In defence of "Budgie Smugglers".

Home Beach and Cylinder Beach - scene of the atrocity.

On Stradbroke Island for a week in January my mate Denis and I got a pasting from our lady friends for having the effrontery to wear our "budgie smugglers", "DTs", "Speedos" on the beach. It seems this once commonplace and practical swimming attire has become persona non grata on Australian beaches. It has been replaced by the incredibly impractical "boardies". "No boy child of mine will be seen displaying his legs between the knee and hips" seems the rule adopted by mothers. Teenagers and young men have followed their mothers advice. Boardies are quite practical if you are actually riding a "board" but useless if you're a "body surfer". What about "drag"? What about 'balloon shorts'? What about being "close to nature"? What about too many "quotation marks"?

I swim therefore .... artwork by Lynne

I blame Tony Abbott (for just about everything). Yes, there was a groundswell of support for board shorts over the fifty year period since everyone wanted to think of themselves as a "surfie". I blame "Gidget" for that short phase even if you haven't heard of Gidget (google "Gidget Goes Hawaiian"). But the Speedo/DT/Budgie Smuggler survived all of that - the surf Lifesaving fraternity never abandoned their "briefs" until Tony made them (and himself) the laughing stock of the world by wearing red Speedos at every opportunity - announcing the scrapping of the carbon tax, knighting Prince Phil, turning back the boats, promising to pay millionaires to look after their babies, shirt-fronting Putin etc.

At key moments he used his red speedos as a distraction technique and the media fell for it. He will, without doubt, be wearing them next Tuesday in his bid to stave off his inevitable demise.There has been more written about his swimming togs than about the plight of refugees on Manus Island.

The result - the community has generalised this animosity to apply to all "budgie smuggler" wearing men - OBSCENE! GET OFF THE BEACH! HOW DARE YOU BE ON THE SAME BEACH AS MY DAUGHTER!

Brothers in Budgies

I'm proud to say that Denis and I (and a few others) refused to be cowed and wore our DTs proudly, even at times doing a set of pushups or yoga stretches to demonstrate how practical and comfortable these swimming trunks are. I note that while men have been trending to wear more voluminous beachware women are on the path to full exposure. Nudity. SHOCK! HORROR!

Finally a couple of definitions:

DTs - (Dick Togs, Australian slang) A form of swimming underwear, used mainly for sporting reasons or by really old seedy men at the beach.

BUDGIE SMUGGLERS - (Australian slang) Any item of male bathing costume or underwear that encloses the wearer's genitalia in a manner that resembles the concealment of a budgerigar (or perhaps a goshawk (my addition).

Open Ocean Swim

Flying home from Adelaide on a Friday night close to midnight I needed some sleep. In a moment of enthusiastic folly I had agreed to join my friend Paul and his son in the Byron Bay Winter Whales Annual Open Ocean swim event. My first ocean swim. Paul has become a regular participant in this growing phenomenon along the east coast of Australia.

My son had made a late decision to join us, as had Paul's wife, so from an intimate trio of swimmers we became a two car team of five. Paul had introduced me to the YHA network in Murwillumbah recently and Andrea and I had stayed at a number of comfortable and friendly hostels on our trip to Adelaide. So here we were at the Byron Bay YHA.

This one was more like the hostels I had memories of. Large numbers of young backpackers packed into dorms and enjoying each other's noisy company. We had the luxury of a family unit which slept four. My son was number five so he ended up sharing a room with eight other young men. Paul and his wife went shopping for ear plugs in anticipation of anything other than a slent night.

On Sunday morning I collected my yellow swim cap, my electronic ankle tag and my complimentary Winter Whales cap and joined 1200 others on the beach. I was swimming the mini swim - 800 metres across the bay from the Clarke's Beach headland to the surflifesaving clubhouse. About 250 other mini swimmers joined me while 1000 others headed for the Byron Bay lighthouse and Watego's Beach for their much more demanding 2.4 klm marathon.

The day was sunny, the water cool and the swell small. I was up against fellow competitiors ranging in age from nne years to eighty nine. To cut a long story short I survived. Every nine year old beat my time, half the women did the same and Paul, who swam the 2.4 k event, swam three times the distance in the about the same time as I swam my 800 metres.

I must point out that I did not come dead last. The 89 year old was behind me as were about 34 other mini swimmers. I now begin my preparation for next year knowing that there is definitely room for improvement. I aim to cut at least five minutes from my 37 minutes.

What was impressive was the broad spread of ages in the thousand odd entrants and the number of entrants in the 70+ age group. It's exciting to think that if one keeps swimming there is no reason why one can't simply, keep swimming. My son, a physical education teacher has offered to set up a training program for me. I need to train my body to be less accustomed to stopping for a breather and a cup of coffee after each 100 metres. I discovered that there are no lanes and no hand rails in the open ocean.

Magpie 15 Pool

A story inspired by the Magpie Tales website. Writers from across the globe write poems, short stories and vignettes inspired by images posted as prompts on this site. Click on the fish to find them all.
I will be travelling in Europe for the next seven weeks so my Magpie's will either be non-existent or inspired by Spain and Portugal.

Pool

Another deluge. I am in Far North Queensland on a wet November day. My wife and I have arrived at the Barron River National Park mid morning. We've had a wonderful week in the tropics. It has rained in the rainforests, flooded the floodplains and held me in a steam-bath of humidity as only the tropics can do.

At this point the Barron River surges through a ravine downstream from the majestic falls upstream. It crashes over precipices, drops into whirlpools and flows around huge boulders smoothed by millenia of irresistible floodwaters.

We leave the car swathed in raingear, hats on our heads, determined to enjoy the walk to the rock pools we are confident we'll find upstream. After two hundred metres it is obvious that we are beginning to become part of the landscape. Water finds its way past every barrier. It seeps then flows down our backs, fronts, up sleeves, under hats, into shoes - it seems that we are submerged.

We cross a wobbly suspension bridge, squeezing past other walkers all of whom are making a dash for their cars. We turn a corner and are greeted by nature performing for us. The rain sheets down. The river slaps and slides, racing to its destination. There is a deep pool on the lee side of a group of gigantic boulders which eddies silently and still.
Andrea takes this in at a glance and decides to turn back.

I have decided to take the plunge. I have no swimming costume with me but there is no way anyone else is going to be here in these conditions. We are alone in this majestic forest.

Gingerly I clamber down to the small gritty beach. I strip off my wet T-shirt, drop my shorts and slip my undies to my ankles trying to discard them while keeping them above the pooling water at my feet. I wrap everything in the towel I've brought in case this opportunity arose. They sit forlornly under an overhanging limb hiding unsuccessfully from the drenching. I don't waste time. Even though I'm sure I'm alone I still have a sense of urgency, partly a residual guilt about nakedness in public.

Crouching, I slip into the swirling water. It's freezing. The rain is warm by comparison. I am quickly in deep water and luxuriate in the cold playing on my body, my arms, my legs, the joyful feeling of water curling around my genitals across my backside and sluicing across my shoulders. I strike out for the other side of the pool and catch a faceful of wash. This is heaven, and it's all mine. For the next five minutes my senses are alive to every sound and sight around me. Then I remember Andrea and wonder if she'll be worried about me - imagining my body swept away by the raging torrent, cast up on some damp rock downstream.

I turn and begin to dog-paddle towards my beach when voices alert me to the presence of humans. A group of Japanese tourists is lined up 0n the ridge above the pool. They are having a wonderful time, cameras clicking, voices calling to each other excitedly. I notice for the first time that the rain has eased. I am stuck. As I tread water I debate with myself the options. Do I nonchalantly emerge from the water as if I do this every day? Do I swim around in circles entertaining them like a seal, occasionally duck-diving to flash my whiter than white bum their way? Being a squib, I choose neither. I tread water, and tread water some more, having decided to wait them out.

My balls are freezing. My eyeballs begin to cramp. I find a ledge to stand on as the cold seeps deeper into my bones. And still they click and chatter. Everything around me is still except the school of tiny fish who have discovered my feet and are intent on having a meal of my flakey skin. I see them. I feel them nibbling and tickling. Sunbeams slash the pool.

Men's Bathing Pond - London

I wrote a story in 2008 about my strange experiences at the Men's Only Bathing Pond on Hamstead Heath in London (Beware of Breeding Swans - 27 Oct 2008). That was July. The sun shone in an Australian way, hot and direct. Still the water was chilly by my mid-summer standards.

Today I received a photo of that same pond (taken on the 10 January) from my sister-in-law Fang who who lives nearby. She told me that the locals were still swimming there, using ice picks to gain entry. A friend, a visiting first timer as I was in 2008, ventured out with towl and trowl to partake of this strange ritual. It was so cold his feet stuck to the ice on the platform leading to the water. He could go no further.

He who hesitates is lost.

Shipping Lane - Caloundra VI

Cargo ship and Bulcock Beach.

Caloundra may be daggy but it has the best headland and the best views of the shipping lanes which bring giant cargo and passenger vessels into your living room.

Fly - Caloundra IV

Kite surfers fly on the south easterlies which have driven most of the rest of us from the beach.

Play - Caloundra III

It's grey today. Sullen grey ocean. Sad grey sky. The waves playing half heartedly, teasing surfers and boogie board riders with erratic rides. Holiday makers arriving at a sand blasted beach out of a sense of duty.

Such a contrast to yesterday's upbeat mood with canary clad fishos selling their wares in front of an ocean of molten glass.

But the kids don't care.

Home Beach - Stradbroke Island

Home Beach

The ridge along Tramican Drive
Sits high behind Home Beach.
Expensive designer kitchens overlook
Expensive northern views.

Dog’s paws track west
Meandering erratically after tennis balls
And lumps of driftwood
In and out of lapping waters
Sniffing for signs of mates.

This year the tides are abnormally high
Surging across the expanse of sand
Flushing the reeds and dark-stained lagoons
Merging with ghostly tea tree swamps
Hiding the east coast road from
Humans and dogs and dolphin.

My lost orange earplugs wait to be retrieved
At Adder Rock
Where the tide’s western sweep slows
To negotiate the headland.

Fishermen gather there too
Casting brightly coloured lures into
The gutter formed by the constant
North westerly current.

I look in their buckets for clues
To their evening’s investment.
And find only the smell of two day old bait.
Neither silver fish nor orange ear plugs greet me.

As the sun sinks, a glow of molten gold
Throws millionaires drive into silhouette
The pedigree hounds settle on their polished wooden floors
Another punishing day complete.
.

Steve Capelin © 2009

Deadman’s Beach - Stradbroke island

Deadman’s Beach
“In 1956 a skeleton and a boot were unearthed on this beach. Thought to be that of a sailor from the ship named Prosperity en route from Sydney to North Queensland with a cargo of sugar machinery. It sank in the Coral Sea off Point Lookout”

Too many young men lie dead in Dunwich Cemetery
Sons of Stradbroke Island
Their polished headstones grieving for lost youth, lost life
The inevitable outcome of a son’s obsession with the sea.

They stare back at the world
From headstones carved and crying out with pain
To families deprived
Condemned to relive this moment again and again and again

Their faded faces are alive with youth.
Burnt nut brown by the sun.
They carry fishing rods and surfboards
And pose beside utes and boats and in front of fibro fishing shacks.

Locked in a constant gaze, fixated on a distant shore
Exchanging knowing looks with giant Eucalypts above
With the wind whipped bay beyond the boat harbour
The scorching sun and drenching rains above.

Beside them lie the elderly pioneers on this ancient land
Their gravestones melting in the intense heat.
Some are borne from these deep sands,
Some are orphans adopted by this intoxicating island
The Walkers, Coolwells, McDonalds,
English names displaying their proud yellow, black and red,.

Murri families have colonised whole corners of this sacred ground
Alongside typhoid victims quarantined aboard ironically named ships
The Emigrant, The Sovereign, the Prosperity;
And outcasts housed in ironically named havens – The Dunwich Benevolent Asylum
Eight thousand unmarked graves create an artificial hill
Of institutionalised, mad, infirm, discarded souls.

History lies here undisturbed, unearthed
The stories of millenniums buried in the sands
The tides, the winds, the land, shifts and moves
And calmly holds its breath
As tourists in their 4 Wheel Drives pass by intent on heading for the east
To Deadman’s Beach.

Cylinder Beach - Stradbroke Island

Cylinder Beach

On a still afternoon
Under a perfect sky
This perfect bay glows
With milky jades and bottle glass greens;
Water so clear that
From a hilltop vantage point
You’d swear you could step into
This painted bay at any point and
Safely stand on the silent sandy bottom
Amidst cruising schools of silver sided whiting
And dark shadowy shoals.

On a still afternoon
Against a dark blue distant horizon
This perfect bay resonates
With sounds of wind and sea;
Growling, slapping, hissing a
Symphony of native sounds
On an island still holding tight
Its native heritage .
The symphony, a hypnotic hymn
So familiar it does not exist for some;
So calming it lulls the locals to their afternoon naps
Benignly holding a steady drone
To lure the unsuspecting to this shore.

On a still afternoon
The lighthouse sits, listless and mute
As sail boats and fishing trawlers glide by
Or wave at the shore as they
Tilt and rock in the arms of the gentle swell.
No sign here of the oxy acetylene cylinders
Which gave the beach its name;
The cylinders destined for the lighthouse flame,
That winking beacon of kind reminder
Warning the unwary of the dangers
Of this perfect headland.

(C) Steve Capelin 2009

Sharks

As I've been writing so much about water and swimming these last few months I felt it would be okay to post this letter from the AMCS (Australian Marine ConservationSociety) seeking support for their campaign to protect those wonderful super predators of the deep - SHARKS. The same sharks who make swimming in our oceans just that little bit more of an adrenelin rush and make us really feel alive each time we emerge from their home territory unscathed. There were quite a few sharks cruising along the beaches of stradbroke island over christmas.

the web address for this petition is:
http://www.amcs.org.au:80/default2.asp?active_page_id=491

The AMCS Letter:
Time is running out to save our World Heritage Sharks, and this is our last chance in the forseeable future. Federal Environment Minister Peter Garrett, MP must receive your signatures by 5pm (this) Friday 30th January, 2009. It's up to Minister Garrett, MP to save our World Heritage Sharks.
Despite shark populations collapsing around the globe, our very own governments are entrenching shark fisheries in our World Heritage Great Barrier Reef. Shark fishing is unsustainable because sharks are slow growing, have few offspring and are long lived. This means they are extremely vulnerable to fishing impacts. Having lived on the planet for 450 million years and being apex predators of the ocean, the consequences of their removal may be devastating for the planet.

Last year, over 6000 Ocean Activists wrote to Federal Environment Minister, Peter Garrett MP, and Queensland Fisheries Minister, Tim Mulherin MP, calling on them to protect Australia's World Heritage sharks.
We showed the government that people want our World Heritage sharks protected and not killed to provide cheap local seafood and fins to service the international trade in shark fin.
Your letters convinced the Queensland Government to make the following commitments to sharks in 2009. In summary the government will:
1. Reduce shark deaths by 300t by mid 2009, a reduction from 900t to around 600t;2. Introduce a bag limit of 1 shark per person (in possession limit) for recreational fishers. Previously there was no bag limit;3. Declare several threatened sawshark, speartooth and reef shark species as 'no take'.
While this is some progress, it does not deliver a government commitment to phase out shark fishing on the Great Barrier Reef completely and won't stop 600t of sharks (over 70 000 sharks) being killed this year in Queensland. It is appalling that Australia contributes to the global decline of shark populations.
Minister Peter Garrett MP, is the politician who has the ultimate say on this burning issue and will make his final decision in early February.
That gives us a brief window of time to remind Minister Garrett of just how many people want our World Heritage sharks saved. Please tell your friends. Please tell your family. Forward this email on to as many people as possible. We can turn this around. Signatures are due by 5pm Friday 30th January, 2009. Our oceans need you to sign and submit the attached letter to Minister Garrett and get your family and friends to do so as well. We must show him that the people expect our Minister for the Environment to make a stand and protect our World Heritage Sharks.

Our Sharks are Precious

Journey - a story in 16 parts. J5 THAT SINKING FEELING

Today Dad’s here but he doesn’t say much. We’ve set up the beach umbrella in the usual place. The kids have wandered off for an ice cream and it’s just us three sitting, gazing, watching.

I feel calm. This feels right. The family had debated the option of setting dad’s ashes free here at Currumbin but there was a stronger draw from across the border in his home land of the Northern Rivers. Nevertheless here we are. It’s a beautiful day. The air is still, the ocean is a mill pond. A perfect winters day.

Not unusually for me I'm mesmerised by the water. I enjoy the light, the constant movement, the air on my body, the feeling of space and an impossibly distant horizon. I'm hypnotised. I yearn to immerse myself in this body of water, this planet before me.

I have an idea. Remembering that Kev was rarely one to say no to a swim, I decide we must indulge one last time together. I tuck him under my arm and head for the wet sand at the edge of the Pacific. I’m thinking he’d probably think this was a bit ridiculous. Certainly the rest of the family do. The ice cream lickers have returned and I’m followed to the water’s edge by pleading voices
“Dad, don’t”.
“You’re an idiot dad”
“What if you lose him”.

I ignore their sensible comments. I’m planning to be careful.
I get to the edge where the waves lap my ankles and advance and withdraw in ordered lines. There’s a small gutter a few metres off shore and I walk in up to my mid calves. I whisper a few words of encouragement to the box.
“Hold your breath”
“Keep your head down”
“Look out for other surfers”
“Don’t dive in shallow water”
I bend and gently lower the cream plastic container into the water.
Dad seems to have lost some of his buoyancy. As I settle him into the salty brine I withdraw my support momentarily and suddenly he lists to the left. I’m about to panic when he settles, straightens up and is stuck on a sand bar. This is a first for Kev. He would be feeling pretty stupid. Luckily there’s no one to see and I’m not going to tell anyone. I whisper my assurances and we sit for a short time soaking up the sun and the memories.
I turn to see six pairs of eyes glaring at me as if I’ve just committed patricide.
“It’s time to go” they chorus.

Journey - a story in 16 parts. J4 BODY SURFING

Having mastered the basics, next came catching “shoots” - swimming onto unbroken waves and riding them to the shore arms by our sides travelling like missiles. We followed the advice dad offered and body surfing seemed to come naturally.
We two brothers would practice, always measuring our skills against each other. Catch the same wave; punch the air and whoop in triumph even when only a matter of inches and some dodgy practices separated us; race back through the lines of white surging towards us, smashing our chests into each and being slapped in the face by nature for our impudence, to do it all again.

Meanwhile dad would have disappeared “out back” for what seemed like hours. Mum certainly felt the hours. Ever faithful, she would sit, read, doze under the brolly patiently waiting for the return of her man. His role was to be the water hero; hers was to apply sunscreen, pass out hats, keep us hydrated, break up fights and at regular intervals wander to the shallows where she would spend time bobbing. She was never a surfer. She was a suburban Sydney girl from the inner western suburbs.

My father, who’d never had a swimming lesson in his life but had grown up on the banks of the Richmond River knew the secret. We watched him. He watched us. We strived to beat him and eventually did. We’d learnt from an expert.

It was on one of these beach holidays that I had my first inkling that my father was not immortal. Inexplicably he declined an invitation to join us boys in tackling a pretty decent surf. The ear plugs he’d used as his only artificial aid in his years of surfing lay unused in the side pocket of the beach bag. He never ventured beyond the broken surf again. He was probably only sixty. Still a young man in my eyes despite the years.

The final photo in this collection would see an old man wobbling across the same stretch of sand, supported on either side by a son and his daughter-in-law, making his last pilgrimage to his beloved Currumbin. Everyone in the photo knows the truth. If you look closely at the photo you can see the pain in their eyes - knowing what they all know and not wanting to speak about it.

Journey - a story in 16 parts. J3 CURRIMBIN BEACH

The new bitumen bypass cuts to the chase. No meandering by beaches, no side trips to vantage points to admire the view, no flashing neon signs blinking at us in the early morning light, no headlands, no traffic lights – within the space of a conversation about plans for the day we hit the coast beaches at Tugun.

Here, another choice. Straight ahead to the border or exit to the beaches. We cut left and cross the old Pacific Highway and climb the hill separating us from Currumbin Beach. We’re giving Kev a tour of some of his old haunts and this was one of his spiritual homes. This is where the clan from down south gathered each year, where he taught us boys to body surf. Over a period of 50 years this was the first choice destination for a day at the beach.

A time line of photos would show the family sitting in the same spot on the wide beach each year lazily gazing at the ocean.

There would be a shot of two boys waving from the lookout atop Elephant Rock trying to catch the attention of the adults stretched out under the yellow and brown striped beach umbrella. There’d be one of a dad kneeling beside his beach equipment digging a deep hole for the wooden shaft of the umbrella, his strong straight back hovering above the sand. Another would show us exploring the rocky outcrops at either end of the 400 metre stretch of sand – Elephant Rock at the southern end and Currumbin Rock at the other. The scene would be of wild thrashing seas in heavy weather or in others a tranquil snorkeller’s playgound, water the colour of green glass slipping and sliding in and out of craggy rock pools.

You’d see the two boys approaching the jagged edge of the rocky outcrop, gingerly finding a path across the sharp wind-etched platform and then you’d see them racing back, ignoring the cuts to their feet, when a monster wave collided with the immovable mountain. Spumes of water would be flying 30 feet into the air and drenching the squealing kids. Mothers would be looking on in fear while fathers watched their daring sons or daughters with pride.

Currumbin Rock at the northern end guarded the entrance to a sheltered creek. In those days it was an island only accessible at low tide.

This was “The Passage”, territory of the board riders and their admiring and often bored girlfriends.

Somewhere in that collection of photos there’d be a series showing the two boys, under the tutelage of their curly headed father, progressing from beginner body surfers to masters of the 12 footers which thundered past Elephant Rock every summer, urged to their perfect form by a constant south easterly.

“Stand here. Face the shore. And when the broken wave catches you, dive forward with your arms stretched out in front.”
Shouted instructions followed us to the shallows.
“HOLD YOUR BREATH!”
‘KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!’
“KICK. KICK!”

Journey - a story in 16 parts. J1. A FORK IN THE ROAD

The highway south once loomed as an epic journey in my mind. Getting out of Brisbane was an adventure in itself. From Morningside, Creek Road took us on a roller-coaster ride, through new suburbs on the one side and scrubby bush on the other. We were in a big city but the countryside was our daily neighbour.

After what seemed like half a day’s drive we’d race down the last hill on Creek Road and curl to the west to meet Logan Road where the second stage of the journey began. This really was the edge of the city. Now we’d start the real trip. Travelling beyond Mt Gravatt past the neglected fences and isolated petrol stations of Eight Mile Plains. we’d catch a glimpse of the mysterious OPAL Home for aboriginal kids from the country set discreetly back among the trees before entering a no man’s land of no interest.. The name Eight Mile Plains seemed to just about sum it all up. Gods forgotten country. Halfway to nowhere.

From that point a series of milestones marked our path to the Gold Coast or sometimes we’d be venturing beyond to the Tweed or annually to Sydney. First came the Logan River, hovering over cows and fertile river flats; then the Coomera River and finally after an interminable hour of boredom and games of Eye Spy and Spotto came the big decision. Fork left to Southport via the Coombabah swamps or right to Nerang on the dirt road. Nerang was the short cut to Surfers Paradise. Only those in the know took this option. No sign posts to guide us, only a few subtle landmarks to guide the knowledgeable.

The Coombabah swamps were full of bird life; white ibis in their droves nesting around water-loving paperbarks amid acres of water. The stink was overwhelming even with the windows up tight. At this point the largely silent passengers erupted with cries of phew! and pooh! and accusations flew back and forth in the back seat apportioning blame for the smell, each brother indignantly denying any responsibility and both whinging to their parents that their brother was picking on them.

This riot quickly died with the intercession of dad reminding us that at the next crest we’d probably be able to see the water. Both my brother and I, now best mates again, crawled up the back of the seats in front of us craning our necks for the best view. Despite the threats from mum we bounced around like tennis balls and clawed and climbed up and occasionally over the high backed bench seat to tumble ridiculously into the front. The car was now full of laughter, squeals, threats and cries of “Look Look”. On each rise our anticipation expanded, our eyes popped and strained only to have our expectations dashed time and time again until at last the glint of the Broadwater filled us with excitement and anticipation. We could already taste the salt and began feverishly searching for our togs and towels so as to be first out of the car and onto the beach. To our frustration, and even more so for our parents, this hint of a swim was in reality still 15 minutes away as we slowly drove parallel to the still water holding our breath for the burning hot sands of Main Beach and the magic of the surf. My father could never countenance stopping and swimming in the still waters of Southport. It was unthinkable. Literally.

Today, however, we fork right, but the road is sealed. It’s a four lane high speed bypass. This time there are five spirits in the car and we’re on a mission.

Water-god

Walking along the shoreline barefoot, hair wrestled into a seaweed toupee, my towel wrapped around my waist, my skin sticky as the salt dries in the warm sun - I feel like a water god.

I am at the same beach which awed me as a child. Kings Beach in 1955 was in the grip of a cyclone. I recall a windswept stretch of sand with spumes of spray lashing across the bay and waist deep froth the colour of whipped cream bubbling around my body. I remember spending a week running between the lino floored army igloo hut on the foreshore over the natural sandhills to the wild shoreline. It was unforgettable.

Today I am at this same place. The sand-hills are tamed and a car park and coffee shop have replaced the igloo huts. The ancient saltwater swimming baths have been refurbished but the headland is the same and the cargo ships still glide by almost within touching distance.

The water is clear. Blown glass could not be clearer. Glossy brochures of scenes from tropical islands do not do today justice. The variations in sand bars and gutters are marked by varying hues of green then iridescent turquoise, then deepening blues merging to black beyond the lines of swimmers. To the naked eye it’s unremarkable; through my polaroids it’s a riot of pastels and light infused energy.
I am feeling good because I too am infused with light.

As I walk I think about the contrasts between my life on terra-firma and my life in water. On terra firma I am encumbered by clothes, confronted by social expectations, exposed by my awkwardness in land based sports and reminded of my shortcomings by mirrors and my attempts at small talk with strangers and attractive women. On land I am a minnow.

In water I am in charge. I am a seal. My quest, my challenge is singular. I am one with the medium. I am a water spirit.

Unlike cricket and conversation, where practiced skills and complex rules abound and conspire to trap the unwary me - here everything is instinct. Instinct tells me whether to dive under or punch through, to charge or retreat; my body knows how to glide and then explode through the backs of waves effortlessly emerging dolphin-like behind lethal walls of water; I am comfortable being tossed and wrangled in a swirling mix master world beneath a giant dumper; I understand that a lungful of air between enormous southerly swells is the difference between life and death; I see the next two story wall before me and in one fluid motion I experience a sublime moment as tonnes of water thunder towards the shore with me as a passenger sliding gracefully at speed down a smooth wall of green. “Look mum no hands”. All instinct. At least that’s how it feels.

To my left as I walk towards the surf pavilion the crowd dot the sand like sandflies. Young children, mothers, fathers, teenagers, couples, lifesavers, squirming nippers all intent on worshipping the day, oblivious of each other and the absurdity of so many people crowded onto such a small beach in an island continent with tens of thousands of deserted beaches.

In my narcissistic state I am the centre of (my) attention. The king on his beach. So enamoured am I of myself that I sense glances of admiration from left and right and my sense of being in my element is affirmed. It does occur to me that perhaps it is my slightly deformed middle aged body parading in a pair of sky blue budgie smugglers that is the real point of interest but I am able to deflect this thought simply by feeling the sun searing across my shoulders, casting me back to my childhood and another world.

I reach the clubhouse, turn and retrace my steps. The water winks at me in recognition. It’s 8am, and as I wander along the foreshore back to my unit for coffee and breakfast towel in hand, I become aware of a group of young men cruising by in a red commodore, circa 1985. One of them leans out the window and calls to me “Hey Speedo!”. His mates turn and seem to understand his taunt.

Suddenly I feel naked. I am bemused. A beloved national swimming icon has become a term of abuse and I am the subject in a game of ‘Spotto”.

Dog paddling with submarines

My father is wearing a handsome pair of black bathing trunks. They hug his lithe body. The material is a heavy woven cotton, double thickness. At the front a skirt stretches across his privates modestly disguising his tightly assembled tackle. The sides are a good five inches covering from waist to hip bone. His wavy head of hair shines, the sun highlighting its copper colour. He stands beside his black Morris Minor with his mate Ken, his eyes sparkling and his face alive with expectation.

Suddenly I’m airborne as he sweeps me up and plants me on his shoulder. I’m so high I can see over the high riverbank and glimpse the other side of the broad river. I’m standing, balancing on his muscled shoulder, holding his right hand which he stretches up to me. His shoulder, his up-stretched arm encase me securely as if on a platform. I can let go of his hand and balance without any help. I’ve spent hours walking along the top rail of our Moolabar Street fence practicing to be a tightrope walker. This is simple.

My curly headed little brother bounces around at the feet of our double height, double headed body. He’s three and scurries around like a puppy, leaping up, trying to launch himself into my father’s arms. Without effort my father steadies me and bends to gather up my brother and tucks him under his left arm. Now all three of us, looking like some weird 12 limbed creature, move forward – the water beckons.

We’re at Murarrie on the Brisbane River. It’s 1954. The war is less than ten years gone and my brother and I have no awareness of it or of our father’s part in it, but the idea of swimming here has the added excitement of my father’s story of this as the site of a WWII submarine base. His mate Ken is in on the story as well.

In front of us is an excavated site the size of two Olympic swimming pools carved alongside the river. On the river side a high bank separates it from the main waterway. On the southern side, a cliff-face, of enormous height to a four year old, marks the other edge . At the far end an opening allows the tide to fill this submariner’s hide-out. We, meanwhile, stand on a sloping bank, its clay base slippery under our feet. It leads gently into the bottomless hole.

Whether for storytelling or fear inducing purposes Ken (Uncle Ken as we know him) creates a picture of unfathomable depth and danger as a precursor to our swimming lesson. Far from being afraid or reluctant to enter this underwater, underworld black hole, we are even more excited by the possibilities. This excitement is further enhanced by the barren landscape surrounding us. We are beyond civilization, out of sight of any signs of our home city, having arrived here at the end of a long thin gravel road leading from the familiar world to this moonscape. And we are alone. The four of us. We are the only people who know about this secret place. My father and Uncle Ken are explorers of the unknown, dare devils who have brought us here for our first swimming lesson.

I’m not sure what it is about this submarine base that excites us but as I prepare to swim, my mind conjures up black shapes lurking below the black surface. These shapes carry men I’ll never see or know and they come and go in secret, under cover of darkness. It’s a story I’m more than willing to embrace. I have no expectations of ever having the story confirmed or resolved. It just is.

My father loves water. I will inherit his merman genes. He is preparing me and my brother for our destiny. He will teach us to swim. We turn towards the water. I jump down from my shoulder perch and await his instructions.

The Black Masseur

My friend Julian has sought to clarify my fictional account of his life. I said he didn't swim. That's not true (though it suited my storytelling purposes). He does indulge himself, particularly in exploring life below the surface. He dives and snorkles. He just doesn't like the idea of striking out for some distant cliff or cove for no apparent reason. I guess that's the difference between swimming and, well, not swimming.

He also pointed out at the full title of "The Swimmer as Hero" is "Haunts of the Black Masseur. The Swimmer as Hero." The first part of the title adds an added level of mystery to this eccentric account of swimming through history. I'm still grappling with it and would be interested in other's thoughts. There is a dark and obsessive side to the accounts in this book - at one level painting water as a siren-like element luring its devotees to their watery graves; at another endowing it with rather powerful erotic overtones and in some cases sado-masochistic. Deep, black, mysterious, powerful - the ultimate seducer. Hmmmmmm.

I found another book on this theme at Avid Reader today. Waterlog - the account of a mad swimmer who set out to swim across Great Britain via lakes , streams, rivers, puddles and any other repository of water. I'm hoping that someone might pick it up for me for xmas. I discovered it when I was investigating if anyone had written a book of stories or accounts about their swimming experiences. I'm thinking it could be fun to create such a collection. My mate Denis has expressed a vague interest in the idea. Would there be an audience? My next blog follows this story theme.

The Swimmer as Hero

I have been drawn back to water and swimming as I reflect on my infatuation with this element. This has been fed by the unexpected arrival in the mail of a book from my friend Julian Pepperell. Julian is a marine biologist of note who will soon publish his next book - Fishes of the Open Ocean, a comprehensive illustrated guide to the big fish of our oceans. Julian loves big fish and the science of fish. But he is not a swimmer.

He is a little bemused by my insistence, whenever I visit him on the sunshine coast, on rising at 6am and driving 20 minutes to swim, regardless of the weather, in his beloved ocean. He might even be surprised if I was to publish my book -"Water in which I have Swum" (needs a better title). He'd find it ranged through knee deep muddy waterholes outside Winton in far western Queensland, skinny dipping in raging rapids on the Barron River (in a tropical downpour with a group of appreciative Japanese tourists as onlookers), floating in tranquil crystalline pools in Litchfield National Park and twenty laps of a bitterly cold public swimming pool in London (in the company of fellow icebergs) - and hundreds of places in between. I can't resist them and each is individually etched in my memory.
His gift, "The Swimmer as Hero" by Charles Sprawson has opened up to me the world of the swimmer from Ancient Greece to the most recent olympics. And I can tell you my infatuation is mild compared with some of the eccentrics he explores in this book - one in particular (Swinburne) who seems to have embraced water and swimming as both the mystical and erotic centre of his life.

Here are two short excerpts: "...I had to get my plunge in by 4pm, just before the sun took its plunge behind a blue black rampart of cloud. I saw I could only be just in time - and I ran like a boy, tore off my clothes, and hurled myself into the water. And it was but for a few minutes but I was in heaven............. one far more glorious than even Dante ever deamed of in his paradise." AND

"Swinburne remarked that it was a pity the Marquis De Sade had not been aware of the tortures that could be inflicted by the sea." His was a far more complex relationship than mine.

Interestingly I have a close female friend who describes her relationship with the ocean as one which only really works "when she experiences it as a thrashing!"

Irresistible water

Pumistone Passage Bribie Island Australia