Anyone walking around Rotorua’s redwood-fringed Blue Lake (Tikitapu) at about 9:30am on Saturday March 15 would have spotted a wetsuited swimmer with a bright pink tow float gliding across the surface, their arms circling freestyle, a short distance behind most of the other swimmers in the race as they navigated around the orange inflatable buoys that were dotted along the perimeter of the lake like a clock face.
However, if the walker had the ability to zoom into the swimmer’s head and listen to their thoughts, they would have heard this:
… because I wasn’t able to finish the other event, so I might not be able to finish this one. I might get a cramp in my leg, or feel too tired. Wow, I’m hungry already. Should’ve had a bigger breakfast – although I had no appetite, I was so nervous. Am I last? Am I still swimming the right way? Oh well, I’m doing my best. I’m grateful to just be here. The water is lovely. But I really want to finish … What if I’m too slow and get pulled out? What if … ?
It’s quite draining to read, isn’t it? It sure was draining to listen to that ongoing chatter in my head for the 1 hour 35 minutes it took me to complete the 3.5km race. Yes, I completed it! Hooray!
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When we arrived at our accommodation next to the lake on Friday evening, it was raining steadily and rather cold. I’d checked the forecast and had packed warm gear, but I was still surprised by how wintery it felt for early autumn. We went for an evening dip and thankfully the water was warmer than the air, maybe about 17°C. Getting in the lake helped me to relax a bit: it felt friendly, peaceful, silvery still. Wearing just togs, I enjoyed the water contact and had a short swim. The name of the lake itself is based on swimming tradition – a Māori chief’s daughter was taking a dip there when her precious greenstone necklace (tikitapu) came loose and was lost in the 28m deep lake.
The Blue Lake, living up to its English name on a fine day.
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The next morning, the day of the race, I felt much less relaxed. I knew that if 3.5km felt too far I could always put my hand up and exit via the support boat and I wanted to enjoy the weekend, and enjoy the water. I wasn’t there to beat anyone. But of course, quietly, I really wanted to reach my personal goal of completing the event within the two-hour timeframe. I didn’t want to have entered two swim events this season and not be able to complete either of them.
The final groups (pink and blue caps), waiting for our turn to start the race. Still bodies, hammering hearts.
Because I’d at least started the Wellington event in January, I knew the beginning would be intense: hundreds of wetsuited figures, many of them in racing mode; a loudspeaker and announcer, blaring music, crowds, timed entries according to speed. It’s a sensory assault that precedes something I normally find very calming: entering the open water. This time I felt more prepared, working on my exhales, feeling my feet on the ground, starting at the back of the race so I didn’t get assaulted by flailing arms and kicking legs. Just knowing it was going to be intense helped me get through it, and understanding that within minutes of getting into the lake there would be peace and quiet.
And there was. The faster swimmers quickly faded into the distance and I swam slowly, aiming for the first orange buoy, then the second. For every buoy I passed (there were 10 in all), I gave myself a mental pat on the back.
From a sensory perspective, being in a lake is very different from the sea: there’s no salty taste, no boisterous chop, no briney smells, no ship horns blaring, or seaweed fronds brushing against my legs, or sharks on my mind. There’s also less buoyancy in the freshwater, but I had my wetsuit so that wasn’t much of an issue. And this small, ancient lake (fed by rainwater) is enclosed by forested hills, a little splash on Google Earth (although it didn’t feel so little when I was swimming around it!).
After the race’s boisterous beginning I enjoyed the solitude, but also began to doubt myself because swimming alongside someone allows me to keep pace. I found it hard to judge my speed. I was wearing an ankle tracker for the event but had no swim watch on, so I didn’t know how much time was passing. I kept imagining a boat pulling up and being hauled out, with a voice announcing: “Sorry, time’s up.” I convinced myself that it would happen, but decided to keep swimming until it did.
The hardest stretch was at the halfway point where two of the buoys were positioned far apart. I was swimming into the sun and couldn’t see past the glare, and I had to be told a few times to swim more to the left (this happened to pretty much everyone, as I learned afterwards). The shore (and finish line) looked tiny at the opposite end of the lake. I began to feel a little lonely, and was fed up of my inner monologue. Normally during long swims I go into a meditative cruise control mode, but during the event, trying to aim for buoys and keep on track, that wasn’t possible. I imagined one of my swim buddies alongside me and thought about my coach’s advice (“Just relax and enjoy the swim – it’s supposed to be fun, Shona!”), and both of those things helped.
The litany of thoughts continued to carousel around my brain until I noticed I was almost at the finish line. I did a dolphin dive underwater (good for dealing with the transition from water back to land) and then I was on the beach, jogging across the finish line, and people were clapping! (I gave myself bonus points for not faceplanting on the sand.) I think I must’ve been quite dazed because thanks to all my self-talk I was certain someone would shoulder-tap me and say: “You didn’t complete the route – you’re disqualified.” Of course, no one said that. Will I ever grow out of Imposter Syndrome?
My time was 1h 35m, a half hour before the cutoff point. I was one of the last to finish and if I do it again I will probably swim a bit faster, but I didn’t know I could do it so wanted to conserve energy right up to the end. I would probably ditch the towfloat too (and all the internal fretting). But I’m still happy with my time.
That night our swim group had a barbecue, an annual tradition for the Blue Lake swim, with meats and salads and even an apple crumble someone had made with apples from their garden. It’s a lovely group of people, some of whom have been part of it for decades. Everyone understood the special circumstances of completing my first big swim, and told me about their first events and all the other trips and races they’ve taken part in, here in NZ and overseas.
Earlier in the day, prizegiving medals had been awarded to the fastest swimmers. “You should get a medal too,” someone told me that night. But I didn’t need one. I felt like a winner just being there, a small part of such a special group, and achieving my goal of completing the event.
With my friend Katherine, who came along as ‘support crew’ (and photographer). Thanks, Katherine! No medal but we took a turn on the podium anyway.
Early the next morning we rose for a final swim before heading home. Overnight the temperature in the air had dropped to 5°C and steam was rising from the warmer waters of the lake. The brisk southerly wind had gone and it felt ethereal. Golden light was creeping down the hills towards the lake, but the sun hadn’t yet appeared and the grass had a light covering of frost. The water was clear, a shimmering mirror, and ripples formed as we swam out to the yellow swimmers’ buoy a short distance offshore. The giant orange inflatables from the event had been removed, and the crowds and noise from the day before were long gone. Out at the buoy the mist encircled us in a ring, a silent white embrace.
Stepping into the lake. (Photo by my swim friend Toy.)
It looked wonderful and the way you described it was perfect. Congrats on the swim.