could walk
out of the water. Done! I heard the klaxon, the crew threw towels over me, then
some tinsel and a crown! The time was 12:57:03.
Many hugs followed, and Mark from the Washing Machines materialised on the beach, which made me wonder if I was hallucinating. In the following pictures you can appreciate how thoroughly Rebecca applied Sudocream to my face, and the rest of my body. My sunburn was minimal, just where friction had rubbed away the zinc.
I wish I could remember more about the end of each of these swims. In Cook Strait I was relieved, but also a little sad that it was over, after so much preparation. When I landed on the sharp rocks of Rakiura last year, very out of breath after another ‘sprint’ finish, I couldn’t believe that I’d got across that stretch of water, and that it had all been so good. After Taupō I felt simultaneously exhausted and elated, and told anybody who’d listen, ‘That’s a big lake!’ It felt great to finish a swim warm: we could sit on the beach in the sun, relaxing (well, I relaxed, the crew naturally had a lot of work to do), eat the icecreams that Mark found at the service station, and smile at members of the public who wanted to know what had just happened but couldn’t really believe it when we told them.
Soon the time came to drive back to the motel, but I decided I really wanted to take my togs off as they felt full of grit. This operation required more strength and flexibility than I had: my arms had really signed off for the day. Ravioli was the order of the day at the Turangi New World: Gráinne emerged from the shop with a doomed expression,‘There was no ravioli … [wink] but I got tortellini.’ The relief!
The shower at the Tokaanu Motor Lodge delivered lots of hot water
for my initial ‘placebo shower’ where I scrubbed feebly at all the zinc,
sunscreen, grease, and lake-goo adhered to me, and hit my head on the very low
showerhead more times than was comfortable. Sitting down seemed like a good
plan, but then there was the question of trying to stand up again and climb out
of the bath tub without breaking my leg or the shower curtain. My
recommendation for every marathon swimmer is to have a clean set of pyjamas
ready for after your swim: even though I
wasn’t especially well-washed after my shower, putting on a clean pyjamas felt
the most luxurious sensation in the world. I sat to shovel some pasta and peas down
my very scratchy throat. That final sprint had clearly ravaged my tender
oesophageal membranes, but tea helped.
After a short while, Ben, who’d done some valiant IRB driving throughout the day while I splashed him a lot, arrived to sleep in one of our many beds. He had to get up at 3am to crew for another swim the next day, so we all prepared to turn in early. My room was baking hot, so I opened the windows wide, and lay down under the sheet to finish the Wordle I’d started while eating breakfast at 11pm. The strain of holding my phone proved too much for my arms, so I took a little break … and fell asleep, thus losing my 85-day Wordle Streak. The night, as expected, took a long time: the temperatures turned chilly at 2am, and having fallen asleep on my back, I woke up freezing cold, and completely immobilised by muscle stiffness. The quilt was well out of reach, and sitting up seemed an insurmountable task. Eventually I rolled out of bed, tugged ineffectually at the extraordinarily heavy duvet, had a drink of water, and realised my arms were also too tired to turn the door handle and get out of the room to refill my water bottle. At 2am I woke up again, wondering why I was still freezing but also very hot (some sunburn manifesting) and managed to wrestle the door handle using my forearms. I found a couple of plums to eat, because I was starving. The plums, while refreshing, just made me hungrier, but sleep was more important. Eventually it was 6am and finally time to get up. Then I noticed the wide-open bedroom windows, which accounted for the cold. Gráinne made an extraordinarily delicious omelette, we packed up, and were on the road back to Wellington nice and early, with a short tea break at Mangaweka where we chatted a little more about the swim, among other things, and I learnt that I had indeed been deprived of my Mars Bar during the last two feed stops of my swim, in the interests of finishing sooner.
With this swim, I joined the very select group of swimmers who have completed the Triple Crown of New Zealand Open Water Swimming, and also the larger ’40.2 Club’ of those who’ve swum the length of the Lake. This is very august company indeed, and after experiencing just how mighty that swim is, I felt overwhelmed by admiration for everybody else who has accomplished the feat. If I were to do it again, I know what I would, and could do better, but meanwhile, I can think back with some incredulity that I finished.
As ever, there are many people to acknowledge and thank, not just for supporting me for the 40km of the swim, but for all the encouragement before and during the swim. In Wellington, the Spud Buds and the Washing Machines for always being at the beach and ready to swim in the mornings, and then all the hilarity of post-swim coffee. There are too many individuals to name, but the members of both these groups are always ready to join in any challenge, whether it’s a two-hour swim in the middle of winter to prepare for the Ice Swim Champs, or a six-hour swim in a southerly gale. It is rare to know so many unusual souls who are both generous and obsessive about swimming in the sea, and whose enthusiasm for taking on new challenges grows by the season. For that, we must thank Dougal Dunlop, the ‘mayor’ of the Washing Machines for leading this group with such kindness and welcoming everybody who wants to swim. Timon, coach of the Bonobo swim squads, has now been keeping me on my swimming toes since 2018, and he possesses a rare capacity to imbue confidence and calm: I have learnt a lot about the process of training from Timon, and can carry this experience into my so-called ‘Secret Training’. The afternoon ‘Secret Training’ companions, especially Alicia and Gráinne, deserve special thanks too, as having a friend or two for company during all the extra swim sessions leading up to a marathon swim provides unquantifiable motivation. Summer racing is a good test of fitness and preparation – I am grateful to Nancy Prouty and Mike Cochrane for some fast, hectic racing during Splash and Dash, and the Round the Lighthouse Race early this year.
On the subject of learning, I want to thank Bre, John, Omar, Rebecca, and Victoria for letting me support their swims: each of these events was an opportunity to gain perspective on long swims. I need to thank especially supreme motivator Philip Rush for organising and directing this swim, as well as his coaching and expertise in preparation, and assembling the team of Hana and Ben for the swim itself – nothing could happen without these people.
Finally, my own devoted crew, Gráinne and Rebecca. I’ve been very fortunate that Gráinne – holder of not just one Triple Crown, but THREE (NZ, Irish, and ‘Original’) – to have been my chief cook and bottle-washer, as well as driver, hair-dryer, and purveyor of knowledge, with me for Cook Strait in December 2021, Foveaux in April 2023 (after such a lot of waiting) and Taupo. To have this ‘Titan’ of the sport volunteering to be there is very special, and I also want to thank her family for letting me have so much of Gráinne’s time. It was, too, special to have Rebecca on board for this swim: her amazing tandem Taupo swim with Bre in January 2020 gave me my first support crew experience, and first insight into the 40.2km challenge. We had our famous (notorious? Infamous?) tandem adventure in Cook Strait in March 2021, and then in 2022, I was present for Rebecca’s record-breaking double-crossing of Taupo, an extraordinary undertaking. It's impossible to express my thanks to Rebecca and Gráinne for the time, energy, and enthusiasm they have shared during the last three years.
'for to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour.'
— Robert Louis Stevenson, Virginibus Puerisque (1881)
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