North Bondi 1 and 2km 10th Feb

Posted on February 16, 2013 by bourkeyy

Here we go at North Bondi again.

Coming down the hill into Bondi in the Silver Bullet just after 8am the ocean looks perfect with only a slight coating of ripple to denote a bit of a wave.

Off into the Bondi hinterland to score that elusive free park in streets jammed with cars from the proliferation of apartments and shared accommodation for both the native Bondi-ites and the droves from the islands off north western Europe.

The new North Bondi SL Clubhouse is materialising more and more each week. In the meantime a warren of portacabins and demountables have sprung up where the squads of life savers mill about getting ready for the action of the day.

Registration is painless and fast – the North Bondi crew have this caper down to a fine art.

Meet the Sea Nymph seeking help to find Spot’s BF tent all squared away somewhere after drop off by the man himself en route to the Kurnell Tri’s earlier in the am. Piano Paul has got in first and the edifice is already up on the grassy knoll on the northern end of the beach.

Sunblock slapping on, banter about who is ahead of who, race strategy and all the rest of it as the lads and lassies in the navy and yellow strip get ready for the swims.

Photo opp and then into the surf for the warm up. Conditions couldn’t be much better. The water is warm (about 21), clear, tiny bit of a wave, calm out the back where the cans sit serene in the dreamy conditions.

The race plan for today is coloured by several factors.

a)      After the clown antics and disaster of last weekend at the Cole Classic, focus on not missing the wave start. Trusty new watch to assist here

b)      Should be out in the fields/ on the roads running and cycling instead of swimming here – the BRW Tri is in three weeks and have only done one or two runs and no bike training. Despite being only a short distance event, remembering the torture of the last three BRWs when likewise the preparation for the terrestrial stages was non existent. Not hellfire and brimstone torture, but torturous nonetheless

c)      Memory of the recent Wedding Cake Island swim at Coogee when a leisurely pace produces a brace of swims memorable for the sheer pleasure of being able to swim that distance in the ocean in perfect conditions

d)     Acceptance of entry in the 13km Francis Thornton Memorial swim in Galway Bay next July. Racing to keep up with/ beat the rest of the Lane 7 gang is at a pace unsustainable pour moi for anything over 2-2.5km. Need to pull the head in and start looking at sustaining a pace over 6 times this distance

So, 1km, easy pace to relax and warm up for the 2km. Plan for the 2km is steady to the first can, then slowly build up along the course with a big sprint around the last can and into the shore.

The swimming unfolds as benignly as the ocean in her good graces this morning.

The only surprise in the 1km is a big swell from the northeast all of a sudden down the back straight, out of nowhere. Comes and goes, no cousins, brothers or sisters. Huge lift and then back down again. Deep power out of the blue. Like herself is reminding us of our real place in the scheme of things.

Lots of what looks like newer swimmers being caught by later waves and this is not so bad as it tests the duck, dodge and weave skills trying to get past.

Get kicked in the head just past the most southerly can but no damage done as in broken teeth or nose. Didn’t see it coming out of the haze of bubbles and limbs but there you go.

Meet the Journo in the fruit and water tent at the end and she gives a war dance yelp of triumph which wouldn’t be lost on Boadicea taking the head off a Roman legionnaire. She’s a bit more magnanimous after the 2km when it’s a few seconds off even-stephen, advantage SM.

The 2km runs its course and happy with a time of 35:29, 540th out of a field of 998. Middle of the pack.

Structured race with a bit left in the tank at the finish – not gasping for oxygen or trying not to barf the guts up all over the sand.

Wait around with the Taxman and Rumpole to hear if any of us are off to Haiwaii but no go, the raffle is won by some other chap. They’re probably still drawing the woman’s prize as each successive winner was not there to collect, so it’s a redraw.  We’re gone after they draw the seventh or eighth name, still no winner.

Silver bullet the boys back into the city, the banter carries on along the way, then goodbye see you at squad in the morning.

This July, le cunamh De, slogging away for the distant mirage of the conning tower at Blackrock in Salthill, 2km will be just 15% of the swim.

Better get happening with the distance thingy.

Yikes!

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Cole Classic 2km

Posted on February 3, 2013 by bourkeyy

What a muppet stunt to pull!

Wave number 9, navy caps, scheduled to depart the platform at 1130 in tandem with wave 8, sky blue caps – all good, except surfmuppet is too busy yackering away to notice that there is his wave down on the beach…gone.

Without him.

Too busy chin wagging with his new buddy, also with navy cap, back at the BF tent up on the hill overlooking Shelley. Holding forth with great wisdom on the subject of ocean swimming to the Shropshire Lad who is looking forward to his FIRST ocean race and so is a tad nervous. Thus very receptive to a good long chat from the muppet in his “most senior of the three wise men from the east reincarnation”

In the excitement, Rule # 1 was embarrassingly forgotten. So for those needing reminding, here it is:

Rule # 1 of Ocean Swimming – Make sure to actually get into the ocean, preferably in the wave you’ve been assigned.

Mind you, it’s a grim and foreboding Manly this morning at 9-ish as surfmuppet trundles along the shore front to the registration tent. Dull overcast skies, 15 degrees if it’s that, people lurking about in windcheaters and sweatshirts, ocean looking like it wants a fight but can’t quite get up enough steam to really dish out the good news. And like the Manly LSC Blue Dolphin races back in December the organisers have decided that, in the words of Falstaff, discretion is the better part of valour and so start and finish the races out of Shelley. And cancelled the 9km to boot.

As per the final words of Edward Kelly, such is life.

Been reaping the benefits of “tapering off for the Cole Classic” at training all week – without having actually entered it. Gonna do it later. Then later again. Til on Thursday night discovered that entries had closed. Oh.

But do not despair dear reader, an afterthought of a note on the page declaims that a limited window of a couple of hours will present itself at high noon on the Saturday so the muppet leaps into the fray yesterday and so…trundles along to the rego tent this morning to pick up his tag and the ill-fated navy cap.

Horray!

Marine Parade, pass a lot of the 1km crowd shivering but proud with Coles Classic medals hanging from necks. Big crowd going to Shelley and coming back. The strand is packed and up on the hill on the grass – Donkey and the BF tent.

Fast forward three hours of intermittent rain, sunshine, howling winds, then rain again – surfmuppet and the Shropshire Lad lurking behind a bush watching the lads from the navy cap wave running across the finishing line pumping the air.

“What are we going to do now”, asks the newbie.

“Does this normally happen.”

“Shut up, I’m thinking!” snaps the muppet, his eyes scanning the scene for any clue as to how to redeem this disaster with a skerrick of honour.

Aha! The muppet spies two boyos stolling down to the beach in yellow caps. Port Macquarie Neil and his buddy Jimbo. In the last wave of the race, the 55-60 plus. “I have a plan, Shropshine Lad! Here’s what we’ll do.”

The call goes out, “Face the water.”

The crack of the starters pistol and the last wave of venerable sea warriors launches itself into the brine. A couple of flashes of navy as two figures leap up from behind a tree and sprint across the sand and dive in behind the old boys.

But wait! There’s more of them. All kinds of caps are joining in as other halfwits who’ve missed their waves seize the last chance to join in the day’s fun.

And they’re off. Surfmuppet has decided that enough excitement has been had for one day so takes a gentlemanly pace. The Shropshire Lad, in a paroxysm of debut excitement, is lashing away like a lunatic and is heading for the first buoy in the form of a human torpedo. The water is warm but a bit cloudy – probably something to do with all the stormwater drains in the northern beaches emptying their loads of rain after the damp and sodden week that was.

And it’s around the first buoy and out to sea.

Surfmuppet, feeling a bit fatherly, checks to see if  the Shropshire Lad is ok – he has started to flounder a tad. Ah, beginners enthusiasm turning into horror as the puff runs out and the reality of a long swim ahead sets in. But fair play, he perks up and keeps going – wanders about the place a bit but keeps plugging away. Meanwhile, the wave spreads out across the bay and surfmuppet meanders along, not too fussed about racing now that he’s going to have an official time of about two hours. Keeps an eye on the Lad and just goes into a bit of a reverie about nothing.

All fine until the turning buoy in the middle of the bay when some old boy in a stripey costume flays the side of the muppet’s head – and it’s on! One last check on Shropshire and then it’s a death race after Stripey to show him a thing or two.

Turn again and now it’s the long stretch south back across the bay to Shelley.

Earlier, Spot has briefed his band of monkeys that we should head straight for the last buoy for the left turn into Shelley as the two buoys in the middle are only navigational – and will send those foolish enough to be beguiled by their  malevolent misdirection off the path and into the deep, dark forest – where there be wolves!

Plus the swell breaking off the bower point will push them even further towards Manly.

In the meantime, Stripey has been hunted down and passed and Surfmuppet is busy duking it out with a couple of yellow hatters who have gone out to sea and are heading for Shelley by the shortest line. Soon we’re in the whitewater of the bower break where it gets a bit bumpy and then the last buoy and it’s a fast little trot up to the gentle sloping sand of Shelley and over the line. Soon after the Shropshire Lad stumbles up the sand with a wild glint in his eye which denotes addiction and “when’s the next one.”

The sun is out now and all are in a happy mode as the organisers start to disassemble the setup. Some of the BF crew win prizes (Sunshine Sarah and Donkey with his team) and the surfmuppet invests in a watch from the Soleus man who’s selling them in a tent along the way back to the car park.

Useful things watches.

It’s got a stopwatch on it with loads of splits and so surfmuppet stops by a field on the way home and runs around it to commence his training for the BRW Triathlon which is on in a month’s time. Normally leaves the bike and run training to the week before but this year – what, with a new watch and everything – decides to put in a bit more effort and who knows, might actually pass someone in the terrestrial stages.

Next week, return to Bondi.

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Australia Day, Bodyscience Great Australian Swim, 2.2km

Posted on January 30, 2013 by bourkeyy

Farm Cove

Not quiet the bull shark aquarium as Cookatoo Island but the eastern side of Farm Cove just off Lady Macquarie’s chair is not known as bull shark alley for nothing.

Here we are at the end of the race on the pontoon beside the Man O’War steps where the gallons of gallant water warriers leaped in about 35 or so minutes before hand. Surfmuppet can barely get up one of the steel ladders from the spot behind the timing thingamajig where the punters have to hold up the timing chips attached to their left wrists in order to register completion of the race.

Absolutely knackered.

Turning to walk the plank back to dry land who does he spy coming up the ladder, like the Predator coming over the crest of the hill to chop up Sonny Landham in Arnie’s Predator 1 movie, but the Taxman. Looking really pissed off. And why wouldn’t he be, having been muppeted, albeit inadvertently.

The clan gathered earlier in the corner of the botanic gardens closest to the Opera House and beside the steps where the British Navy used to land and embark crews and materials for adventures on the high seas.

Lots of tents set up with goodies galore on show which always gladdens the hearts of the ocean swimming hordes. P&O, the major sponsor, have branding all over the place including on one of their cruise ships planted in the middle of the harbour.

The registration process is swift and efficient and the lime green swim cap a thick latex which is novel as most swims give out the more brittle thin rubber ones which have a lot lower life expectancy, especially when used in the pool. Next up a number on both arms, then over to the free stuff tent for a race show bag with P&O towel, a couple of water bottles, a BSC sun visor and other gear.

Under a big Moreton Bay Fig where a gathering of BF’ers have composed themselves on the grass to get ready for the fray. Slip, slop, slap, balancing on one leg with towels wrapped around loins getting costumes on are many of the people. The crowd swells as the hour turns over and all the littlies prepare for the 300m and 750m races. Some unsavoury comments from the gang about how the young ones will look nice and tender for any lurking beasties and so will flush them out early so the main event can go on without giant sardines with teeth interruptions.

The order of the waves has changed and everyone over 40, male and female, are lumped together in one big uber wave. Lined up and funnelled through the gates leading out to the steps there’s a passing resemblance to the mass of sperm characters in the Woody Allen film “Everything you wanted to know about sex but were afraid to ask”. All shuffle on through.

The sun beats down and the music thumps out of the speakers set up for the occasion. The commentator makes a joke about the P&O Liner being one of the cans and instantly the word passes around the Peleton about whether he’s serious, then puzzled looks as to which direction around the Liner we have to swim, then it’s your man back on the mike saying he was only joking, to ignore the last comment. The rumour keeps going a bit so maybe that’s what happened to the Taxman, he ended up swimming around the ship.

Soon the monster wave has jumped into the water and is under starter’s orders. The water is grand and warm, salty as the harbour tends to be, and reasonably clear – lots of legs and arms waving about.

They’re off and the surfmuppet is up and at ‘em at a reasonable clip. Doesn’t let up for the whole race. Didn’t intend to compete this hard but the horse has now bolted and the Journo is toe tapping all the way across the cove and around the first can. Down the east side of the cove they go, past the stands for the Opera under the Stars or the Moonlight Cinema or the Naked Jelly Wrestling or whatever the coves in charge of the Sydney Festival have come up with. Journo still there tapping away and letting all know, in the inimitable ladylike fashion of hers, that she’s an ocean orca hunter killer dreadnought and will have any pound of flesh on offer.

They turn right at the bottom of the Cove and a surprising amount of chop starts to bounce the aquanauts around the place. Lots of biff and bashing going on. Then it’s back up the harbour, confusion at the second last buoy, then out into the middle of the cove again and left turn for the long slog back into the steps.

And it’s a long slog for the surfmuppet is by now a spent force. Falls a good five metres behind at the second last buoy and has worked hard to catch up. Starts trying to keep up with pedestrians stolling along serenely in the botanic gardens. Or, will give up at that next tree, that kind of positive thinking. The Journo poised to strike like a sea cobra over the right shoulder. The navy banner on white metal frame of the timing thingamajig remorseless in its distain to approach.

Then, within striking distance of the end, about 50 metres to go but all hope abandoned,  the miracle of Dunkirk happens. Just as Hitler’s panzers stop in their tracks and the British Army is allowed to escape from the beaches, mysteriously the Journo sets off across the harbour to visit Ms Gillard for morning tea in Kirribilli House.

Surfmuppet cannot believe what is happening but you’ll all understand why he doesn’t take off after her to bring the errant one back into the fold. No. Just strokes away for the finish (mercifully just there), can barely lift the arm up to the timing thingy, then the challenge of getting up the ladder.

Buoyed up by the sight of the crestfallen Taxman back from the trip around the Liner, get a pair of thongs for finishing, some more promotional sunblock and sit with the gang listening to other people winning the prizes. The Amber Gambler wins the trip to some islands north of Queensland so all is well with the universe as her surprise looks genuine and so the draw doesn’t look like it was rigged.

Finish up the morning in a cafe on George Street in the Rocks with the Journo and the Taxman hogging Apfelstrudel in a Christoph Waltz “Inglourious Basterds” like moment. Talk about weight loss challenges and the like but that’s just the salt water backed up in the canals of the middle ear.

Advance Australia Fair!

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North Bondi Roughwater 1 and 2km Swims

Posted on January 13, 2013 by bourkeyy

Coming down the hill into Bondi 8am on a sleepy post festive season Sunday morning nothing much compares to the sight of the crescent of ocean lolling there half indifferent to the ways of humans, throwing a swell or two up onto the sand and chopping it up a wee bit out the back – not too little as in the lake placid effect, not too much as in the latest in washing machine technology.

Would gladden the heart and sweep the cobwebs of doom and gloom out of the most churlish of heads.

Lots of high temps and howling winds this week, enough to trigger the bush fire escape plan – which is, pack a box with photos of the kids growing up and a few important documents, sling it into the back of the silver bullet and leave under the desk at work. Extra rations for the two mongrel hounds in the back yard and a swimming pool size tub of water for them to frolic and drink up in. Castle von surfmuppet is located in the craggy eastern slopes of the Galston Gorge, so the fire winds (the west/ norwesters) come howling up these bushy, Eucalyptus dense canyons like a Japanese bullet train. Get a bit of fire in there and it’s goodnight. Couple of crispy critter ex-hounds beside a burnt out shell.

Enough of the doomsaying and on with the swims.

Score free parking down the back of Bondi amidst the warren of back streets and clusters of cafes.

Hoof it down to the line of registration tables set up in front of the phoenix of the new North Bondi SLSC rising up from the rubble of the demolished former club house. Lady didn’t want to hand over both rego timer tags but a bit of charm works a treat and so, twin chipped like a wild west double holstered gunslinger, off down to where Spot’s legions are toiling putting up the Bondi Fit Pavilion on the grassy knoll BBQ area right on the northern tip of the beach, behind the kiddies pool.

Donkey leads the construction effort aided and abetted by German Kath and Sunshine Sarah with el Spotto barking out commands.

Soon the crowd is there led by Rumpole of the Bailey, the Journo, Dolphin and Piano Pauls, the Sea Nymph, Iron Dee, Limerick Nikki, Salthill Dave, the Jockey, the Amber Gambler, Coogee Carolynn, Killer Karen, the Flying Barb and a host of others.

No Taxman.

Talk amongst the troops is that he lingers broken spirited after a lurking Rumpole bounced at the battle of Cockatoo Island and gazumped him at the last second.

Tragic.

Others say he has been spotted doing secret training sessions at North Sydney pool, getting ready for a triumphant return to quash his tormenters and deep six them to Davy Jones’ locker.

Waiting for the warmup, Rumpole posits whether the argy bargy at the start is worse at Eastern Suburbs beach swims compared to Northern Beaches ones. Reckons the more concentrated population in the East results in a competitive spirit for everything from a parking spot to a restaurant table, and brings out the biff and bash in full technicolour in the starting melee.

Up north, all self assured WASP types with the Mosman tractors full of happy kids and Labradors, less upfront biff more no-you-first-no-you-please,no you–no you and downwards spiral into the biff.

Photos. Warm Up. In. 50 stokes. Stop. Out. Repeat.

Start of the 1km.

The General, doyen of the North Bondi SLSC, marshals the formations of age categories and with the crack of a starting pistol sends them over the top like swarming stromtroopers into the maw of the rising tide.

First can is a white cone about 250m off the beach, bit hard to get a lock on it with the rise and fall of the swell and the chop. Getting pushed north by the current so numerous course adjustments. Rumpole proven wrong in this instance as the melee is surprisingly mild mannered but maybe that’s just in the hallowed confines of the old fart’s wave. Turn south and it’s halfway down the beach for the orange turning can, then norwest to the final can and back into the navy blue triumphal arch of the finish in front of the scaffolding of the new clubhouse.

For a 1k-er, bit of a tough swim, with the chop being a little bit more feisty out the back and a swirling current around the place.

Helped by going stroke for stroke with a shapely looking female swimmer who threatens to pull away every few metres. Keeps the old surfmuppet sharp having another swimmer setting a stretch but achievable pace. About 300 metres out she starts to slacken and fall behind – the torture sessions a la Piano Paul’s  “endurance sets” pay off.

Knackered going over the line, get de-tagged and walk the heroes alleyway of plenty, boxes of grapes, bananas, peaches, orange quarters, the lot, washed down with ice cool water and sports drink.

Not bad, North Bondi, not bad at all.

Catch up with the gossip and running commentaries back at the BF pavilion, then it’s reapply sunblock, carb up on loot pilfered from the heroes alleyway of plenty, more photos, warm ups and then ready for the 2km.

All the while the sun lurks behind a thick blanket of cloud. Looks like it will storm at the end of the day (it does) but now it’s not hot and it’s not cold.

For the 2km, the organisers have changed the white cone for a yellow-ish ball but the low profile of this doesn’t help visibility. Same current pushing the punters north so it’s plenty of lift and look to get around this first one.

Now it’s down the bay with the orange cones of the race course silhouetted against the backdrop of the cliffs around Mackenzie’s Point.

Start having trouble with the swim cap coming off – twice. Must be due to all that extra hair after deviating from the standard number 3 sides, 5 top, 8 minute haircut and shorn for a month. Note, visit barber again this week.

Finally stuff the damn thing down the front of the speedos – don’t want to jettison it as there’s a place for another cap in the community of resting swim caps down in a corner of the shed.

Turning the last can at the southern end just off Icebergs and come across the Journo on the starboard stern quarter.

Good sign! She’s been whipping surfmuppet arse up and down the coast all season so it’s mano-a-mano for the schlep north to the finish. Like two WW1 figher pilots, white silk scarfs streaming in the slipstream, wiggle the wings at end other and let fly.

Pull ahead a bit but it’s hard yakka and the combatants finish practically neck and neck so no bragging rights to either the Red Baron or Baroness.

Instead, nosh up in the heroes alleyway of plenty and back to the BF pavilion for the wash up and sharing of war stories.

It’s now high noon in Bondi and the place is buzzing with energy as the beach, the markets, the cafes, bars and restaurants compete for the passing throngs. The ocean waves goodbye as a trio of BFs skedaddle through the masses in search of a decent hit of caffeine in the backstreet cafes.

The Journo holds court sitting on a low wall between Rumpole and the muppet, quaffing said decent coffee and swapping stories of instances from each other lives.

A few years ago strangers passing on the street or in the traffic.

Now bonded by the scourge of salt water and chlorine addiction.

Surfmuppet’s finely tuned apparatus of denial and repression is undone as the conversation inevitably gets down to “A thousand and one tales of sharks, deadly jelly fish and killer thingies”.

But the weather is warm and the living is easy on this midsummer Sunday in January which still messes with the northern hemisphere head even after nearly a quarter of a century on the fatal shore.

Throw the delinquent swimming cap into the pile in the back of the shed and get ready for squad in the morning.

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Bold & Beautiful – First swim of the year

Posted on January 2, 2013 by bourkeyy

New Years Day

Norfolk Island Pines, Cabbage Tree Bay and the Bower Break loom up into view as the silver bullet once again zips down the hill into Manly for a 7am deadline with the surf.

Eyeballing the Bold & Beautiful swim squad on FB and the web for a while but haven’t taken the time to get the arse up the northern beaches to check it out. Pacific Jules, the founder and leading light, runs it 7 days a week, 365 days a year, so it’s not for the lack of opportunity that haven’t been there yet. Just sloth.

Zero traffic on the roads this morning coming from the Gorge down the back of Hornsby, through the leafy glens of Wahroonga and Turramurra, by the saintly halls of St Ives, over Terry’s Hills, way leading on to way by French’s Forest, Balgowlah, Fairlight and finally the big M.

Can almost feel the poison pulsating through the walls of the homes of the thousands of hangovers curdling in the brains and bodies of the afflicted ex-revellers along the way. Beep the horn a few times through sleepy suburbs just to torment the fuckers.

Very friendly are the peeps of the B&B squad.

Amazingly friendly and approachable.

So much so that surfmuppet begins to feel a bit uncomfortable, up periscope for a hidden agenda somewhere amidst all the camaraderie and general feel good.

No.

Leaving paranoia behind in the old year and forward into the new with a spirit of wholesome cooperation with fellow bipeds and primates inhabiting the planet in this early morning of the third millennium AD.

Everyone very helpful and just having a good time…happy new years all around.

Line up with a few others for a mugshot and provide contact details in the log for new recruits. In return, get the pink swim cap and we’re away.

Bit of a swell coming through in front of the Manly SLC where the pink legion enter the fray. Can feel the strong pull of the rip trying to get back out to sea.  Leg it up to the sandbar and then under the breakers to get out the back.

Very relaxed atmosphere.

Regroup just off Manly Point and all bob around in the 21 degree clear water.

Cameras come out, lots of shots taken, then off in the direction of Shelley.

Official stats from the webpage (http://www.boldandbeautifulmanly.com.au/) 105 swimmers including 4 newcomers (inc surfmuppet).

It’s a kind of find-your-own-pace sort of swim and so the dysfunctional competitive instinct of the muppet takes a welcome backseat resulting in a pleasant meandering across Cabbage Tree Bay looking at the fish, an odd ray of two, the light getting stronger, the B&B people swimming past.

Not even a twitch of the old reptilian brain to try and beat any other no hoper, just swimming for the pleasure of it.

Pure magic.

Speedboat filled with groggy NYE revellers parked up just in front of Shelley.

Looking disorientated as their slumber is interrupted by a swarm of pink hats splashing past all full of bonhomie and vigour. Not long before they fire up the motor and tear off into the yonder, no fear of an RBT out on the ocean this time of the day.

Shelley – last time here two weeks ago practically crawled up onto the beach after the Blue Dolphin swims, absolutely bollixed. This morning just glide up to the shore, so fucking serene that it’s almost disorientating.

Again really friendly swimmers exchange banter – almost too much for surfmuppet all this niceness. Three undead in sleeping bags in the middle of the beach. Whiff of wood smoke from the campfire beside the bodies. One of them moves. Life.

All present and correct. More photos. Option called out to do the double s’il vous plait, just wait at the point and do it again. Then back in the water direction Manly and the SLC.

In no time coming through the break and the line of body surfers waiting for the next decent set. Lots of little gangs by this stage as the field has fragmented across the bay.

Then, just under the body surfers, as cool as, just doing it’s thing, a shark.

Not a 3m white pointer or anything serious like that but maybe a meter and a bit, brownish colour, swimming north.

Surprised more than anything by the desire to swim after yer man for a better view. Beastie phobia seems to have taken a holiday along with the let’s-try-to-beat-at-least-one-other-swimmer instinct.

Flounder around in an ersatz body surfing fashion for a bit and then it’s back on the beach. Everyone fully oxygenated and radiating New Year’s good will.

Invites to go for breakfast and coffee.

Chat with Pacific Jules…thanks for a great swim!

Happy and satisfied surfmuppet is with the morning’s sojourn into pleasantness and wanders off direction north, just like his underwater buddy, in search of a solitary breakfast.

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New Years Eve – Clovelly

Posted on January 1, 2013 by bourkeyy

Sun rises in a ball of fire at 5:47 am.

Sunshine Sarah and Radioman Paul take photos of it, already up on Facebook. The Taxman got a similar shot last Friday morning, also up on FB.

Must be one of the most shot sunrise points in Sydney at the moment.

Session taken by Sunshine as she leds up out from the beach, left ladder 1 and back. Run to the rail on the right and touch the post by the abandoned ladies sky blue swimmers.

Back out to left ladder 2.

In again.

Left ladder 3.

Right ladder 1.

Then 2 and 3.

Repeat.

Then Left Ladder 1, Right Ladder 1, Left 2, Right 2 and so on until New Zealand.

Journo and daughter Greta Garbo, Iron Dee, Dublin Elaine, Radioman, the Jockey and a cast of others parade up and down the body of water.

Lots of lifting and looking as the deal is once the fastest swimmer gets to the target ladder,  all turn back and race for the beach.

Kind of a natural handicapping system.

Kind of a natural advantage to a chap of dubious character lurking at the back of the pack, dragging the sea anchors along the rocky bottom, winking at the blue groper along the way, lifting and looking all the while like a salt water crocodile on a Christmas visit to a Billabong near a backpackers hostel in Far North Queensland.

Splash of water by the target!

Lurker turns in a flash and is stroking away like a lunatic for the beach.

Yes.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Victory and glory in sight on the deserted beach, sole witnesses clumps of seaweed, the groper, bits and pieces of flotsam swirling about the murky depths.

Flash of pink hat to port as Uber Ironman zips past.

Flash of yellow hat to starboard as Sunshine hurtles by, behind Uber by a close second or two.

Dubious character left floundering in their wake as the rest of the squad catches up and soldiers past.

Foiled again!

Wetsuit and sea water at 19 degrees C not optimum except if the ocean is bristling with bluebottles. Hot water streaming down the inside of the sleeves and out by the wrists. Starting to overheat and struggle with energy levels so rip the fucker off back on the strand and leap back in Speedo naked.

Cool mountain spring advertising jingle circa 1978 cascades of icy water showering some poor prick digging holes in the desert looking for oil – the mindscape of relief triggered by cool water on parboiled skin.

Freed of the rubber suit, surprise at the degree of freedom of movement in the water. Prisoner freed from the padded cell. Frolicking about like an albino seal keeping up with the rest of the eejits at the back.

Meanwhile, El Spotto has taken the runners off down to Coogee and back, stopping for a leisurely couple of laps of the bay along the way.

Photo shoot of the swimmers exiting the third ladder on left, running up the hill, backdrop of Coogee and Wedding Cake Island. That extra 2kgs over the Christmas brings the total to 104kg, well into the Clydesdale range, so sucking in the gut big time and hoping the man boobs are not jiggling and wobbling too much in the early morning breeze. Keep going like this and pretty soon will need a fucking bra!

Last swim of 2012.

Driving through Surry Hills, sunlight and breeze wave the foliage of the trees lining Foveux Street on the hill down to Central, shade of Major Joe nods and God whispers gentle in the Emerald city at the close of the year.

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Manly LSC Blue Dolphin 1 & 2km Swims

Posted on December 23, 2012 by bourkeyy

Sunday 16th December, 2012

Beautiful morning for a swim.

When surfmuppet first came to Australia twenty three and a half years ago Christmas time was the weirdest time of the year. Used to the Christmas season categorised by darkness at 430 in the afternoon, howling gales off the winter tormented Atlantic, too cold and horrible for even the snow to stick to the ground or crunchy underfoot tip toeing around in case of a cracked skull from going arse over tit on black ice.

Barely a week now to go now and the silver bullet crests the hill on Sydney Road and scoots down the hill past Ivanhoe Park and Manly Oval into Manly itself. Blue and frothy is the ocean with a decent swell building as the tide rises. Sunshine glistening off the water, the sand a light tan, everywhere people buzzing about healthy, tanned, eager to jump into the day.

Welcome to Christmas time in Australia!

The wife came this morning armed with her book and training gear so that she could walk up and down Manly promenade a few times, then lounge around quaffing cappuccinos in bookland – while yer man battles the swells out in the bay for a couple of spins around the yellow buoys.

Bit of surf bubbling around so if the organisers stick to the original course for the two races it will be fun coming in through the break. But the word around the Manly Surf Club where registrations are taking place is the courses have been changed to go in and out of Shelly Beach. Lots of bluebottles about as well.

The organisation is a bit chaotic with swarms of punters lining up to sign up on the day. The queue snakes around the room and down the stairs. Pre-registered entries (thank you oceanswims.com) sidle past and are in and out of a flash.

Timing for the start of the 1km has been brought forward so it’s get the timing chips, the caps, slap on the sunblock and yomp around Marine Parade along Cabbage Tree Bay¸ past Manly Point and Fairy Bower to Shelley Beach for the kickoff.

Bondi Fitters start to emerge from the shadows -Sea Nymph and Dolphin Paul, the Singer, Limerick Nikki and the English gang.

Dolphin Paul and surfmuppet set off into the surf for a warm up. Bit fresh for a moment but then…zero complaints. Couple of sets of twenty stokes and then bob around a bit watching the crowd of racers build up on the sand. Whistles blowing, arms waving all back into shore – finally orders and course directions – we’re going anticlockwise around the bay.

1km

The little ones go first in a wave of dash and bash.

Next in the ladies, a big pack of them churning the water up out into the bay, past a “Here be Divers” buoy underneath which a pod of budding Jacques Cousteau’s are mingling with the sardines.

Watch a line of them earlier waddling down the beach kitted out with at least their own body weight again in gear, astronauts in black wetties, tanks, flotation vest, extra air bottles, knives, fluoro coloured flippers, masks, snorkels, dive computer watches.

Past the knots of ocean swimmers in speedos, goggles and latex caps.

They lie on their backs on the ocean floor looking up at the throng of swimmers passing overhead, jaws-eye view of the pack.

There’s a bit of a swell breaking on the bower point and most swimmers track to the south of it.

A few go though the break and don’t come out the worst for it – although earlier a couple of the littlies are whisked back to Shelley via Zodiac but whether the injuries are from the rocks or from errant bluebottles is unclear.

The course is straight out to a set of buoys in the distance, left turn first one, then another left 100 metres at the next, back across the bay to the last buoy nestled just off the rocks at Fairy Bower and then the long slog back to Shelley.

Bit bumpy with the swell coming over the bower, carrying through into the wall of Marine Parade and back out.

Lots of chop but mild enough for a bit of fun without too much of a challenge.

Knackered at the end and for a second consider to hell with the 2km – but that’s the beauty of paying up front. Locked and loaded and to mean to walk away from the entrance fee. Stuff it, let’s go.

2km

There’s not much recovery time between the swims and as soon as the last wave finishes the 1km, the first wave of the 2km is being prepped.

Madame Journo turns up nursing a hangover and is knocking back the water by the gallon to hydrate. She used to do the double bubble entries last season but this year seems to have wised up and only goes in for the longer one.

Bit of banter on the beach and then we’re off.

Strategy is to just swim and forget about strategy.

Shriek of brakes!

Cramp in the left foot after a bit of a dive and purpoise, pushing off hard from the shelly sand in the shallows – must be why they named it Shelley Beach.

The cramp is in the arch of the foot and stings more than a bit.

Instant calculation to just press on or call it quits, walk back up the beach and piss off back to Manly, find the wife, have breakfast and drive home.

Staggered about in the water on one leg, other one crossed over at the knee, massaging the foot arch and watching the remnants of the wave disappearing into the wide blue yonder.

Same part of the reptilian brain kicks in as in the Palm to Whale Beach swim two years ago when the brand new goggles were ripped off by a wave a couple of minutes after the start and it’s the rest of the race goggle-less – fire, ready, aim – just do it.

Start thrashing after the last of the last of the back of the pack and soon the cramp has been kicked out and it’s time to find a rhythm for the swim.

The swell is restive enough to bring on the old lift and look and anyway the tall buildings on the Manly seafront are sufficiently visible so that navigation shouldn’t be a problem.

But it is…for whatever reason…it is.

End up out on the lonesome trek in the middle of the bay with nary the splash of another swimmer about.

And in spite of the bright sunshine, the lazy rise and fall of the swell, the rows of Norfolk Island Pines along the beachfront packed with pre Christmas surf and sun lovers, the old heebie-jeebies start bubbling up from the deep unconscious.

Hasn’t helped having watched several episodes of Foxtel’s “Abalone Wars” recently with the young fella.

The show features the local Abalone divers off South Australia doing their daily grind harvesting giant sea slugs from the ocean floor while watching out for certain large white bellied beasties of ill repute who have been known to chow down on a diver, surfer or swimmer every now and again.

A couple of these fanged phantoms materialise between the ears of surfmuppet who responds with a mental rendition of “Frere est Jacques” to shut down the aberrant software loop trying to make a bollocks of the morning.

Soon a trio of other swimmers appear who apparently went through the break and thus ended up further out than most.

Company.

More company as us backmarkers converge on the first turning buoy.

Too much company with the ubiquitous buoy breast strokers zapping out their legs like Bruce Lee whacking the bad guys in Enter the Dragon.

Now the long swim back across the bay past the other buoys until Fairy Bower and then the turn for home with the same bit of bump and chop as in the 1km.

Just before that spotted what looked like a turtle deep down. Thought at first it was a ray. Turned head out of water to breathe. Turned back. Saw the pattern of what looked like turtle shell but then the creature had disappeared into the gloom.

This bucked the muppet up a bit and put a bit of a spring in the stroke for the final slog up to the sand.

Thrashed by all and sundry including the Journo who is casually munching an apple on the strand with an air of “what took you so long” about her. Joined by the wife and get a good goading and tormenting as only a brace of females can do when they have a hapless male a-roasting on the spit.

All that’s missing is an apple in the mouth.

Walk back to the main drag and the tide is now well high and blasting up against the sea wall on Marine Parade.

Manly is buzzing and the markets are doing a roaring trade with seasonal shoppers flocking to throw their geld at the stall holders in exchange for all kinds of trinkets, gadgets, garments and gewgaws.

Have the breakfast at Das Kaffeehaus (www.daskaffeehaus.com.au/), served up by a young German waitress with a warm smile that would melt the ice off the north face of the Eiger.

The BIG breakfast – lashings of animal fat, mushrooms, bread, the lot – washed down by a couple of cups of coffee.

Tis the season to be jolly…

Now off home to snooze in front of the telly and watch the latest installment of “Abalone Wars”.

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Off to the Cabaret

Posted on December 15, 2012 by bourkeyy

A warm Saturday night.

8th December 2012.

Early Southern Summer.

Dark streets of Redfern.

Hark!

Rising swell of huge orchestral wave.

Helicopter shot capturing Julie Andrews in a dainty looking pinafore doing a Marian Jones sprint across an Alpine pasture.

Big sound rises to a crescendo.

Cue Julie spinning about the field like a demented whirling dervish.

And Bam!!

“The Hills are Alive, with the Sound of Musik!”

Hang about! Back in 1965 when surfmuppet was learning his A,B,Cs off the nuns they drilled it into his slowly evolving brain that music ends with a C.

But on this night in south Sydney, the substitution of the C for the K is significant for it spells the point of departure between the bould Julie leaping around the Austrian Alps into the arms of Christopher Plummer and the Two Pauls dishing out a musical menagerie in the Redfern Alps, a mad melange of pantomime, vaudeville, loads of SoM favourites interspersed with a hit parade of Broadway and other musical numbers.

Singer Paul justifies this creative representation of the original as based on his memory of the film back in the day. Piano Paul locks in the music and it’s hi ho away we go.

Starts off at a brisk pace by taking the audience back to 1939 and a young novice named Maria…singing.

In German the opening number “The sound of music”, switch back to English and ease the sudden spike in nervous energy from the punters fearing an arthouse rendition in Hoch Deutsch with Wagnerian consequences queuing up to get out the back door.

Bong bong bong of the distant bells calling all good nuns and novices to prayer.

Nonnberg Abbey, three nuns having a chat via Singer Paul splitting his psyche into three and singing their parts of “Maria” behind cardboard cutouts of nun faces.

All nod and bounce along to the music  – “How do you solve a problem like Maria….” – while hoeing into the first few of the seven courses of the degustation menu.

Maria bails out of the convent and arrives at the home of Captain Georg von Trapp

Singer Paul introduces the seven children and the Captain, slipping on and off the characters with rapid wardrobe changes in between breaths. The Captain, suddenly starry eyed in love, warbles away with “Maria” from West Side Story.

Over to Liesl and Rolf out in the gazebo in the garden singing “Sixteen going on Seventeen”, Singer Paul back to two personalities and Piano Paul blasting away in the background on the piano and his electronic bag of tricks.

Back to Maria holed up in the Mansion during a thunderstorm keeping the children calm by singing.. “My Favourite Things”. She finishes by ripping the curtains up, kidnapping the children and hooning off down to the village for a midnight tryst with the famous inventor Otto Titsling – cue Singer Paul’s transformation into Bette Midler.

“Otto Titsling, inventor and kraut,
had nothing to get very worked up about.
His inventions were failures, his future seemed bleak.
He fled to the opera at least twice a week.”

And the sad tale of industrial espionage where Philippe DeBrassiere steals Otto’s great invention.

Now it’s back up the mountain into real SoM paydirt with…

Do-Re-Me…

The first three things just happen to be…

Do a deer a female deer…

The audience is press ganged into the chorus line and divided into sections – the Do, section, the Re section, the Me section, the Fa section (wherein lurks surfmuppet)…all the way up the scale and back down again.

“When you know the notes to sing, You can sing most any thing”

The whole restaurant belting it out led by the Pauline Pair.

Now the emergence of the villain – the Baroness – cue a costume change into an evil Baroness flouncy apron type number.  In true Pantomime style the audience greets her entrance with a round of hissing…unfazed she continues, “Like Alexis from Dynasty, the Baroness recognizes Maria as a problem…so she sings”…Stephen Sondheim’s “Send in the Clowns” from A Little Night Music.

Singer Paul does a low, atmospheric Ute Lemper like version, close your eyes and the Pitt Street Diner goes into Dr Who’s time machine back to a Kurt Weill-escue nightclub in 1930s Berlin.

Desiree, denizen of the night in fishnets and high heels, leans over and whispers into surfmuppets ear “Haben sie feuer, bitte?” Together they walk out into the night under a full moon along the Unter Den Linden to her love nest down by the banks of the river Spree…

Yea, dream on, the fantasy ends with a kick from the Missus under the table.

Next up is My Fair Lady with Singer Paul channeling Maria morphing into Eliza Doolittle via Audrey Hepburn for “I could have danced all night”. The ghost of George Bernard Shaw looks in the window and nods.

Act One ends thus, with Maria packing her bags, hefting up her ukulele and heading off back to the convent and the audience hooking into courses three and four and our two performers get a respite over the Intermission.

There’s a certain intimacy to the Pitt Street Diner, with the kitchen right there in the thick of the action, a small performance space near the door and the diners at tables lining the walls down the length of the main room. Other diners are packed in down the back and these are duly herded up the front by the friendly but firm and efficient maitre d when the performance recommences.

Meanwhile, the wine is flowing like cascades of alpine waterfalls down the back of Salzberg and the mood of anticipation rises for more mad melodies.

Act Two opens with the ringing of the convent bells and the overtune of a drink of jam and bread, takes us all back to do, do, do.

The Nuns chorus kicks in with “My Guy” and “I will follow him” ala Petula Clark/ Sister Act.

Now that Maria returns to the Captain, she launches into The Lonely Goatherd, and Singer Paul uses finger puppets to play the children. Lusty and Clear provokes a live debate between the two Paul’s as to what’s really going on with the lyrics, ending in a threesome between the goatherd, the mother and the daughter.

Captain Von Trapp, now turgid with love for Maria, sings…”Some Enchanted Evening”, Singer Paul weaving the Captain, through Emile De Becque via Rossano Brazzi from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s South Pacific.

Liesl and Rolf then split up via Singer Paul donning half a Nazi forage cap combined with a blond pigtail rolling into Neil Diamond’s “You don’t bring me flowers” alternating falsetto with baritone and is that Piano Paul singing Rolf?

From there the story gallops along and the venue is transported to the Salzberg Singing Contest and “So Long, Farewell” as the two Pauls conjure up a soundscape of the children singing their parts and then exiting stage left away from the Nazi overlords and their snarling Dobermans.

And what would be the SoM, with either C or K, without Edelweiss?

Singer Paul morphs back into Von Trapp, accompanied himself on the ukulele and the audience joins in for a second run through and hey, Redfern is being rocked with a huge finish.

Piano Paul plays the announcer of the winner of the folk festival only to be foiled by the re-emergence of the evil Baronness, who gatecrashes the proceedings with a specially adopted SoM rendition of Monty Python’s “Diva’s Lament (Whatever happened to my Part)”.

The finale is the Mother Superior singing “Climb every Mountain”…

The second finale is Maria singing “Xanadu” in celebration of escaping the Nazi’s with the help of people smuggling Nuns, rounded out by a verse of the signature “Sound of Music”…

The audience want more and the two Pauls dish out the third finale, “On Broadway”…

Cheers. Clapping. Desert. Coffee. Exit into the night.

Lights from houses and apartments along the darkened street.

People inside watching TV and staring at computer screens.

The magic of live performance lingers awhile in the warm air.

Fades into memory.

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. ”

The Tempest, Act 4, Scene 1

No race on the Sunday due to spending time with surfmuppet daughter Skater Girl down for a few days from Byron Bay. Had a leisurely pre-hurricane dip in the Basin at Mona Vale instead.

Heard Bilgola was gnarly!

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Bondi to Bronte

Posted on December 2, 2012 by bourkeyy

Driving down the hill into Bondi, white horses on ominous blue grey ocean. No flat, benign waterway in the mode of Coogee last weekend.

Shite, thinks surfmuppet, replay of last year’s B2B coming up when the weather trolls launch a southerly ambush and the water safety are trawling punters out in droves and wrapping them up in silver paper like great big raw turkeys getting ready for the Christmas ovens.

Don’t check willyweather yesterday or this morning, just fall out of bed, jam the gear into a backpack, sling it into the silver bullet and roar off over the hill and far away, direction Bondi.

List of forgets:

  1. Sunblock
  2. Wetsuit
  3. Daylight saving started weeks ago and it’s not as late as it seems

Normally don’t like to disturb the wetsuit mouldering away in an old metal locker in the garage but the good folks organising the B2B have offering a wetsuit amnesty on the following conditions:

  1. Air temperature drops below 40 degrees C
  2. Water temperature drops below core body temperature of 37 degrees C
  3. Tony Abbot’s popularity rises above 2% of the voting public

Stop.

The reader detects perhaps a testy, petulant tone in the above?

Is surfmuppet embittered through watching all his erstwhile comrades-in-arms laughing, joking and cheering the announcement over the loudspeakers that Santa had arrived early and that all can wetsuit up.

Does a hidden snarl cross his face as they all happily dig into their packs and unfurl their wetsuits which they didn’t leave a-mouldering in metal lockers in their garages.

Say what you like about the B2B but the organisation is great, efficient, friendly, considerate – wetsuits all around save for a miserable looking bastard taking it out on Banana Boat man, haranguing him for more sunblock, getting the poor sod to “do my back for me” trying all the different types 10, 20, 30 and 50spf – can’t have too much sunblock, can you?

Well, yes.

Surfmuppet Technical Tip – sunblock and goggles don’t go well together – how to de-sunblock your goggles 200 metres off the beach in a howling southerly while gulping down prodigious amounts of the Pacific ocean.

The Bondi Fit crowd are there near the registration stand up on the grassy knoll. Rumpole addresses the jury on the wetsuit question and finds in the affirmative. Donkey is having love hearts drawn on his cheeks (face) in fluoro green zinc. Loch Ness Gordy is taking a leaf from Rumpole and Flipper is gearing up for his first B2B – first anything over 1km.

As the numbers swell more of the naked make their appearance and the sting goes out of surfmuppet feeling such a clown – Longey, Sea Nymph, Dolphin Boy, the Journo and more take to the brine sans rubberskin and there’s Piano Paul in the same mode emerging from the bay after a bracing warm-up.

Run into Sunshine Sarah at the pavilion ready to dish it out to all the ladies in her category and the race.

No sign of Spot – rumoured to be running back from Kurnell where he led the Tri legions earlier in the morning and will be joining one of the later waves.

The race gets going with the elites and a couple of waves after the yellow hats of the 50+ and the trinkets and toys brigade. It’s bumpy from the start and the wind is blowing hard from the south/ southeast. Technical hitch number one with everything a blur through the generosity of the Banana Boat man and it’s threading water trying to clear the goggles while not drowning or getting run over by the hordes in yellow hats.

The Journo slides past and it’s on goggles to try to catch up.

Have to stop again after getting belted around by the chop while leering through the smeared lenses. Spit and a polish and then leave enough seawater in them to act as a kind of burn-your-eyes-out set of improvised windscreen wipers. Feeling like the half wit of the Tasman Sea but there you go.

Traffic coming the other way! Some poor bastards have had enough by the first buoy and have turned back, striking out back for Bondi like a horde of banshees from hell were after them.

A dark thought looms up from the subconscious that perchance they are swimming from something nasty which surfmuppet can’t see because of his bollixed goggles.

Don’t think. One stroke at a time. Keep going.

Trying to find the best side to breathe on and discover neither working too well. Thankful now for the hypoxic training Piano Paul dishes out on a regular basis as now having to go a few strokes on one breath – oxygen scavenger of Bondi Bay.

Mackenzies Point floats past in languid slow motion. The pink witch’s hats buoys are reached and breached. Somewhere off Tamarama surfmuppet realises spending Sunday morning in the B2B washing machine is actually fun, relaxes and starts enjoying the experience.

Now it becomes a race of two halves. The technique has degenerated into a parody of a drunken squid having an epileptic fit. Start fixing it up by lifting the elbows and shortening the stroke, pulling back shoulder wide, trying to get the arse higher up in the water.

All the things told a thousand and one times to do. In one ear, swirl around in the synaptic mists for a few microseconds, then out the other ear. Breathing starts to come good and hooray! Off to Bronte we go! Start catching up with a few other backmarkers and pass one or two.

The run in to Bronte is a surprise as the ocean takes a smoko break and has a cup of tea with the wind. Not much of a surf and before you know it, we’re all legging it up the sand and over the blue matt under the white blow up arch. One of the SLSC girls takes off the timing chip as the surfmuppet will fall on his arse with the bloodrush to the head if he bends over to remove it.

There’s the Journo ahead for the second time this season. She’s too much of a lady to go scooting and hollering around the sand in a victory dance but the slightest lift of the right eyebrow and an almost imperceptible glint in the eye signal the protocol of victory.

Respect.

Photos. Back slapping. Finding bags. Vacuuming up the free stuff – water, Gatorade, drink bottles, sunblock, health food bars, newspapers – filling up the swag with loot of every description. BF tent set up and war stories swapped. Already talk of the next one.

Walk back to Bondi with Loch Ness Gordy. Watch the last waves coming through along the course and the swarm of water safety people shadowing them. We talk of the swim, business, aging relatives in northern lands and the high calibre of the ladies on the walk along the cliffs.

All signs of the swim have evaporated from Bondi by the time we’ve hoofed it there. A few discarded tee shirts, water bottles and the like are all that remain of the excitement and nervous tension of the cadres of swimmers who lined the beach a thousand strong and more only a few hours before. The wind whips up the sand and for some reason brings to mind a variation on Shelley’s “Ozymandias” as an epilogue for the adventures of the morning.

“I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in Bronte Beach. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is surfmuppet, king of eejits:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Hope this isn’t copywrited and Shelley decides to reach out from beyond the grave and sue. He can have the mouldy wetsuit as compensation if he likes.

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Wedding Cake Island Swim, Coogee

Posted on November 25, 2012 by bourkeyy

Arrive way early and park way up in the hills of the Coogee hinterland, beside St Bridget’s Catholic Church. Fr Terry Bowland, the parish priest, gives a great sermon on JC versus Obersturmbannführer Pilate, John 18:33-38.

Surfmuppet, to those who knew him back in the day, was a wild youth of ill repute and these days atones for his wayward past by occasionally swinging by Church of a Sunday. Could be a genuine trek on the spiritual path or maybe the real agenda is JCs water walking skills rubbing off should a white pointer lunge up from the deep and there’s surfmuppet hoofing it back to shore on top of the water.

Strolling down the hill on Waltham Street in the warm November sun thinking this is going to be a great day. Turn left into Arden Street and run straight into my buddy Paul from the Rocks coming back from his morning constitutional, sea water dripping off him. He reports the water lovely and we have a great old chat for about ten minutes as the suburb comes to life around us. Solve the problems of the world and then each his own separate way goes.

Arrive on the semi circular set of steps in the middle of Coogee beach at 8am and there is Donkey and the Sea Nymph in the brand new Bondi Fit navy with yellow writing T-Shirts. Next Piano Paul appears and then there’s Spot out on the sand calling for help to put up the BF tent. There’s a sting in the sun already, first hint that summer is only a week away.

We put up the tent and slap on the sun block, banter away, get ready for the warm up for the 1km. Register, get a number on each arm, a timing tag for each swim, lime green swim cap.

Race strategy this week is the total opposite to Cockatoo Island. Last week it was lurk behind the Muppet Show old boys (aka Rumpole and the Taxman) then launch all torpedoes in the last couple of hundred metres.

Total Disaster – the reality was go like a lunatic for the first 500m, blow up, limp around the island in recovery mode and then go nuts for the last 500m in a head to head death race against Rashie man. Felt like puking up the breakfast all over the jetty at the end, heart pounding in the chest, staggering about like a drunken surfmuppet circa 1985.

No, Coogee is going to be different. Easy steady pace. Underwater smile at any boofhead provocation. Ignore the clock, just enjoy the day.

Photos and warm-up, Spot entertaining the troops struggling into his one piece Lycra Triathlon suit. Couple of ins and outs, water temperature ideal, little bite for the first couple of seconds but then grand.

The 1km goes in three waves with us old bastards the last. Straight out to sea, turn south around the yellow cone, then turn back towards the beach at another cone, north past the green can, then sharp left between two big cans and straight in and over the line.

Pure magic! Take it nice and steady. Enjoy the view of the sea creatures darting in and about the rocks. Bit of a sprint at the end for the craic, catch a touch of a wave and over the line.

In the last wave again for the 2km. Find a small tree up on the promenade where a woman in an orange cap is sheltering from the by now very hot sun. We’re joined by a cluster of my fellow green hatters, watching the other waves of swimmers pour into the sea in three minute intervals.

Once in the water pick a line to the first can and avoid the other swimmers. Last week it was mayhem but today great, only a bit of argy bargy. Get smacked on the head only once during the race. Nearly lose the timing tag at one stage and stop to tighten it, clear the goggles and then on again. Like last year, we seem to go a long, long way out before reaching the cone to turn south out the back of the Wedding Cake Island. Water safety is everywhere and surfmuppet is so laid back he even manages to smile at one of them.

Jellyfish – like last year, swarms of harmless translucent blobs – at one point there’s what appears to be millions of them in suspended animation as we swim through.

The clear water gives a great view of the reef along the seaward side of the island and coming around the southern end, the currents don’t feel as strong as last year. By this stage starting to overtake the stragglers from the previous waves – you can see the fatigue in the technique gone AWAL, flaying about. One guy is being shadowed by a lifeguard on a board, talking to him. Seems alright. Just a bit further on a fellow green hatter is helped into a zodiac and whisked away. No disgrace. Better to put the hand up and get dragged out if in trouble than get stupid about it. Saw a couple of really experienced guys put up their hands at Mona Vale race last year, problems with cramp.

Get to thinking could this be done for a long race, as in the Francis Thornton Memorial Swim in Galway Bay which is about 6 times the length of this swim. Physical is one thing, mental the other. This pace would be no problem with more conditioning but holding the head together for that length of time is another thing. And of course the balmy waters of Galway Bay present a bit of a challenge temperature wise

Coming towards the end open the throttle a bit and start overtaking but then cop on and relax again – stick with the strategy. Plenty left in the tank coming up onto the sand so it worked. Afterwards, walking up the hill on Waltham Street to the car surfmuppet gets to thinking this was his most enjoyable set of swims in a long while. Totally chilled out.

This must be what they call Serenity.

One in the guys told how he even paused in the water to look back and admire the view of Sydney from out in the bay. Now there’s a thought. Maybe go and get one of those GoPro cameras and annoy the shite out of everyone else in the race.

Might get some good pics though.

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