When I started planning a swim along the northern beaches earlier this year, I had imagined I would hire a small boat with a captain, with John and Chad as support. I never expected it would turn out quite as it did.
The ‘small boat with a captain’ morphed into a 45’ yacht, Free Spirit, with captain, Michael, and daughter, Polly, along with a support crew of six others. As I saw all the gear being loaded onto the boat on Saturday afternoon, it looked like we were off on an expedition to the Arctic. This wasn’t the simple little swim I had thought it would be.
“Wow, this isn’t quite what I expected,” I said.
“Well you can’t just go on an 11-hour swim,” said Rodney, “There’s a lot required.”
“I just didn’t think,” I replied.
“Princesses don’t think,” said Bev.
Feeling like Paris Hilton admitting that she had never seen a mobile phone bill, I realised how much everyone else had thought about this swim for me. At one point, Dave had asked whether I was getting stressed with all the logistics. But everyone organised everything for me; all I had to do was swim. The pressure was on - having so many people make so much effort to get me to Manly meant only one thing: I had to keep my end of the bargain and swim 30 km.
Early morning in Pittwater was calm and flat. Once the grease was on, we set off from near Palm Beach Wharf at 5.15am. Dave and John were in the kayaks on either side of me as we headed towards Barrenjoey Headland. We had a ‘Shark Shield’ slung under each kayak (a unit that emits an electrical pulse from a trailing cord that apparently sharks don’t like on their snouts.) Whether or not they work in reality didn’t really matter – they provided the psychological comfort I needed to stop me worrying about sharks all day. They also provided me with the odd zap when I got too close to the kayak on a feed.
Swimming in the dark wasn’t as scary as I had thought it would be, although feeling lots of jellyfish passing through my fingers wasn’t the nicest of sensations.
As we rounded Barrenjoey Headland, to face directly east, there was a thin line of red light on the distant horizon. It was calm and peaceful and dawn was breaking. I settled in to the swim, knowing I was completely supported by my friends – it was a moment in life I will cherish.
The sun came up as we travelled down Palm Beach, with an easterly swell slightly behind me and carrying me along. The first and second feeds came and went so quickly and I was having a fabulous time. Chad swam for an hour with me between Whale and Avalon beaches and kept my stroke rate up.
After about five hours, I started to get a bit cranky, so Anna swam an hour or so with me (time gets a bit hazy at this point – I thought it was about midday, when it was only 10.30.) Anna had to leave at Mona Vale to go to her sister’s baby shower, and as Mona Vale came and went, I wondered when Anna was going to stop swimming with me. Rodney was in the ducky, ready to escort her in to the beach, as we were about 1.5km offshore. At one point, Anna stopped to talk to Rodney and I thought she was off but then her pink cossie was next to me again. Not long after, she said something to Rodney again and I thought she was going in. But then there was that cossie still next to me. Once she had settled in, I think she might have still been there at Manly if she hadn’t had to go.
Finally, at Warriewood, Rodney managed to get Anna into the boat and began the long journey back to Mona Vale. As I saw waves battering the coastline, I worried about Anna getting into the beach without losing the car keys she had stuffed down her cossie. I reassured myself that this was Anna, one of the best surf swimmers around.
It took Rodney about 40 minutes to get back to us again and we could all finally stop worrying that he’d been washed up on rocks somewhere.
I hit a big icky patch about 6.5 hours in, which Chad copped the brunt of. He (finally) got in to swim with me for another hour at Long Reef, where we could see the bottom, which made a nice change.
It all got a bit messy after that and is a bit blurry. I know I felt like I couldn’t get past Dee Why Head and had a tantrum. The swell felt very big from where I was, coming from the nor'east, with the wind coming from the nor'west, so I felt like I was getting slapped around and had a face full of wave no matter which side I breathed. But I kept going and eventually got into Shelley Beach at 2.38pm, 9 hours and 23 minutes after we started. I think it was the only calm entry point on the northern beaches that afternoon, as the swell was about 8ft by that time.
Sadly (or perhaps not) I was too early for my welcoming party. Having been expected around 4pm, I arrived to a very quiet fanfare. But at least it meant I was de-greased and dressed by the time most people arrived. And didn’t they arrive…. So many people to welcome me in. It honestly doesn’t feel like a big deal to me, so it was incredibly overwhelming to have so many people fussing over me. I wasn’t allowed to do anything, as everyone made sure I was OK. I was completely fine & blissfully happy.
I had spent many weeks preparing for my swim, both physically and mentally; my support crew hadn’t. They had it much tougher than me on the day. When the swell picked up, I could just let my body go with it, but they had to fight against the slow-moving, pitching boat, and the kayaks. It was a long cold day for them and, as Rodney had said a few days before, when I get all the glory, “no one remembers the people who freeze their balls off in support.”
And so, I publicly acknowledge those who froze their balls off.
To Michael & Polly: boat crew. To give up so much time and energy for someone you don’t know is astonishingly generous. Your day didn’t finish at Manly - you had to sail back to Pittwater, get all the gear off, clean up the boat, etc. and I am so grateful. Thank you so much.
To Rodney: head of logistics. You took care of everything and, as Anna reports, ‘never sat still’ all day, busying yourself with one task or another. You also had an incredibly long day, having to get all the gear off the boat in Pittwater and then driving back to Sydney. Many many thanks.
To Bev: caterer, feeder and photographer. There was so much food on that boat we could have swum to New Zealand and not gone hungry! Maybe a pitching boat and sea-sickness didn’t factor into the original plans and much food went untouched. But, boy, your pumpkin soup went down a treat with me. And I believe you did a huge amount of clearing up on the boat at the end, plus getting all the gear back to Sydney in the wee hours of the morning, and then getting up for work the next day. And all while being drugged on anti-sea-sickness pills. A huge effort - thank you.
To Anna: greaser, feeder and support swimmer. The job of greaser was sprung on you at the last minute, which you accepted without complaint, and a more intimate moment I don’t think we’ve ever shared. I hardly saw the support boat all day but one of the few images I have of it is of you hanging off the back of it in your pink cossie. It was a joy to swim with you.
To Chad: support swimmer, verbal punching bag, and coach extraordinaire. The only one with shoulders broad enough to take the abuse and still give me a hug afterwards. Every stroke you swam was like a shot of warmth through me. You always keep me going.
To David: kayaker. A swimmer just could not wish for a better paddler, Dave. You appear completely un-flappable which, when you’re in the water, is exactly what you want to see.
(I had wanted to have two kayakers around me when it was dark, but I did think that John and Dave would drop to doing shifts after that. Dave spent about 20 minutes on the boat before deciding that it was less vomit-inducing out in the kayak. He hardly had a break all day, was unfailingly patient, even when I had a strop at him because my soup didn’t arrive when he’d promised (which was completely not his fault), and artfully positioned me on his deaf side when I started swearing.)
Dave, I am just in awe of your paddling - thank you so much.
To John: rock. You hadn’t been well, had been on antibiotics and then took them on an empty stomach on Sunday morning, consequently throwing up a couple of times (thoughtfully on the other side of the kayak). You barely took a break, accidentally took a dip in the ocean when your kayak was upended (and never mentioned it to me), spent a few hours sitting in a wet wetsuit, and, while I know you well enough to know that you looked thoroughly miserable for a lot of day, you were always there for me. In the days leading up to the swim, you were busy planning everything, picking up gear for me; you even had a crap game of golf on Saturday morning because you were too busy worrying about what we had to get organised (and that’s dedication.)
I deduct some paddling marks for running into me three times, but perfect marks for always always supporting my dreams. You have my breakfast ready every day after I get back from swimming; in the past few weeks when I’ve been home late from work or training every day you’ve also had my dinner ready. You bear with me when I get tense in the lead up to a swim, and then cope while I bounce off the walls with excitement after it’s all finished. And we’ll be going through it all again next year. Thank you.
To Dave the Baker: for providing pastries for sustenance.
To Murph and James Pittar: swimming champions. What an honour to have two of the best marathon swimmers in the world in my camp, offering me the wisdom of their experience. Thank you for taking the time to offer words of encouragement and support.
And to the beach crew. Well, what an experience - it was utterly overwhelming. Thank you all for turning out: Tim, James G, Nicolee, Suzy, Mario, Lucia, Sofia, Georgina, James H, Brad, Mitch, Murray, Lisa, Jake, Chloe, Bev, Amanda, Martine (I think in order of appearance!) My quiet little exit from the water turned into quite a moment in the sun. I might have to rent-a-crowd next year, so that it’s not anti-climactic and I don’t stand on some random French beach saying, “Where’s my welcoming committee, with at least six dry towels to wrap me in, and a large mocha?”
And, finally, when I put some pictures together of my swim across Lake Zurich last year, I put in this picture, with the caption, 'How incredibly lucky am I?'
As I swam down the northern beaches I had plenty of time to realise that that wasn't lucky at all; that was just buying a plane ticket to somewhere scenic.
Lucky is when you have so many people to share the experience with.
Thank you all.
Love Helen
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