Sandy Capped 2: Torture Week Diary

Courtesy of Siobhan Russell

Every July, Ned Denison and the Sandycove Island Swimmers host the Distance Week Training Camp, where swimmers from all over the world take part to help prepare them for the toughest swims imaginable.  When I first read about it in Matt Bondurant's article for Outside magazine, I thought "Good Jesus, that's crazy, no way would I do that!"  A few years later, armed with nothing but a perverse sense of humour and a desire to be a better swimmer, I e-mailed Ned to see if I could partake in Torture Week 2016. 

To my dismay, he said I could. 

Here is what happened:


Saturday:

I woke up Saturday morning to heavier rain than had been falling the night before.  Hoping it was strictly localised, I drove to Kinsale and then on to Sandycove to find it still raining with poor visibility.  The most important thing was that the island was visible.  Sort of.  We gathered round as Ned asked how many present did a solo English Channel swim.  Of the sixty odd people present, almost half the hands went up.  Holy shit, even by Sandycove standards this was a hell of a lot of channel swimmers!  Of the remaining swimmers, easily half or more were scheduled to swim it in the next few weeks and months.  Even holier shit!  Ned continued to call out various marathon swims, (Catalina, Manhattan, North Channel, Windemere etc.) with less and less hands going up each time.  Eventually for the last few it was just Ned and a tiny little tanned guy.  His name was Attila, he was from Hungary, and he had recently been inducted into the International Distance Swimming hall of Fame.  To put this in perspective, this tiny guy who was only up to my shoulder, had swum further and faster than most other human beings, EVER.  Holiest shit!

Attila - Photo courtesy of Gordon Adair

Not everyone present was a speedster.  A German named Peter had recently done the channel in twenty four hours, which is nearly twice the average time, but is impressive as he spent that amount of time in the water without dying of hypothermia or losing focus.  He wasn't slow and steady, he was slow and hardy as fuck! 

The idea of the first morning swim was to do a lap or so (but no more than four) at our own pace and hopefully slip into rhythm with someone else who would be your swimming buddy for the week.  The sea was rough and cold, so I did two wide laps on my own to avoid getting hopped off the island by a rogue wave.  After not finding a swimming buddy, I towelled off, wrapped up, and hit the complimentary goodies on the picnic table.  Bit by bit swimmers drifted in from the sea, all but the locals freaked out by just how bloody cold the water was. 

After a while, the only outstanding swimmer was Peter from Germany.  Nobody was particularly worried as slow swimming was his MO, but as the minutes ticked by and he didn't materialise around the corner of the island, everyone started to get worried.  Two search parties were sent out but neither could find him around the back of the island.  Now everyone started to get more worried.  The coast guard was called, and we waited.  The training camp was already infamous for being one of the toughest in the world, but a floater turning up on the first day would definitely give its already questionable reputation a massive thumbs down.

After what felt like far too long, the coast guard called back to say they had found him on the road.  We didn't get exact details where, all we were told was that he was cut up from having to climb over rocks, but he was otherwise fine.  Two valuable lessons were learned from this.  One was to be cautious in rough waters, as even experienced swimmers can get into trouble out there.  The other was to always drive carefully on Irish country roads, as there might be a bewildered German in speedoes waiting around the next bend.

After exhaling a collective sigh of relief, it was time to head to the afternoon swim.  It was in Lough Allua (trans. the lake of Kahlua), which was way over on the darkside of Macroom.  After a long drawn-out drive through the absolute middle of nowhere, which involved getting stuck behind the same tractor twice (don't ask, just DON'T ask), we rocked up to the Inchigeelagh GAA club for registration and safety briefing.  The route looked straight forward enough on paper, but there were only three marker buoys over the wiggly windy 7km course, and the only notable landmarks were some cows, a caravan, and some uncharacteristically tall trees.  Ned then took centre stage and assured us that the entire of point of this swim was navigational bewilderment.  If one manages to stick to the route, it's a handy 7km, but a few wrong turns could easily bring it up to 8 plus.  This was worrying, as I had done a freshwater swim recently which was a straight course, but I had managed to oscillate wildly from bank to bank while swimming downstream.  It looked like Loch Allua would be the perfect opportunity for me to mess things up completely and set the record for the longest swim of the day.

There were three other swimmers in my wave that I was familiar with.  Aidan, a Sandycove regular who recently whooped me in the Carrick-on-Suir river swim; Barbara-Anne, who had indulged in some cheapo vino the night before and was now hammering into energy gels and electrolytes to compensate; and Angela, who I knew little about but had done a few laps of Sandycove with me the week before.  When we were unleashed, I kept swimming long and strong strokes and staying abreast of Angela in her wetsuit and orange hat.  Bit by bit we pushed to the front of our wave, then gradually started picking off the slower swimmers from the previous waves.  Water temperatures were quite hospitable, and between us we kept a pretty straight course.  After the third marker buoy, Angela stopped for an energy gel, and I knew that it wouldn't be long until she started pulling ahead of me.  My arms were still sore from doing battle with Sandycove earlier, but at this point there was no choice but to just keep swimming.

The afore-mentioned cows. Photo courtesy of Gordon Adair

Eventually I started to tank, Angela started pulling ahead, and I was unable to close the gap between us.  After a while I looked to my right and the familiar wetsuit and orange hat was there.  Before congratulating myself on a successful catch up, I popped my head up and saw Angela a few metres ahead of me.  It looked like all of Barbara-Anne's gels and electrolytes were finally kicking in, and now she was really kicking ass!  Sore arms or not, I did my best to keep up with them, and another swimmer entered the mix.  Non-wetsuit, just a yellow hat with two gels sticking up from the goggle straps like antennae, and a cossie with striped straps on her shoulders.  This was the last leg of the swim, and the real race was happening as I did my best to stay in with this pack as we thrashed towards the finish line.

After the swim, we were loaded up into the van to go back to the changing area. "We were neck and neck there at the end weren't we?" It was the lady with striped straps, sitting opposite me.  I nodded.  "My name is Kate, do you want to swim with me for the week?"  I nodded again.  The first day was done not only had I already swum further than I normally would in a week, but I had also found a swimming buddy.  Success!

Barbara-Anne: Equal parts hungover and victorious.  Photo courtesy of Gordon Adair.

Sunday:

Sunday morning was two more torturous laps of Sandycove.  Kate was a fierce and determined swimmer, and really made me give that extra bit of push as we went round.  She was scheduled to do the English Channel in a few weeks, so came over with her partner Rory to get some training in beforehand.  She kept tight laps, but never once cut herself on the rocks.  Two locals Eoin and Alex, and a visitor Dani, all came out of the water that day looking like shark attack victims after brushing off the rocks, but Kate somehow had the instinct to not get too close.  These laps were inconsequential really, as that evening we had the notorious torture swim.

Dani, a bloody foreigner.  Courtesy of Gordon Adair

Ned devised the torture swim to mentally prepare swimmers to deal with the unexpected things that might happen in an open water marathon swim.  He gleefully told us of the various ways he had messed with swimmers' heads in previous years.  These all make for very entertaining reading, but instead I'll leave it to your own imagination.  I'll now add that whatever you're thinking, what he has done in the past was waaay worse.  Then to show us that he was not just an unhinged sadist, he told us of genuinely insane situations swimmers had to deal with in the middle of marathon swims.  The ultimate goal was to turn us into swimming machines, devoid of emotion, who will keep swimming regardless.  When he repeatedly explained that all of this was for our own good, I couldn't help thinking that this is what Jim Jones must have told his followers before passing around the kool-aid.  The craziest aspect of the torture swim is that it's an optional extra.  Not only is it not mandatory for the swim camp, it also costs extra to be psychologically abused by the charismatic cult leader of the Sandycove Island Swimmers.

Ned "Koresh" Denison. Photo courtesy of Gordon Adair

No gels, no watches.  Nothing but caps, goggles, and togs were allowed for the swim.  Not knowing how long we had been swimming, or for how much longer we would be swimming were essential parts of the torture armory.  We were sent swimming on entirely random trajectories, up the inlet until it almost got impossibly shallow, then a support boat materialised saying to go back over to the island.  We were then sent out to sea where it was lumpy, cold, and unforgiving, like swimming through a bowl of yesterday's porridge.  It did not matter whether we wanted to swim in these conditions, all that mattered was that we followed the instructions we were given.  At one point I popped my head up to sight as a bearded guy in an orange hat rugby tackled me mid-stroke, then swam off on his merry way.  There was no time to process this, just catch up with Kate and keep swimming.

A support boat waved us over, told us we were swimming well, and asked if we wanted water?  We nodded and they threw bottles at us.  A common trick throughout the years is to offer swimmers water, and then give them something else entirely.  Myself and Kate eyed each other warily as we broke the seals on our bottles.  It looked like water and was in a sealed bottle, but might mean that they had gone above and beyond with their pranking.  We had been swimming for god knows how long, so we took a risk and started gulping it back, waiting for a reaction from the guys on the boat.  It turned out that this was actual water, they were being nice, and this was not a prank in the slightest.  What a headfuck!  We threw back the bottles,were instructed to swim off in an arbitrary direction, and we just kept swimming.  After a while the cold jumped up a notch and the water started stinging my skin.  I wanted to get out, but just kept swimming and stayed abreast of Kate.  After an eternity we were instructed to go back to the slipway, our torture swim was done.  The week can only be easier after this, right?

Post Torture Swim Dishevelment

Monday:

This was the nicest morning to date in Sandycove, and myself and Kate got three laps in.  Some of the overseas visitors still hadn't acclimatised and had yet to complete their first lap.  Others were stamping their feet like a downmarket riverdance in a crude attempt to get the circulation going..  The good news was that the afternoon swim would be up the Blackwater which would be comparatively warm.

We met at the Fermoy rowing club later on, and the route was to swim up to Michael Flatley's mansion and back again.  We would have to stay close to the left bank on the way up as if we got too close to the centre we would be swimming against the current.  The water close to the bank would vary in depth, be weedy and rushy in places, with the occasional tree sprouting up here and there, and there would be the added bonus of dealing with low hanging branches.  In its own way, this swim was a perfect metaphor for the futility of existence: either you struggle against the current, or else deal with a whole host other obstacles doing their best to grind you down.  The good news is that the swim back would be with the current and a hell of a lot easier, a perfect metaphor for life as a privileged white male.

We headed down the slipway in single file, Kate had got in ahead of me and taken off.  There were too many people ahead of me so that when I finally got in, was unable to close the distance between us.  Nevertheless I trucked on, focusing on doing long and strong strokes.  Even though Ned had briefed us on what to expect, the constant variation in the swim was a nightmare.  At one point the water got so shallow that I couldn't do an effective stroke, and tried digging my fingers into the riverbed in an effort to claw my way forward.  This didn't work, and I then had the bright idea of standing up and walking until the water was sufficiently deep again.  I got two steps forward in the knee deep water and suddenly it was waist deep again.  Fuck you river, now just keep swimming.  At another point I popped my head up to sight and saw some over-hanging branches that were too close to avoid.  There was no choice but to plough forward and hope that my arms wouldn't get mangled and entangled as I did my best to power on.

Eventually I saw a mansion ahead on the right hand side.  What was worrying was that the lead pod of swimmers had not passed me on their way back yet.  What if this wasn't the mansion in question and we had to swim even further up this poxy river to the next mansion?  After a whileen more of just keep swimming, they appeared in the centre of the river and I gurgled a sigh of relief.  When I eventually got to a point where I could see the front door, I turned tail and wearily swam back down the centre channel.

Normally I try not to swim on consecutive days so as to give my muscles a chance to recover.  After three days of two swims a day it was really taking its toll on me.  With every swim I could feel the cumulative effects of the previous swims with every stroke taken.  It was only the third day of nine, and already I felt like certain muscle groups were being highlighted in red marker every time I moved.  On top of this, I was going through a shit ton of calories a day and needed to monitor my diet carefully.  For this, I would need a high intake of carbs, protein, and fats, as well as hammering as much sugar into me as possible.  To translate this into real world terms, it meant eating as much as I wanted of whatever I wanted, and then eat a bit more just to be sure.  The MMA credo of steak for breakfast is laughable by open water swimming standards as it implies only one breakfast!  Bowls of porridge, followed by bagels laden with bacon and brie, yogurts and custard, and anything else that happened to be within reach was going down the hatch with gusto.  A bit of flab goes a long way in the sea as it provides a barrier against the cold water, and if things start getting bad it will get eaten into and transformed into energy.  The main goal I set for myself this week was to not lose weight, and even that was proving difficult.


Tuesday:

In the morning myself and Kate did three and a bit laps of Sandycove, and then that evening we went to Fountainstown for a low-tide swim to Myrtleville and back again.  There had been weaver fish stings in the area before, so we dragged our feet through the shallow water as we walked in single file, like a group of inmates shuffling grimly towards death.  The horizon was filled with dark angry clouds, which contrasted nicely with the gorgeously tanned (non-Irish) bodies in brightly coloured swimsuits.  When we finally started swimming, the heavens opened and fat drops of rain pierced the water around us.  Everyone should experience sea swimming in the rain at least once.  This sounds like a ridiculous statement as most Irish summers and family day outs are rained off, but when you get the right kind of rain (fat and heavy, not light or drizzly) it's a fantastic marriage of the elements!

Courtesy of Gordon Adair

When we got to shallow waters in Myrtleville, we turned around and headed back to Fountainstown.  I found myself thrashing through some very kelpy water, when suddenly the sea withdrew and I found myself lying on some rocks.  I clawed myself forwards to get back in sufficiently deep waters, cutting my fingertips in the process.  Wanting to get as far from the rocks as possible I did a wide arc out, once again finding myself separated from Kate and not having enough energy to close the gap between us.  When I got out of the water in Fountainstown a few people on the beach pointed out that my face was cut and bleeding.  "Must've cut myself when shaving!"  When I got back to my van I checked the mirror and saw my left cheek was gashed and bleeding, from my encounter with the rocks earlier.


Wednesday:

Today would be two nice swims in the beautiful Lough Hine near Skibbereen.  The only catch was that it was nearly two hours drive from Cork city and we had to be in the water at 9 am.  It was gorgeous swimming.  The water was really clear with lots of interesting fish, plantlife, and seashells visible below.  We swam over some rapids (wheeeeeeeee!) and then around some gorgeous rock structures.  An immense bronze Moldovan named Ion (pron. "Yonn") was really taken aback.  "Holy fuck, it really doesn't get any better than this!" he boomed out.  "Oh my God, this is it, THIS IS IT!" 

After the swim we went to Skibb for lunch, which was followed by a discussion on keeping one's head together in tough conditions.  Normally I'm cynical and pessimistic about people's inspirational stories about overcoming difficult situations, but I heard some serious shit that day.  Tracey the upbeat Kiwi told us about tearing a bicep tendon with several hours to go in the English channel.  She couldn't get her arm up out of the water to do a complete stroke, so she did a pseudo dog paddle with that arm while the other swam as normal.  DAMN!  Attila told us how his feeds take an average of 3-4 seconds, that he doesn't focus on what distance or time he has clocked up during a distance swim, just swims between feeds.  "I don't want my crew to talk to me unless something is going wrong, just swim, feed, swim, feed".  Others told of night swims in Catalina when they were certain something big and shark-like was swimming in the dark below them, and trying to focus on just keep swimming while that was happening.  You might be scoffing, saying that's just the mind running wild, but when a large shoal of something small and luminescent suddenly disappears, it's fairly certain that an oceanic big bad wolf is on the prowl.


Thursday:

Someone left my van's lights on overnight, so I woke up to a flat battery Thursday morning.  I wasn't able to get a jump start and missed the morning swim, so used the morning to recharge my battery, and recharge my batteries.  The week was really taking its toll on me.  I had never been seriously sporty, but now could fully understand those motivational posters which featured arty black and white shots of marathon runners captioned with "I can't go on.  I will go on!"  The cumulative muscle pain of the swims had eased off and become the muscular equivalent of background noise.  Each upcoming swim no longer made me nervous, instead it filled me with an all-consuming dread that I would tank during it and get swallowed by the murky waters.

For whatever reason, I was late arriving to the evening swim and missed the carpool to the speckled door.  Feeling a mixture of disappointment and relief, I sank back into the driver seat and decided to take advantage of the chance to rest.


Friday:

Disaster struck Friday morning when I discovered a load of mouth ulcers all over my tongue and gums.  This would mean that I'd be unable to eat anything with texture or flavour, but still needed to get an ungodly amount of calories into me for the day's swimming.  Not having the stomach to swallow raw eggs, I went to the freezer and took out a tub of ice cream and a pack of Lidl-brand mars ice creams.  Half the ice cream and three of the bars were stuffed into a pyrex jug and microwaved until soft.  These were then blended, poured into a pint glass and gulped down rapidly.  I repeated the process with the rest of the tub and bars, and felt a remarkable combination of satisfaction and shame all at once.  [Hashtag] Eat like a swimmer.  [Hashtag] Diet of a champion.

The morning swim was meant to be in Garryvoe (east Cork), but it was too foggy so we went to another beach just down the coast.  The route was to swim parallel to the beach down as far as the grey house and back.  This would be a 2km swim, the shortest swim of the camp so far, but it made up for this by being a terrible slog.  Conditions were horrible, lots of wind and waves combined with poor visibility meant it was hard to get a straight line.  The grey house was half hidden in fog and seemed to take forever to materialise, then even longer to get to.  The swim back was just as bad, and I constantly felt disoriented as the sea had its way with me.

The afternoon swim was the Copper Coast, so I stopped off in Lidl in Dungarvan to stock up on ice-cream and yoghurt, then called in to my sister in Tramore for lunch.  I'm mad about my niece Clíonadh, but was glad she was away at summer camp and wouldn't have to witness me and my wonder diet.  What hope would my sister have of telling her that she needs to eat her vegetables to grow up big and strong when her giant of an uncle eats meals that consist solely of puréed stracciatella?  My sister did her best to glower at me while I made use of her microwave and blender, so I threw her one of the ice-cream bars which softened her mood considerably.  When I was using her jacks, I noticed how itchy my t-shirt was, especially on my back and shoulders.  Taking it off and looking in the mirror, I saw lots of red splotches on my skin.  Just my luck, went swimming in miserable conditions, and now I'm destroyed with wind burn.

The afternoon swim was along the copper coast through choppy water, and then into a really dark cave (optional).  As enclosed spaces and the dark are two things that give me the willies, I swam along the cliffs and let the others go cave swimming while I hung out on the swell outside.  The swim back was with the wind, which meant less chop and greater speed.  We were then treated to a massive feed in a tiny cabin (there were blaas for days, maaahn) which I couldn't enjoy because my mouth was still pissed off at me.  I had gotten even more burned that afternoon (thank you and fuck you, Mr. Wind!) so had a fantastically itchy back to keep me company on the drive back to Cork.


Saturday:

The morning swim was in Myrtleville, and I did roughly a mile at a leisurely pace.  Kate and Rory were missing, and Ned was not joining in the swim today.  I put all of these things down to the Lee Swim being on that afternoon.  Rory and Ned had competed against each other eight times, and currently were tied at four each.  Today's swim was going to be a serious grudge match, and whoever won would have serious bragging rights.  I had a score to settle myself, as my childhood next-door neighbour would be swimming today.  A few weeks earlier I had been up against him in a river swim, secretly hoping to beat him, but he gave me a proper trouncing.  It was of utmost importance that I come a close second to him today.  Beating him was not conceivable as I was at the end of a hard week of swimming and there was very little tiger in the tank at this point.

After getting home, registering, buying a new pair of shoes and a tub of High-5, dropping off my gear at the finish, then walking through town in my togs and t-shirt to get to the starting point, the pre-race nerves were starting to kick in. I met with Conor, and we joked about, then got in line and began the weary shuffle toward the starting scaffold.  My dives had never been too fantastic, so when the horn sounded, I did a straddle jump and and started ploughing forward, outputting as much power as possible as I made my way to the first bridge.

My arms hurt and my shoulders burnt with each stroke, but I kept repeating "Long-And-Strong (breath) Long-And-Strong (breath)" to myself as I made my way past several wetsuits and on towards the next bridge.  Before the race I had been told how many bridges there were in total, and which one represents the half-way point, but all that was soon forgotten.  Even though I had no idea where I was in relation to Conor, all that mattered was beating him or not getting too badly beaten by him.  If either of those things could be achieved without swallowing any of the river water, today would be a good day.

Eventually I got to the big boat on the docks, and as I was still gaining on and overtaking other swimmers, I made a point of swimming uncomfortably close to them so that they got mashed against the boat in passing.  The final leg was literally just around the corner, and this meant that after swimming the bulk of the race with the current, the last dash would be against it.  I switched on my legs and gave it my all as I kept aiming for the big yellow inflatable thing at the finish.  When I reached the finish, it looked like I had beaten Conor, so I started breast-stroking slowly towards the quayside to get out.  Out of nowhere, a wee wave came along and splashed me in the face, sending some water right up my nose and down the back of my throat.  It was only the tiniest of drops, but the thought of all the rubbish, rat-piss, and god only knows what else that it contained was nearly made me pass out.


Sunday:

It was the last day of distance week, and as a fun way of wrapping things up, there was a six hour channel qualifier swim.  I had no intention of swimming any of the channels, but thought I'd do the swim purely for the craic of it.  It was low tide at Sandycove, so for the first hour I did my best to keep up with Sligo Clodagh and French Phillippe as they swum around the inside of the island.  Then it was over to the feed-bay on the island for some High-5 topped up with hot water.  YUM!  Even though it was still low tide, I started doing laps of the island, getting a feed after each lap (more Hi-5, more hot water, more yum).  Although I didn't have a watch to time it, each lap was roughly half an hour, so if I could keep some tally of the laps, then I'd have a vague idea of how much time had elapsed.  A few laps in, Carol and Donna at the feed-bay complained that they were a bit bored, so if I could tell them a joke and make them laugh at the next feed, that'd be great.  At first I thought this was a ploy to keep me mentally engaged while swimming, but when I came around after my next lap, they made it clear that if I didn't make them laugh, I wasn't getting fed. "Surely, you can't be serious?"  (Blank stares, no feed).  Jeez, tough crowd! "Why did the toilet paper roll down the hill?  To get to the bottom!"  (Lots of laughs, High-5!)  The next lap: "What do you do when you see a spaceman?  Park the car there, man!" (More laughs, more High-5.)  I only had one joke left, and after that I'd be relying on my Rodney Dangerfield routine.  This was worrying as it really depended on getting his mannerisms down, which would be tricky in swimming hat and goggles.  At the next feed, Ned was sitting at the feed station.  Maybe he'd heard of my comedic prowess, and had stopped by for a much needed chuckle. "What do gay horses eat?" He responded curtly with "Stop telling jokes, your feeds are taking too long."  Feeling cowed, I slugged back my High-5 and hot water in silence.  Then just as I turned to swim away for the next lap, I shouted back: "Haay-ayyy!"

By now I had completely lost track of how many laps had been done or how much time had passed, it was just a case of lap-feed, lap-feed.  There were a few warm pockets of water that were worth looking forward to every lap, but there were also some icy cold bits, especially around the back of the island.  The bottles of High-5 started off as a treat, now became less tasty each time and it was a struggle to get it all in to me.  The sugary bubbles would linger in my throat for the first leg of the lap post-feed, and eventually I started fantasising about the little lunch boxes of jaffa cakes that Clodagh had packed for her feeds.  Maybe if she crapped out early, I could eat her jaffas?  At this point I was torn between wanting to see her succeed, but also hoping she didn't so I could claim her tasty orangy cakes as my own.  Would it be rude to ask at the next feed how she was faring?

English Jane jumped in and joined me for two laps to keep me company.  When she tapped out, she said it was too hard to keep up with me.  I wasn't sure if she was being serious or just saying that to keep my spirits up, either way there was nothing to do but to just keep swimming.  Eventually during a non-jocular feed, Donna said: "Well done, you're doing great, that's over five hours done now!"  I thanked her and went off on what would be my last lap.  At the next feed Cork Carol said: "You've twelve minutes left, so swim over to that house and back again, and then head over to the slipway and get out!"  I did as I was told, and got out at the slipway to a big round of applause.  Afterwards at picnic table I asked Clodagh how she got on, being genuinely interested at this point as I physically and mentally in a place that was waaay beyond jaffa cakes.

"I finished it, so will be able to do the Channel in a few weeks!"

"Well done Clodagh, delighted for you!"

"And you?"

"Ended up doing the six hours."

"Good stuff, looks like you have to swim the channel now!"

Galway Bay 2016: Adventures of a near-sighted distance swimmer

Prologue:

Last year a friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer, and it made me feel so frustratingly useless.  I wanted to do the Galway Bay Swim in aid of Cancer Care West, but knew there was insufficient time to get the training in and a boat organised.  Fast forward a year and she has had some life-changing surgery, and I was sufficiently fit to do the swim and on the waiting list to get a support boat.  As the weeks passed by with no sign of a boat materialising, I started mentally preparing myself for the possibility that I might not get to swim the bay this year, and that if it doesn't happen just suck it up.  Others who had done it previously said not to sweat it, they had gotten their boats only two or three weeks before the swim, just hang on in there as things have a funny way of falling in to place and all that.  Three weeks to go, two weeks to go, and one week to go all slid by and I was as boatless as ever.  Then on the Wednesday before the swim I got a call from one of the organisers asking had I found a boat yet?  Not yet, no.  Ok, try this number, his name is Sean, he might be able to help you.

Sean had a boat, and was willing to help me out.  I was in!


Friday:

I took Friday off work to get checked out by my GP to make sure I was in adequate condition to take on the swim.  She had recently done the Lee swim with her partner, so it was less than five minutes of medical check up followed by a good half hour of talking about swimming.  After that I had to go to The Edge tri-shop to get spare goggles, water bottles, and a gigantic tub of High5 4:1 recovery mix.  On the way back I stopped off at Aldi and bought a small mountain of fatty treats, which were devoured within minutes of getting back home.  The logic was that these would be absorbed into my body (waistline) quickly, and then would be burnt off slowly over the course of the big swim the following day.  The science behind this is sketchy and made-up at best, but guilt-free binge-eating is always welcome.  This was followed by a half hour nap on the couch, which was extended to an hour and a half, and then it was a case of hastily packing up my shit and driving to Galway for the safety briefing.

The drive up and safety briefing went off without incidents, and there was a pasta party for the swimmers afterwards (sadly there was no games of pasta parcel).  When I went back out to my van, it turned out that someone had left the lights on and she was not starting.  My buddy John was on the way from Mullingar, so there was half an hour to kill until he could give me a jump start.  After a nice walkeen from Westside to Lower Westside, John rocked up and we hooked up the jump leads, gave it a minute or two to get some bit of charge going, and then ... ... ... nothing.  We tried this for a good while, but it just wasn't happening.  Someone had been leaving the lights on quite a lot of late, and the continuous need for jump starts had worn the battery out.  The good news was that I had a place to stay that night, so would not be sleeping in the back of a Hiace in a Westside car park.  The other news is that I would be leaving my van on its own in Westside overnight.


Saturday:

After a good nights sleep and a breakfast of porridge and more porridge, I went through my feeding schedule with John.  There was a two litre carton of double strength High5, and this was to be mixed with hot water from a flask for the feeds. First feed on the one hour mark, and then every half hour after that.  We looked at the map of the swim route, and I drew a circular motion with my finger, joking that this was the one thing I didn't want to do.  He dropped me off at the Salthill hotel where I waited for the bus, and he drove down to the docks to meet the support boat homies.  There was loads of time to kill, so I did a bit of walking on the prom, and Co. Clare was nicely visible on the other side of the bay.  The bus was right on time and brought us over to Aughinish where we could see the first wave of swimmers setting off into the fog.

The fog was a bit worrying, but after a few minutes it lifted a bit, and the support boats were visible.  This was great as it just meant sighting as far as the boats, and then follow the boat across the bay.  Then when it was time to get changed and I took my glasses off, the boats magically disappeared. On top of this, my (non-prescription) goggles had a smoky tint to them which further reduced visibility.  This was going to be a lot harder than initially anticipated.

We got into the water with the stately plump Martello tower on our left, and headed off when the horn sounded.  There were scores of compass jellyfish in the bay, floating around like souls of the damned.  I tried sighting but it was pointless.  I found myself drifting off the right of the group, but was ok with it as the dropping tide seemed to be dragging everyone to the left.  Eventually I found myself swimming on my own, and completely unsure of where I was going.  Never mind that.  Just - Keep - Swimming.  After an eternity of swimming a crew boat pulled up beside me, and pointed out that the Martello tower was now to my right.  I had succeeded in swimming around in a circle, and had not gotten beyond the first leg of the swim. 

At this point I expected them to say "For fuck sake you've made a complete balls of this, just get out of the water now!"  Instead they guided me to the first yellow buoy, and from there on a nice guy on a jet ski said he'd accompany me until I got to my boat.  As I had no idea how much time was wasted perfecting the circle stroke, I just accepted that I was now out of the competition, that everyone in my wave was way ahead of me, so it was just a case of getting on with it and finishing the swim.  Eventually we got to the triangular buoy and there was no sign of my boat.  Mr. Jetski asked what my boat looked like, and I hadn't a clue.  After a minute or so of treading water, we decided to push on, Mr. Jetski saying he'd go all the way to the finish line with me if need be.  So with no support boat, and no feeds, I had no choice but to just keep swimming.

The psychological part of open water swimming is huge.  If those negative thoughts start creeping in about not being capable, they can very quickly become real, and then they can become true.  At this point of the swim, it occurred to me that all this shit going wrong was a sure sign that God hates me and was punishing me for some vaguely sinful aspect of my existence.  This could really doom me if it took root, so I changed my mantra from Just Keep Swimming to God Is Dead.  This put my head at peace, and shortly afterwards my support boat appeared.  If you ever find that prayer isn't working, I heartily recommend actively denying the existence of God, it's far more effective!

From here on in the water was rougher, but it was just a matter of keep following the boat until I got to shore.  The feeds were at half hour intervals and it broke the time up perfectly.  After a number of feeds John excitedly told me that there was only 1km left!  Brilliant.  I put the head down and kept swimming and swimming and swimming.  It didn't feel like I was making great progress, but assured myself that whatever was left was only hundreds of metres, so just keep swimming with long and strong strokes.  After a while I saw that John was preparing another feed, which could hardly be right.  When he threw the bottle at me, he apologised and said that now there is only 1k left, the last time was actually 2k.  After everything that had happened so far I couldn't be mad at him, lauged it off, put my head down and just kept swimming.

After some serious ploughing through waves the diving platform became visible, and for the first time that day I had a clear line of sight.  Fearing that there might be other swimmers close by, I put the boot down and hammered through the last few hundred metres.  A teenage paddle boarder sat with his back to me as I came closer to shore.  He didn't see me coming, but was in my way so I just tore through him.  I heard my name being called out on the PA as I climbed up the steps.  When I got to the top, someone put a towel around my shoulders, and I walked off to get dressed feeling like Elvis having just stepped off stage.





Thanks to:
John for being the greatest one man crew anyone could ever have asked for; Sean and the family Harte for the boat, dinner and the craic; Ned Denison and his torture week for getting me match fit; Gavan for the spare room the night before; Big L for the inspiration, support, and buns; assorted Sandycovers, Myrtlevillains, and Cork Tri swimmers for training with me throughout the year; and finally Friedrich Nietzsche for my new swimming mantra!

Enemy waters.

At some point in the last year I crossed the line from swimming for exercise to training.  It is impossible to pinpoint the exact moment when this happened, but it was set in motion when the Sandycove swimmers handed my ass to me this time last year.  It was a rude awakening that showed me that I was not the swimmer I thought I was, and that I really needed to up my game.  Before such a thing could happen, I'd have to find a scapegoat.  Fortunately for me, my afternoon swims in the Mardyke were always marred by slower swimmers getting into the lane with me and interrupting my session.  While a swimmer of my calibre is perfectly entitled to tell them to get the eff out of the fast lane and over to the medium lane where they belong, my good breeding and impeccable lane etiquette forbids me from doing such.  So even though it was all their fault, I would still have to change things up if I wanted to get ahead.  From what I'd heard, the only people who used the pool in the early morning sessions were the UCC swim team.  As it was summer holidays for the students, it would mean that I'd have the fast lane to myself if I came in for the early morning session.

Which I did, save for the half dozen or so triathletes who were bombing up and down the lane so hard that the water was boiling.  In an interesting twist of fate, I was suddenly the slow one in the fast lane.  This was offset by my excellent lane etiquette, but my session was every bit as stoppy starty as when I was trying to work around the slowies in the afternoon swims.  After a few sessions of trying to do my own thing and failing miserably, I realised there was no other option but to fall in behind them and try to keep up.  I had a few fears around this:  Would I be able to keep up?  Would I ever be accepted into their group as an equal?  Would chasing a stranger's toes for lengths on end lead to me developing a foot fetish?  Fearing rejection, I sneakily fell in at the back of the group and did my best to keep up.  Halfway through the set I was exhausted and crapped out.

The next session saw me crapping out after two thirds of the set which was a definite sign of progress, and I noticed that my shorts were creating a lot of drag, especially at the turns.  While this was a valid excuse as to why I was getting pantsed in the pool, shopping for Speedos was next on the agenda.  A remarkable invention, not only does it create a minimal amount of drag in the water, but it also has the unique ability to maintain one's decency while simultaneously removing one's dignity.  There are two key requirements to making them look good: having a male model physique and being hung, two boxes which remain unchecked in my case.  Cashing in my remaining dignity paid off as the next morning I managed to finish the set.  The set also managed to finish me, so when everyone else was doing a few hundred metres cool down, I was so wrecked that had I barely enough energy to pour myself out of the pool and lollop off to the changing area.  Progress!

So I decided I'd keep turning up until someone asked me not to, and as practice and persistence pay off, I kept getting better.  Not only that, but as two of the better swimmers in the group emigrated to Canada, and another could not train during the school year, the standard had dropped considerably.  What a stroke of luck, I was becoming a better swimmer in a worsening training pod!  Even though it was an informal session, it was still all about training - less talky-talky, more swimmy-swimmy, and one woman had taken it upon herself to keep things running like clockwork.  Not only could she dictate the set to a large group of swimmers without caring if she came across as bossy or controlling, she was also pretty damn fast.  Usually good swimmers can be spotted, as often the faster ones are taller than your average bear, with impressive shoulder-chest-waist ratios in the men and unusually square shoulders in the women.  She was on the shorter side of average height, with nothing impressive or unusual about her shoulders, just a lean, sinewy physique coupled with a lot of drive and speed.  Her tumbleturns showed that she was a runner who had gotten into triathlons rather than a swimmer, but she was still kicking seven shades of chlorine out of me.  Her drive, stamina, and overall steeliness made me question as to whether she was actually human and not some sort of triathlon terminator.

Persistence pays off, and using the Boss (as she is affectionately known) as a marker, I noticed that I was catching up bit by bit, and by December I was on a par with her.  Success!  As I was sick over Christmas, I missed out on a week of training and eating, and as a result lost some weight and tone over the holiday period.  This meant that on my first day back in January I felt the unwelcome wobble of bingo wing as I overarmed my way up and down the pool.  Christmas seemed to take its toll on the Boss too, as she had a few extra curves that weren't there previously.  I put this down to over indulging herself on turkey over the festive season - with its high protein to fat ratio, what serious athlete wouldn't?  Admittedly, it suited her and humanised her considerably.  Even though I was weaker and flabbier than I had been in December, I was still holding up well against her, so I took a bit of comfort from that.

After a couple of weeks training I started to firm up again, but in spite of keeping the same training schedule as me and doing the same sets, the Boss kept her turkey curves and was starting to fall behind me.  More and more often I was leading the sets, which was impressive progress considering I had started training with them six months ago.  Perhaps it's time to get a killer whale tattooed onto my back so that everyone will know that I'm the apex predator of this lane?  As the mornings got brighter the Boss was getting noticeably bumpier.  Christmas dinner was a distant memory and it was becoming apparent that there was a little boss on the way.  As it turns out, I only started catching up with her when she got pregnant, and any perceived progress on my part was her body slowing down to support the new life inside her.  So in my eyes, she was no longer a triathlon terminator, but human after all. 

This didn't last.  She has a job that requires a certain amount of travel, and these were the only times she'd miss training.  Getting flown around was out of the question for a woman in her condition, so over the course of her pregnancy she didn't miss a single session.  This meant that someone who couldn't walk up more than one flight of stairs without assistance was nailing three kilometres in the pool, three mornings a week.  One of her more recent checkups revealed higher levels of red blood cells, which meant that her plans of breeding a champion marathon runner were coming together nicely.  On Monday of last week she gave birth, having been training in the pool on the previous Friday.  From what I hear, mother and daughter are doing well, and nobody has any idea when she'll be back in the fast lane.  Until then I have my own things to take care of, first on the agenda is to find a decent therapist who will help me shake off this newly acquired foot fetish of mine.

Unspirational

The last two days I had the bright idea of getting up early, and heading to the pool and gym respectively, with the hope that it would give me a shot of productivity.  The other benefit of doing this, aside from the sense of well-being that comes with physical exercise, is being able to tell other people about it.  Unfortunately I don't own a smartphone, so facebook and its inhabitants couldn't see that I checked-in to the Mardyke at 6.45 on Tuesday morning.  Fortunately the pool didn't open until seven, so this gave me fifteen minutes to text a huge portion of my contacts to let them know what I was up to.  One would never be so vulgar as to blatantly say: "Hey, I'm just heading in for an early morning swim, it's the kind of thing I do, you know, seeing as I'm so much better than you."  A certain amount of tact has to be observed, so the approach was to send a bland generic text along the lines of: "Hey, what are you up to?  Any craic?"  The replies would be along the lines of: "It's not even 7 am, why the fuck are you texting me?  Is everything alright?"  Then I would casually deploy my answer: "Yeah, everything's grand, just going for a swim, might catch up with you later, yeah?"  If they replied while I was inside breast stroking and back crawling it would be: "Sorry for not replying sooner, I was just having a swim, everything's grand here, might catch up with you later, yeah?"  This lets them know that I was up bright and early exercising, and being better than them is not thrown in their face, but skilfully and smugly implied.

Unfortunately, this did not work out according to plan.  Most people did not reply, because usually when they see a neutral and benign text from me it really means that I'm after something, and that this is just the first move in some game I'm playing.  Of the few replies I received, most were along the lines "Just on my way to work, have you ever thought of getting a job?", or "Just coming home from work, working nights is a bitch, but this is how it goes", or "Just finished the morning feed, teething + breastfeeding + dreaming of sleep = ...."  As it turns out, none of these people were impressed that I had gotten up with the aid of an alarm clock at a time that most grown ups are awake and getting on with their grown up lives.  I also felt that they were giving off the vibe that finding and holding down stable employment, and/or starting a family somehow made them better than me, a 31 year old adolescent and out of work DJ.  Way to go and flaunt your life achievements in the face of the less fortunate.  This did not phase me (ok, it really really irked me, but let's pretend it didn't), as if I cannot get the admiration of the masses for kick-starting my day with porridge, scrambled egg, and good overhand technique, they would surely applaud the immense productivity which followed.

In terms of creativity, Tuesday was a black hole of nothingness and despair.  The hole was incredibly dark and black, as if its owner had been drinking shitloads of stout the night before.  I felt like a jellyfish floating around this void, with nothing to sting and no sting in my tentacles, a cytoplasmic blob of blancmange in a pointless sea of infinity.   There was an hour or so of banging away at the keyboard, but all that poured out were increasingly morose variations on the theme: "Why am I such a useless sack of shit?"  This eventually morphed into: "Why I am such a useless sack of shit."  Reading over it today, it was eloquently phrased and incredibly well-written (as one would expect), but the tone was oh so emo, and the content was far from entertaining, so it will have to be scrapped.  Yesterday I got up early, hit the gym, and again had a day that was a lot less than creative.  The kitchen was cleaned (it's not clean, just cleaner), and I replaced the battery in the smoke alarm.  Visitors always complained about its regular beep to hint that it required a new battery (which had been going on for at least two years), but to me it was like having a slightly annoying flatmate who was a source of company and companionship nonetheless.  The downside was that I didn't have a smoke alarm in the kitchen, which meant I had no way of knowing when the toast was burnt, and all the butter in the world is no match for overly burnt toast (readers of my Toast blog will be familiar with the many lengthy experiments I conducted in this field).  Today I reluctantly decided to write about the lack of inspiration and productivity of the last two days, which means that this topic can never be covered again, and there will be many more uncreative, unproductive, and uninspiring days ahead.

Sandy capped

I am a swimmer.  Tumble turns are nailed with grace at the end of every length, bilateral breathing is of utmost importance, anything less than a silicone hat is not worth your while, and good lane etiquette must be observed at all times.

I am a swimmer.  When I finished my degree, I signed on and went swimming in the sea every day for the summer.  The importance of aligning oneself with the current to achieve maximum efficiency taught me a thing or two about the mysteries of the universe and the music of the spheres, and made me wiser in ways that I still don't fully understand.  While the amateurs swam from Blackrock out to the first or second rock, I swam out to the distant buoys with the big boys.

I am a swimmer.  As a teenager, competitive swimming was the only sport I ever took on.  A few mornings a week I would train before school, getting up at ridiculous o'clock for breakfast, walking over a mile to the pool and then spending the day sitting through my classes with chlorine red eyes while residual water gurgled through my ear canals.

I am a swimmer.  Last weekend when I was getting my weekly sea swim at the Dock beach in Kinsale, there was a bit of a hairy moment.  It was then that it occurred to me that maybe it was not the wisest idea to be spending so much time out in the water on my own, as anything could happen.  Just around the corner was Sandycove where I heard there was a dedicated group who would be there every day at high tide.  For my next outing, I would head there and join them.  After all, I AM A SWIMMER.

At least, I thought I was.

Over the last few months, I kept hearing about this bunch of lunatics that swam religiously around this tiny island just around the corner from Kinsale.  Any time this came up in conversation, I felt obliged to faff on about some of the things that were mentioned in the opening paragraphs, that I am something of a swimmer myself, one that relished those stormy mornings at Salthill when the sea was angry as it presented more of a challenge, one that I would always overcome with aplomb.  At certain times, one may have heard me say that "Mother nature is a cruel mistress, but the sea is my bitch" with the pomposity and grandiosity that always precedes a pratfall.

The first eye opener was when I turned around the corner and saw the island for the first time, glistening in the early morning sunlight, and looking a lot bigger than I had originally expected.  It didn't look foreboding, threatening or treacherous, and as far as lumps of rock sitting in the sea go, it looked pretty friendly.  So this is what I would have to swim around?  Right, shouldn't be a problem, after all I am a blah-blah-blah (feel free to fill in the gaps yourself).

After parking up the van, I stripped down and fell in behind a group of four or five who were walking down the slipway.  They were a tight group and had clocked me as an outsider the moment my green hiace came around the corner.  I said it was my first time there and that I would tag along behind them, using a false modesty as I believed my swimming would then speak for itself.  Which it did, as I struggled to keep up with them.  When we got to the first corner of the island, it was explained that the next bit would take about fifteen minutes, that the sea was a bit choppy today, and that if I wanted to swim back to the slipway it was still a respectable swim.   I'll follow on, it's ok, I want to go round the island.  Alright so, just watch out for jellyfish, someone got stung by one earlier.  Just one sting, but it went the full length of his arm and into his mouth.  At which point everyone burst out laughing, while my horrified face failed to muster a grimace.

Once again, I struggled to keep up.  To be more correct, I failed to keep up at all, and two very decent souls lagged back and swam on either side of me to prevent me from swimming into the island or way off out into the Irish sea.  My sighting ability was so poor that it should be spelled with an 'sh'.  The only thing worse than having to eat humble pie is having to wash it down with numerous mouthfuls of seawater.  I managed to finish one lap of the island, but by the time I was toweling off, the rest of the group were halfway around their second lap.  Who knows, if I had hung around, I could have watched them sail around for a third time.

So now I will go on record and withdraw any claims I previously made about being a seasoned sea swimmer, one that knows a thing or two about a thing or two, or how when it comes to the water, Dr. Herringbone Dread ain't nothing to fuck with.  Now that humiliation has helped me achieve some level of humility, I can comfortably put myself on the bottom of the open water food chain, a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas.  Unfortunately, my ego has not been fully deflated, and I am now determined to make a decent go of this craic.  After all, that was only day one, and there can only be improvements from now on, right?  If I am wrong, the sea won't be long giving me a hearty bitch-slap.