November 2014 – Chris Preston

A Waiheke Routine

Getting into a Waiheke routine

When people asked me ‘What are you going to do there?’ My answer would be, ‘Write, garden and see friends and relatives.’ So far I’ve settled down to writing in the mornings, producing two and now three substantial posts on my blog site and almost completed chapter 19 of Gay Dads. I realise that I can write every morning, not just the previously allocated Tuesdays and Thursdays.

The garden, however is pressing as spring is rapidly turning into summer and things need to be planted. I’ve always been worried about screening between me and the neighbours and in the past I’ve brought up native pittosporums from my brother’s farm in Hawke’s Bay, but only two of those have survived and aren’t doing that well. So I leap into the car, drive off to the hardware store and buy four established specimens. I now have to clear a whole tangle of creeper, some of it a left over bignonia from a different age. It has escaped and along with something else I can’t identify has rampaged though a few straggly coprosmas and a small palm tree. The creepers have to be extricated from their hosts and dug out. The following day the remains require disposal by carting bundles down-hill to a pile of decomposing branches and foliage near the bottom of the section. While I’m doing this the neighbours are clearing out all the junk left under their house by the previous tenants and carrying it in the opposite direction, up the hill for the ‘inorganic’ rubbish collection in a few weeks time. Their ex tenants, an extended family of Tongans have moved two houses up the road and have set themselves up in the scrap metal business. They have a small truck with high sides and can be seen cruising up and down the island picking up metal, old cookers and appliances left out on the road side for the collection. Everyone is at it because one person’s rubbish is another’s treasure. There’s still plenty left for the Council to collect. The laugh is that the Tongans collect metal from my neighbour’s pile, stuff they must have left behind eighteen months ago.

I get everything planted plus lettuce seedlings (the seeds I’d stored 3 years ago refused to germinate) and an Aubergine (Egg plant here) purchased from Dave at the Thursday sale in the Community Hall. At the end of the day I’m still looking at the two Kauri trees patiently waiting for attention.

Rolled up mat of Jasmine roots with tools

Over the weekend, I clear a huge swathe of spring flowering jasmine which has escaped from a garden and woven a great mat of runners and roots over the bush floor, clambering up the trees and smothering them. This part of the bush garden is mosquito country and I’m kitted up in jeans a long sleeved top and a sun hat. My tools are gloves for pulling long runners up; a sharp hoe to grub up the roots and a pair of old hedge clippers to hack through the stems.

Nestled amongst this entanglement is another hated weed here, the asparagus fern, which has a tenacious root system enabling the top to clamber over everything inhibiting native seedlings. I’ve also got my eye on a plant by the name of Tradescantia otherwise known variously by its racist name, Wandering Jew Plant or Wandering Willy- possibly a reference to its promiscuity. In the UK it is deemed a house plant, being not frost hardy, and there are websites advising on the care of this plant, which in New Zealand has become a garden thug. It’s OK in semi shade and manages to rampage over everything else commandeering the sunlight. For a change, on Sunday, I switch my attention to this pest.

It’s survival mechanisms are cunning; being fragile and easily broken, pieces of the succulent stems can break off and quickly re-root. Gentle handling is required to lift as much of it as possible into a bucket and pieces can fall out as if having an escape instinct.

The other problem is that it’ doesn’t wilt easily so can’t be put straight into a compost heap where it would re-group and thrive. I reflect that Tradescantia is named after gardeners to Charles I called Tradescant. They collected plants from all over the world and were influential in the development of taxonomy. Perhaps not the legacy they dreamed of. Each afternoon or early evening, I work away eradicating these foreign weeds from my bush garden. Sometimes I feel like an early settler clearing the land by hand. In reality, I’m restoring the forest floor so that native seedlings can germinate.

Swimming this week at the school baths is a more respectable 22 degrees and I manage forty-five minutes. It gets a bit frustrating at times with some in the lane swimming breastroke with their heads above the water. I’ve been concentrating on backstroke, but my attention wanders with the result that I keep banging my head on the end of the pool. There are no flags warning of the approaching wall. I swap to breaststroke with resignation. It needs some work and I can at least see where I’m going and there’s no danger of going too fast. A Saturday routine has quickly become established, with a call into the market. There’s a different person on the vegetable stall this week and he’s got celery seedlings and an acid free tomato plant. Next up is the Latte in the Hall café then off to the supermarket just down the hill.

Part of the plan is the purchase and transportation of a Brompton fold-up bicycle. It arrived before me and waited patiently for customs clearance. Although mainly transported by UPS, in the end the Post Office on the Island attempts to deliver it. Slightly intrigued by the post office card in the letterbox saying they had a parcel waiting for me, I go in, only to find that indeed it is the bicycle. Unfortunately the carrier has been squashed against the back wheel and it takes me some time to work that out. In the end I use brute force and straightened a strut. I go out on the road for a test drive and there’s an elderly woman walking past. We say hello and she stops to look at the bike. I demonstrate the folding up procedure and offer to let her feel the weight, but she has recently had abdominal surgery and declines. Down the hill I go and back up without incident and the gears are all working. It sits in the store room for a week until I decide how I’m really going to make this bike work here. It’s a Friday and I’m running short of milk. Shopping is designated for Saturday so it would be a profligate use of petrol to drive to the supermarket. This is a perfect test mission for the blue Brompton. Off I set with my pink cycle helmet (mandatory in this country – the helmet not the pink) and my old high visibility yellow jacket. Going down the hills is pretty scary and fast and then there’s always an up-hill to follow but I get to Ostend without getting off to push. At the supermarket I fold up the bike and put it in a shopping trolley and to make it worthwhile using a credit card I buy some decent chocolate (Lindt) and a battery for my smoke alarm. All manner of eccentric behaviour is tolerated on this island, so no one raises an eyebrow except one man at the check-out who casually remarks looking into my trolley, ‘Oh look a Brompton bike.’ The return journey is more difficult as my house is half way up a hill and the supermarket is near sea-level. There’s a long incline past the racing track which goes on forever. Still no getting off to walk and the whole operation takes forty-five minutes.

The next outing for the Brompton is to Palm Beach late on Sunday afternoon. This might be a tough one as there is a steep hill to cross. The journey takes forty minutes and I still don’t have to get off and push. There’s a group of Pacific Island women sitting on the grass playing guitars and ukuleles. They are singing an old New Zealand cheesy favourite ‘Ten Guitars’

‘Beneath the stars my ten guitars will play a song for you

And if you’re with the one you love this is what you’ll do.’

(Replacing ‘dance’, they sing)

‘Hula, Hula, Hula to my ten guitars …’

This and the ukuleles are clues that they are Islanders.

The Brompton is quite heavy to carry along the beach and around the rocks to the naturist section and I nestle it by a bush disguising it by and hanging my clothes and towel over the frame. The sea is still too cold to stay in for any length of time but it’s good to sit and dry out in the warm late afternoon sunshine without getting sunburnt. I go for another swim but a crowd of little pink jellyfish have come into the shallows and it’s still cold so after drying off again, it’s time to cycle home. It’s another forty minutes, but quite a tough one – good aerobic exercise.

Week two – settling in

Week two – settling in.

Saturday

Rocky Bay is a quiet secluded place and we make our own entertainment here, all centred around the community hall.

Omiha Hall - centre of the community — Omiha Hall – centre of the community

I still need to make wider connections and I’ve noticed in the Gulf News that there is lane swimming at one of the Primary Schools which has the only swimming pool on the island. Vicky is the person to contact, which seems a good omen. She replies to my email that there are sessions Sat & Sun from 9-10 as well as a couple of evenings during the week. I have to text her if I’m coming as they need 6 swimmers to open the pool. I discover that the pool is outdoors and there is no one around. Soon a woman arrives, and then Vicky turns up.

‘Is the pool heated?’ I ask.

‘Solar.’ is the reply. Apparently on warm days it heats up to 28 degrees, but today as it’s been cold, its 18 degrees. My mind goes back to Chris C from Out to Swim trying to get me down to the Brockwell Lido in London for water of 13 degrees. I decide to give it a go. There aren’t six people but Vicky opens up anyway and asks if I would like a lane put in. After the initial shock of getting in, the water is OK and I swim fast to keep warm. There are no pool markings and it’s difficult to see the end so no tumble turn practice. After 30 minutes my extremities are cold and I think it wise to get out. Vicky says she has a white board and would I like her to put a set up for me next time.

‘Yes please,’ I say between chattering teeth. I’ll go again as it saves a ferry ride to town.

By now I’m really in need of warming up and drive off to the Ostend Saturday Market for a coffee from the Hall. There’s a stall with celery seedlings for sale ($1 each) and also Broad Beans and Silver Beet – payment by donation (koha). In the excitement of seeing the Broad Beans, I leave the celery seedlings behind. Maybe they will have more next week.

It’s the start of the Walking Festival and I’ve signed up for the Friends of Dorothy Walk. I don’t actually know anyone called Dorothy and have never been a Judy Garland Fan, but I’m expecting to meet some gay people from the Island. We meet outside one of the eatery/bars which proliferate in Oneroa although no one is actually talking much to start with. Locals obviously know each other and so do their dogs, who have come for the walk as well. We all have to get our shoes scrubbed and sprayed with disinfectant to prevent Kauri die-back. This disease, which attacks the magnificent native Kauri trees on the mainland has so far, not made it to the Island and we want to keep it that way. Once we get underway, it’s clear that most of the walkers are lesbians with only half a dozen gay men.

We’re walking around the headlands on the West end of the Island past Fossil and Owhanake bays then back to our start point through the Vale of Tranquillity. Gradually I get talking to people. They look startled when I say I come from Rocky Bay as they haven’t seen me around. One of the volunteers has a partner who writes film scripts. It turns out that I know of her and we know all the same people who worked in theatre back in the late 70’s. The next thing I know is that I’m invited to Pink Drinks which, coincidentally are happening tonight. Last time I was here, I had no luck at all finding out where or when the Pink Drinks happened; now I’m all signed up.

The walk is great, with spectacular views of the rocky coastline. There’s a happy hour priced half pint in the bar at the end of the walk and I go home for a nap as it’s been a long day so far and I seem to have driven backwards and forth on the Island all day. The Pink Drinks are at Surfdale heights in a very posh house overlooking the whole bay. It’s packed with gay men who haven’t been walking and quite a few of the women from the walk have turned up. The host coaches the Auckland Gay Rugby team so they’ve all turned up as well. We bring our own booze but the hosts have catered. Plates of finger food are being passed around and there is a singer crooning away in the background. I find myself next to a good looking man in his thirties who turns out to be Canadian and a carpenter. I get his phone number as I’m going to need a wardrobe made. (Yes I really do need carpentry done – on the house). It’s raining on and off but there’s a gazebo on the decking and I look out over Surfdale and comment that the gentle slope of the sea-bed and sheltered conditions here make it extremely unlikely that any surf ever dumps on the beach. The chap I’m talking with agrees and thinks more could be made of this along with ‘Blackpool’ and ‘Miami’ two other suburbs of this Island of 8,000 people which don’t relate to their namesakes in any way. It turns out that this Pink Drinks is the early Christmas party, hence the elaborations.

Monday

It is forecast for rain but the day starts brightly. There’s an email confirming that the walk will go ahead and I set out from the house along my road to the track down to Whakanewha. I have to detour around the endangered Dotterel colony nesting here. They are fairly careless about where they lay eggs and there are signs purporting to be from the Dotterels themselves saying they need our help. Their territory has been fenced off and dogs are prohibited from the area. There’s quite a crowd gathered as there’s a photography walk happening at the same time. Just as we set out on the coast to coast trail, it starts to rain seriously. Just as well I’ve worn my bright yellow raincoat. We are partly sheltered by the bush as we pass through stands of Nikau Palms and tree ferns. It’s a gently climb up to ‘The Cascades’ – a series of pools and rocky falls through which the stream flows. Last time I was here in the height of summer, it was little more than a trickle. We stop to admire a few of the giant trees but it’s too wet to do much standing about looking up. After an hour and a half we are early at the Peacock Sky Vineyard for lunch. The owner welcomes us into the clear plastic sided atrium which has a gas fire burning. We can take our boots and waterproofs off before padding through to the counter and paying for our pre-ordered lunch which includes a glass of their wine. We’re all a bit cold and while we wait for our wraps filled with either smoked chicken, cheese or vegetables to arrive the rain drives against the atrium sides in torrential waves. I’m sitting with a retired couple from the mainland and a young German guy from Saxony. When asked why he’s come to New Zealand, he makes us laugh with.

‘To escape the European winter.’

He’s just arrived in the country, bought a bicycle and will tour around until March. There’s a discussion about abandoning the second part of the walk as the driver of a local bus, who will take us back to our starting point, has anticipated that some people may want to opt out at this point. Just as its decision time, the rain eases off so the bus driver has only a few passengers and we set off, this time in open terrain heading for a reserve boasting a stand of precious Kauri trees. There’s a platform and we estimate that the huge ones are around 500 years old. There’s a sign saying ‘If you are lost, keep going downhill and you will come to Onetangi beach.’ We do this and walk along the rain drenched sand to Charlie Farley’s Bar for a coffee. We pay the bus driver $5 to get back to Whakanewha and I wend my weary way along the beach and up the hill to home.

Tuesday

There is no mains water on the Island so we have to manage with what we collect from our roofs. I notice that the agents have installed a meter on the tank and with all the rain, it’s full. This does not excuse being complaisant as during the dry months it is essential to manage water. There’re a few litres in the pipes before the hot water from the boiler gets through. Water from washing vegetables and rinsing out the teapot can also be reused watering pots or the garden. To avoid blocking up the soak pipes down in the garden, crumbs and other solids are thrown on the garden for ants or other creatures and grease and fat, soaked up with paper towels and put in the rubbish. There’s reasonable mixed recycling here and I have a compost heap. The urgency now is to get rid of the foreign weeds choking the bush trees and do some planting before the summer hits in.

I have to guess how long it will take to get to my next walk at Orapiu further along the Island. There’s road-works going on, which are much needed, particularly now that Waiheke is such a huge tourist destination. I’m there in plenty of time, but I’ve got it wrong. The walk is tomorrow and I’ve put it in the wrong day in my diary. Just as well I’ve got a fancy phone with 3G and can check these things out. It’s back to the garden for the afternoon before trying out the alternative ferry service to swimming training on the mainland. I have fifteen minutes to shower, get changed and then run for the 8.15 return service. I make it.

Wednesday

It’s going to be one of those driving backwards and forth days. I need petrol and stamps so have to go to Oneroa where I can also spend some time with the amazing Eileen at Waiheke First – my letting agency. I have some improvements to run past her and she has time to chat. My lettuce seedlings have failed to germinate, so need to buy some plants and then it’s on to the Native Plant nursery where I buy Kauri trees and several other plants, including a Kowhai. This has a pendulous yellow flower much loved by the nectar eating Tui.

Kowhai can these days be spotted in London gardens along with Pittosporums, Cordyines and Phormiums (flax) – all native to New Zealand.

I’ve had an email from the Walking Festival with instructions of where to meet – it’s all highly organised – and when I get to Orapiu, there are a couple of volunteers already there. By contrast, the day is beautifully sunny but we have to wait for a bus to arrive with participants who have come from the ferry plus some who have done a morning walk at Man 0’War Bay all of which is complicated by the road works and the fact that the bus can’t do the Island loop road and has to go back and through the road works twice. It’s all OK and we are only 30 minutes late starting.

This is Waiheke, it’s a lovely day and no one is in a hurry. Our leader, one of the conservation officers has a loud voice ideal for outdoors and we follow him up the road and over private land (by arrangement) down to Pearl Bay.

Access to this beautiful secluded bay is supposed to be by boat, but there is an unofficial track over private land at the bottom of which is a collection of 4WD vehicles. Some of the batches are very old and derelict; others are modern, pristine and grey. The whole bay is a reserve and is home to an oyster farm.

We walk along a paper road (put on a map in planning stages years ago but the terrain made it impossible to build) to the beautiful Otakawhe Bay.

Here the locals have been weeding the bush and planting Pohutukawa trees which have bright red flowers at Christmas.

We see examples of before and after weeding. The ubiquitous Agapanthus, which UK gardeners struggle to nurture, self seed here rampantly taking over the countryside. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t stabilise banks and here they have been removed. We end our walk back at Orapiu where we started.

Return to Waiheke

The Return to Waiheke

Oneroa Beach Wiaheke Island — Onetangi Beach Waiheke Island

The November temperature in Auckland is around the same as London. It’s been unseasonably warm in the UK so I’m making a smooth temperature transition, except once the 13 degree morning warms up in New Zealand the day gets hot. The flight via Singapore has been OK, there’s a brand new wing to the international terminal built to take the double-decker Airbus 380s. It boasts a 50 metre travolator. My New Zealand passport gets me through immigration electronically and my bags are some of the first on the carousel. Bio-security doesn’t want to scan my luggage and the sniffer dogs take no interest in me. I just miss a bus into downtown Auckland and wait for the next one. There are a couple of Italian girls smoking next to me. They show me some Australian money and ask if they can use it here.

‘No, but you can change it at the bank.’ I guess they are thinking of Euros across boarders.

The bus driver is in a hurry and bad-tempered. I’m struggling with two cases on wheels, ruck-sack and duty free bag. He wants me to hurry up and a young man helps me lift the heavy bag onto a rack. The driver is off before I’m settled, leaving a customer behind on the pavement. There’s been an accident on the way out of the airport and we take a diversion, which turns out to be slow. This explains the driver’s haste, as he’s behind schedule, but he’s also sweating and fills the bus with his body odour – yuck. From downtown Auckland, which all looks much the same, I get a taxi to Parnell and my cousin’s place to recover from the flight, connect with family and research second had cars. You have to have a car in this country.

Thursday

In a pre-planned operation I’m met off the ferry by my friend Warwick and we pack my luggage into his little red car and drive off to Rocky Bay where two young Argentinians, also organised by Warwick, are waiting to unpack my store room. Everything comes out in reverse order. Under felt first followed by rugs, furniture, kitchen stuff and suitcases full of linen, pictures and some clothes. The Argentinians assemble the beds place the fridge freezer in its correct place and carry heavy wooden chests. This is definitely the way to do the unpacking as all I have to do is tell them where everything goes. Warwick is desperate for tea, so he unpacks the kitchen stuff and finds the kettle. I’ve brought sandwiches, a loaf of bread and butter. I end up eating most of the sandwiches as the others are really in to the bread and butter.

It’s an emotional reunion with this house, which in spite of being empty since July, is looking good. The native trees in the garden are all spring fresh is somewhat overgrown. My late partner died here and somehow that’s OK now after three years away. I notice that there’s an abundance of self sown parsley, possibly from tenant gardeners. There was always an issue with parsley germination in London so he would be pleased to see so much of it available. The Argentinians have almost finished when I find hidden behind the studio at the bottom of the garden, a rain sodden wardrobe, a boxer’s punch-bag and leaning against the rain-water tank and a large trampoline, all left by tenants. I get the lads to carry these up to the road-side where there will be an inorganic collection in a couple of weeks’ time.

They’ve gone and I’m left alone to unpack boxes and suitcases trying to remember where the wine glasses went and where did I store the towels? I need to catch the bus to the supermarket and as its Thursday I call in to the Rocky Bay Community Hall where there are stalls, tea and cakes and the local paper on sale. Dave, the chair of the local residents greets me like a long lost friend. There’s a bus waiting down the road and he says the next one is in an hour, so I run off, narrowly missing a small toddler weaving erratically across my pathway. I have thirty minutes to shop before there’s a return bus to Rocky Bay. It’s a steep climb back up the walkway to my road, carrying shopping bags and a rucksack. The halfway seat has been replaced but I don’t stop until the seat at the top. New Zealand sirloin steak for dinner is delicious and I’ve found some 2009 Mission Cabernet Sauvignon which has matured nicely whilst I’ve been away. I just need to find some sheets to make up my bed.

Friday

I’ve identified a blue Toyota Rav4 in Davenport which looks like it could be a good Waiheke car (they are ubiquitous here) and I’ve arranged to test drive it at 9am. This means getting the 7.15 bus to catch the 8.00 ferry into downtown Auckland which takes 35 minutes and then quickly walking to the next pier for the Devonport ferry. The reality of living on an island bites in. Everything revolves around the timetable and expeditions to the mainland have to be meticulously planned. I guess long time residents know the timetables by heart, but I still have to carry around fold up brochures which I take out and consult at regular intervals.

I’m given the keys and allowed to go off on my own for a test drive. I’m somewhat surprised, but then remember that this is New Zealand and anyway when I get going, notice that the fuel tank is on empty so wouldn’t get very far. I buy the car – the paper work takes ages – and head for the nearest petrol station 3 Km away.

Any visit to the mainland should combine at least two other tasks so first up is to call in on Mary at Point Chevalier. She’s home for coffee and wants my opinion on Sicilian Olives – the bright green plumb shaped ones – for one of her food jobs. She’s also got a load of bags full of second hand cricket gear donated by a local club. These are cluttering her flat and do I want any? She’ll take these on her next food tour to Sri Lanka and distribute them to poor local kids, thus decreasing future prospects for the England Cricket team. Next up is a swim at the Newmarket Olympic pool. It’s a hefty $8 to get in and I’ve remembered to bring, along my swimming gear, but not a padlock for the lockers, so I have to take my stuff into the poolside. As promised, I concentrate on my backstroke and also some breastroke. I’m looking for a café for lunch en route to the car ferry at Half Moon Bay. A supermarket seems a good idea to grab some supplies and a snack.

As I haven’t got a booking, its pot luck and I don’t get the resident’s discount on a single ticket. The three o’clock sailing is just loading up and I’m booked on the 6pm but by waiting in the standby queue get on the 4pm, arriving home in time to grab a few cans of beer and a pot of Sicilian Olives and walk down to the Hall for Happy Hour – held every first Friday of the month.

The weekend

A garden festival with around 13 gardens open to the public is advertised. There’s always something going on here and I’ve got my eye on the walking festival next weekend. I decide that I need to get on with sorting my own garden. I make a quick trip to the Ostend Saturday market, but most of the vegetable plants look spindly, so I go to the hardware store to buy packets of seeds and compost. The back seats in my Rav4 fold down to accommodate. I plant seeds in pots and then clear some straggly small trees to let the light into the vegetable area. Hopefully this will help the Lemon and Lime trees to fruit. It’s all quite backbreaking work as I’m hauling compost from other parts of the garden to fill up the beds. A crop of spinach and emerging Jerusalem Artichokes are doing well along with the Parsley.

I need to check the sewerage system. Every house on the island has to dispose of their waste and collect rainwater from the roof. My system takes the contents of the toilet and feeds into a wormery, skimming off the liquids which are then joined by grey water from other parts of the house. This goes through two plastic settling tanks then a filter which has to be taken out and bashed gently against a handy tree trunk to get rid of solids. Further down is a concrete tank with a Heath Robinson arrangement of a kitchen colander and a sieve doing a final solid collection. The water then goes through 4 soak pipes which seep into the bush at the bottom of the property. It all seems OK and although it’s a fairly disgusting job, nothing smells, indicating that the worms haven’t died while the house has been empty. Of more concern are the foreign weeds encroaching. There are two young tobacco plants growing tall which I fell and there’s a tangle of scented jasmine – all very nice in a garden, but inappropriate here, climbing up the trees and creating a carpet on the bush floor. This will keep me busy for months.

Tuesday

I need to get a New Zealand sim card for my phone which means going into downtown Auckland before they close at 6pm. There’s a queue but a very helpful young man whips out my UK sim and fits a NZ one – simple. He does the paper work and tells me that I’ll get an alert tomorrow to go live.

It’s swimming training with Team Auckland Master Swimmers (TAMS) who in spite of this name are actually a gay group. I’ve got the time wrong and have arrived a few minutes late. It’s OK as they have just done the warm-up and coach Bret recognises me from when I was here earlier in the year. We’ve only got one lane of the pool tonight and there are some fast swimmers up the front. It’s a pull/kick set and we have to tumble with the float between our legs. That’s a bit of a challenge and I drop back just in front of Clive, who might be in his late 60,s or early 70,s. He’s been swimming for 4 years and has never been better. I’m rubbish at pull and kick so this should be good for me. Everything seems to be in blocks of 400m tonight and Bert hands out paddles, from their bin of equipment (stored at the pool). Last time I trained here it was fins but paddles on the hands are something else. I’m advised by Clive that you have to put your goggles on first then do the paddles. They certainly make me keep my elbows high and at times seem to have a life of their own but eventually I get the hang of it. There’s time to complete the warm-down in the hot pool afterwards – great for dispersing lactic acid. It’s a very short walk to the ferry but it will take me an hour to get home. Thirty-five minutes on the sea, five minutes walk to the car then twenty minutes drive.

Thursday

I’ve been here a week and have been working away at the raised beds, recovering the gravel which has washed down from the drive-way and begun transplanting native grasses to provide ground cover from other parts of the garden to hold the bank together. My phone still hasn’t come on and I’ve spent most of the morning phoning Vodaphone and trying out the various automated options, none of which are quite appropriate for my particular problem. When I do get through to someone, I’m transferred to extensions which are never answered. I decide that the only solution is to visit the nice man at the store in downtown Auckland.

My friend Rangimoana emails to say he’s on the island, but has the wrong phone number. He’s with relatives and wants to come over. We have lunch, I’ve lit a fire as its cold and we’ve lots to catch up. As its swimming training day and I have to drive my friend to the ferry, I might as well go early and sort the phone out. It’s done in a flash by the nice young man.

Cynthia is the Thursday coach and she’s put on the white board 900m TT 21. I only notice the 900m and get a bit of a shock. We have three lanes tonight and I get put up to lane three, which is another shock. In the end we only do 800 as Cynthia has produced another gadget, a beeping capsule which I fit underneath my bathing cap just above my ear. She’s set mine on 30 and the leaders on 32. This means two strokes per beep and off we go, concentrating on maintaining a steady pace over 8 lengths, 7, 6 etc down to 1. Next we have to set the beepers to 21 and the TT21 for the warm-up becomes clear. This is very hard to go so slowly, but we are concentrating on reducing the number of strokes per length. I recall that Cynthia is very keen on DPS (distance per stroke). As we’ve been going so slowly, a soak in the hot pool suffices as a warm-down. I’ve remembered my padlock but have managed to lock my keys in the locker and so have to borrow the pool bolt-cutters, kept for just such emergencies. Thursday is pub night and we all pile into a bar for beer and chips. Dave the club secretary has been sporting the Out to Swim cap which he acquired in Cologne some years ago. Good to see that it’s still going and promoting the club on the other side of the world. Quite a few of this club have spent time with OTS in the past and Cynthia remembers Dermot.

Thursday attracts all the women in the club who are all very friendly and try to encourage me into open water stuff. They’ve just started their Saturday morning session on Takapuna Beach on the North shore. It’s almost impossible to get there for 8am from Waiheke Island, so I have a great excuse.

There’s a gap in the ferry service. The alternative is to rush my pint -so I wait in the cold.

Triumphs & Tragedy at the ASA National Masters

Triumphs and tragedy with some near misses at the ASA National Masters swimming meet

It’s my last race meeting on this side of the world for at least two years, so it’s a bit of an emotional weekend. I’ve had a fantastic year around Britain (Swansea, Crawley & Barnet Coptal) and Europe (Amsterdam, Prague, Paris, Copenhagen and Barcelona) with my club Out to Swim. There’s been great team support and camaraderie, not to mention adventures and laughs. I’ve a drawer full of medals, but there’s no chance at Sheffield this weekend as all the 60 year-olds have flooded into my age group, not to mention the 62 year-olds who did the same last year. I’ll be happy to maintain my times and by the time I return from New Zealand in two years time and in another age group, there just might be a faint glimpse of a bronze medal.

Lucille & Lizzie after their 1500 Freestyle

Team-mate Michael and I travel up on the train on Friday morning. He’s been ill, away on holiday and hasn’t trained for three weeks. We discuss on the train the advisability of doing the 100m Individual Medley with a chest cough. I’m only doing this event because coach, Martin has decided that I’m a medley swimmer even though I don’t like breaststroke and butterfly is exhausting. By the time we get to Sheffield, Lucile (6^th) and Lizzie (4^th) have already swum the exhausting 1500 freestyle. This event has taken all morning as swimmers’ times range from 45 to 16 minutes and there are15 heats divided between two pools. Lucile says she’s exhausted but looks great.

I should explain. Ponds Forge pool is 50 metres + and for this event is divided by a bridge into to 25m pools. The men swim at the north end and the women at the diving pool end, unless there are mixed heats.

Lizzie & Chris show off out new club gear

I’m always nervous at least until my first event is underway. There’s an empty lane next to me in the 100 IM where Michael should be, but he’s wisely decided, with head coach Michelle’s encouragement, not to do it. As it’s only the second time I’ve swum this event, my time is ok and I’m looking forward to the 50 backstroke. In the mean time, we’ve got to look after three young guys who are competing for the first time ever. It’s so confusing getting into the right place at the right time with no marshals, you just have to get to the blocks your self and if you don’t the starter doesn’t wait. We rally round the new guys getting them to warm up and we take them down to the starting area to make sure they don’t miss out. JT is one such and does a very creditable 100 IM. In the same event, Oscar, improves his time from the Montreal international meet. It’s all going so well, with Lizzie winning gold in the 200 fly but my 50m backstroke is fairly slow. After tea, there’s a personal best in the 100m Freestyle – something I thought would never happen. I have to give new boy, Leo some credit for this. It’s his first race and he’s in the lane next to me. We used to train in the same lane, but lately he’s moved ahead, so I know he’s a bit faster than me. He takes of in a great splash and I keep him in my sight line. He’s swimming faster than he’s ever swum and so am I, albeit several seconds behind – still it’s the right conditions for a PB.

We all go back to near the hotel and try to get into a couple of pizza/pasta restaurants, but they are all fully booked and we can only queue at a noodle bar. It’s carbs we need to stock up on so it blandly serves our purpose. The youngsters are off out looking for a gay club in the city realising that they don’t have any races in the morning. Older and wiser, the rest of us go to bed, certain that they won’t find much of interest here.

First up for me on Saturday is the 400 Freestyle. I’ve done this event only once in 2013 and I’m nervous about counting the 16 lengths as there are no flip boards. I can often loose count around about 12 or 14, but make a concerted effort and come in with another PB. The news on the relay front is not good, however. One of our team has had to withdraw with a shoulder injury – common with swimmers – and we have to put in a substitute into the 4 x 100m freestyle event. In all good faith the team captain the info in 90 minutes before the event, but nothing is ever simple and the rules are 90 minutes before the session, i.e. at 7.30 this morning. There’s no time to relax however as we’ve got Oscar, Lucile and Lizzie to cheer on in the 100m Butterfly.

Michael thinks he will be OK to swim his 100m Breastroke in the afternoon, We can see that it’s a struggle and in the end he’s beaten to a bronze medal by a fraction of a second. Next up we have our three new boys in the 50m Freestyle. They’ve warmed up and we’ve sent them down in good time. Their heat comes up and we can see three empty starting blocks in the middle of the pool where Out to Swim should be. The guys are huddled to one side unable to work out which heat is starting and trying to look at the board, which can’t be seen from underneath. We all start yelling at them as the three whistles have sounded. Suddenly they get the message and scamper to their blocks and are away. Whew!

I’m following this with the 200m Backstroke. This time I only have to count up to 8, but it’s not that easy. I’m in the habit of counting my strokes to the flag and then 4 more before flipping over to turn. For some reason I’m too close to the wall at one end and too far away at the other. By this time I’ve lost count of the lengths and end up doing an extra one. I can see that all the others have stopped and the scoreboard has an F next to my name indicating that I’ve finished. I get out at the other end embarrassed and to the announcement that I am indeed disqualified ‘due to a technical infringement.’ You have to finish a Backstroke race on your back and I’ve flipped over. It’s also my worst time ever, so into the rubbish bin with that race. Now I’ve got to do 50m Backstroke in the 4 x 50 Medley relay. That only requires me to count to 2 and do one turn. I think I can manage that. I sort of make a resolution to do an extra session once a fortnight working on Backstroke. The problem is I just don’t swim it enough. There are loads of disqualifications this weekend, particularly in the Breastroke races. There are also loads of records being broken with award ceremonies going on at every break. There are European and British records falling and at least one world record that I noticed.

The evening session sees JT doing his first ever 50m Butterfly. He makes a very impressive start underwater and has a very good style but it is our Lizzie who makes the splash in this event and she’s grabbed gold in all three Butterfly events and follows this with a 400 Individual Medley. The last swim of the day is the 4 x 50 Freestyle relay which goes like a flash and I do a PB on my section.

Team Captain Tom has had the foresight to book a restaurant tonight so we mull over the day’s events, teasing the new boys about almost missing their race. Even though the clocks go back tonight, I opt for an early night, leaving the youngsters in their quest for nightlife in Sheffield.

Eating is always a problem, a compromise between having enough calories in the tank to race but leaving enough time between eating and swimming. As breakfast doesn’t start at weekends at our hotel, it’s cutting it fine. To make it more complicated they are dividing the warm-ups by age, oldies first. I make it to the end of this session in the main pool just to practice my backstroke turns and then go off to the diving pool to complete my warm-up. The 100m Backstroke goes well. I haven’t done such a good time since last year and I’ve come in 5^th in my age group.

The 50m Breastroke heats are next and we’ve got Michael with his dodgy chest swimming next to one of our new boys, except there is an empty starting block next to him. There’s no sign of our young team mate so we can’t even shout. Michael swims fast and amazes us all with a PB and a bronze medal. Several heats later our missing breaststroker returns from coffee ready to swim. Then there’s a problem with our 4 x 100 medley relay. Michael’s been put into it, but the start sheets have got the combined age of the team wrong and anyway Michael’s not up to swimming 100 metres of any stroke. We briefly consider a substitute but have to abandon the race as we’d only get disqualified.

Most people go home leaving a small band to wait for trains and to compete in the 200m IM and 800m Freestyle. It feels a bit lonely but the 200m IM turns out to be pretty exciting. Oscar slashes more seconds off his previous time and Lizzie wins a silver medal for hers, bringing her medal tally to 3 gold and 2 silver – her best ever Nationals. I’m bringing up the rear guard, being the only Out to Swimmer in the 800m Freestyle. I’ve come to like this event and feel less exhausted at the end than doing 100m dashes. I’ve also done another PB – that’s 4 in total, all in Freestyle. The message is clear; I’ve got to do some work on the backstroke. Now it’s just hanging around waiting for our train. I never get the timing right and it costs a fortune to change your time of travel, so time for a well deserved glass of wine, or two.