swimming to rottnest

7/28/2019 Swimming to Rottnest

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Swimming to Rotto

By Sharon Mascall, Adelaide.

On February 21 2009, 38 year old BBC journalist Sharon Mascall swam solo to

Rottnest Island, 19.2k off the coast of Perth in Western Australia. This is her story.

From Perth to Brisbane, it is the stuff of legend. Those who make the distance, brave

the surf and walk, or stagger, those final few steps are treated like heroes. Rotto is

swimmings rite of passage. And I wanted to pass the test. Badly.

It didnt help being a Pom. There were the jokes aboutbreaststrokers and women in

frilly caps. Ive been told a hundred timesthat Australia invented the crawl and

Poms cannot swim. But swimming to Rottnest Island, 19.2 ks off the coast of Western

Australia, would prove them wrong. This was more than a rite of passage. It was my

ticket to becoming Australian.

Training started in February 2008. I have Angus Netting to thank for thata fellow

swimmer from Adelaide who had tried it before. When I met him five days after the

2008 Rottnest Channel Swim in February, his forehead was peeling, red and sore.

I started late and they pulled me out just short of 15 ks, he said, visibly exhausted.

And Im sunburnt. I still cant believe it. All over, after 15 ks.

But Angus wasnt giving up. He showed me his swim diary. An impressive excel

spreadsheet with different colours and numbers that made me feel weak. Angus was

swimming 30k a week. I was swimming one tenth of that. I had to lift my game.

And so I started. First, 8 kilometres a week and weights at the gym. My strategy was

to make training part of my life and develop a routine. Within weeks I had it. Three 2-

3k swims a week, plus a session at the gym.

In September, I increased the load. At the Adelaide Aquatic Centre, now my regular

Thursday afternoon haunt, I braved my first 5k.

Id found a way of beating the clock, or so I thought. I would swim up and back, 25m

after 25 m and watch the seconds tick by on the giant black and white dial. My target

was to make 50m in less than a minute and bank the seconds saved. Every 1k or so,Id stop for a rest and use those seconds, like a child saving cents for an ice cream.

That first 5k left me dizzy. I came out of the water with a light head and heavy feet.

But it was a start. To make it to Rottnest Island, I would have to swim the same

distance four times over. With a strong current against me, the distance could be even

longer.

In October, I found myself in Perth as part of a BBC World Service assignment

investigating the illegal trade in Australian wildlife. After wielding anonymous calls

from disgruntled smugglers, I escaped to Cottesloe, on the coast, just west of Perth

CBD. Id imagined it dozens of times. I knew the stories.


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When I stood on those rocks above the beach, the night before the swim, I looked

across at the island, Jenny Bradley had told me. Jenny is one of the fast-laners with

Atlantis AUSSI Mastersmy swim club - whod swum the channel before. When I

saw it, I just knew it. I could do it, shed said.

I had to do a Jenny. One false move, on that drive from Fremantle to Cottesloe andI could blow it. I twisted the peak on my cap as I drove north so that I couldnt look to

the left. No, not yet. It had to be right. The first time I saw the island I had to know I

could swim it. I couldnt risk a glimpse.

Finally, I indicated left. The road rose up before me and I knew Id have a clear view

from the top. So I drove. Up. And then I saw it. On the horizon, a perfect line of pines

and a stroke of sand. The deal was done.

I made myself jump in that day. I took to the green water and followed the surf life

savers as they ploughed up and down. At one point I imagined I was swimming it

the real Rotto, and not just playing around. I felt myself smile as I swam. Even if thatfeeling only lasted a few minutes on the day, it would be enough. This was going to

be the experience of a lifetime: more than just a swim.

That night I met my boat driver Neville, his wife Susie and their daughter Josie for the

first time. I could see he was a kindred spirit. He felt the same way about boats as I

did about swimming. Its in my blood, he said. My dad was in the navy and Ive

always been around boats. Boats are what I do.

His words didnt say it all. His face, wrinkled by the sun, broke into a broad smile.

This was a man who knew the sea. He also said he could get me to Rottnest in a

straight line.

On my return to Adelaide, the training got serious. Five kilometres were now my

norm with longer swims in the ocean every Sunday. The early summer seas between

Seacliff and Brighton in Adelaide were cold and rough. I wore a wetsuit the first time

and rubbed the skin from the back of my neck, leaving two painful burns.

There were times when I did not want to swim. There were times when I also

couldnt. In November, I flew back to the UK to turn the wildlife smugglers into a

radio programme and spend time with my Nan, who was dying of cancer.

We spent days by her electric fire as her breath slowed and I watched her hollow

cheeks tense in pain. I only made it to the pool three times in the ten days I was there.

But it didnt matter. I took Nan out in her wheelchair and gave her sharp tongue its

last taste of freedom.

Got any sprats? she asked at the supermarket. Im in a bloody wheelchair cant

yoursee, she said inPoundland, the UKs answer to a dollar shop. My family found

her impossible but I treasured her moods, her anger, her strength. She was growing

weaker. We said goodbye and I promised to return in March. It was the last time I saw

her.


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I returned to Australia with sadness, but found the sea warmer. The break from

training had done me good. I took comfort from Becanother Rotto alumnus in my

club. Never have a week out of the water, she said. Id missed six days of training

during my UK trip, not seven. I could even afford to have another few days off when

a chest infection hit: the legacy of long-haul travel.

Once Id recovered, there could be no excuses. On December 22, I wanted to swim

10k and qualify for Rotto as a solo swimmer. The target set by the organising

committee was 4 hours 15. I had to get back in the sea. And stay there.

To give myself a base, I swam it first in the pool. For four weeks straight, I averaged

20-23k a week, swimming between 6 and 10k most sessions. It was tough but worth

it. On December 22, at Noarlunga Reefchosen carefully after shark sightings at

BrightonI swam 10k in 3 hours 26, with the help of club friends Jodie, Mika and

Craig, my coach who swam beside me with a bucket to slow him down.

Christmas was spent with friends in Sydney, swimming laps between wooden planksat Balmoral beach, and January was in Singapore where I was teaching journalism for

the University of South Australia, my two children in tow. The day before we flew up,

the news came through. My Nan had only three days to live. It was a hard, hard time.

Swimming was not a priority. My children, my Nan and my work were more pressing

as I fought to protect them all. Id spoken to Nan, just before I left for Singapore and

she was breathless on the phone. She coughed and gasped, just wanting to be better.

Then, the morphine kicked in. On January 13, she died.

The last thing I wanted to do was swim. But I did, gently and slowly as my children

slept and I recovered from late nights at work. It gave me time to think and feel the

water on my skin. It was the one thing I could do that felt normal.

On my return to Adelaide, the pressure started to build. I had a 12k, a 15k and the

annual charity Mega Swim at Unley Pool to complete. I also had to touch base with

Nev, my boat driver, to make sure his preparations were going OK.

The 12k on Australia Day was an easy ride through glassy water and crowds playing

frisbee. My legs felt the heat as the sun soared to 42 degrees. I noticed my reactions as

I clocked up the ksthe first 3 were easy, the next 6 were hard, the last three were

easy. The 10k mark was a turning point: once passed, swimming became easier.

With that in mind I completed 15k two weeks before Rotto, with the help of Ruth,

Jodie, Craig, Yvonne and a dozen or so other swimmers from my club. The

atmosphere was upbeat as we ploughed up and down the now all too familiar Seacliff

to Brighton drag. The white house, Edward Street, the mustard house, the surf club. I

knew them all intimately, in all weathers. I was getting tired of them. It was time for

the real thing.

On Friday February 20, I flew to Perth with my husband Paul. Our first stop was

Cottesloe Surf Club, for the briefing held for interstate and international swimmers.

The weather would be perfectthey saidan easterly, followed by a glass-off and


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little or no sea breeze. We expected the best. And made our preparations for the next

day.

Irritated by a cold from the Mega Swimwhere Id covered 14k the weekend before -

I went to bed at Nevs place armed with pseudoephedrine and a night-time flu tablet.

It was the best medicine. I slept soundly and woke at four ready to swim. I put on mybathers, grabbed my wool fat and goggles and drove to the beach.

It was dark when I arrived. The sea was an inky black with a few paddlers thrown in. I

queued for my time-band, slopped on my wool fat and daubed every crease with

Vaseline.

Its going to hurt, said Julie, on the start line. Julie was from Manly surf club in

Sydney and had swum to Rotto four times before. Your hip will hurt, but after ten

minutes itll be something else, she said. Youll get there. Eventually.

The line up was ghostly and intimidating. Some had pure white faces and torsos;others were painted in fluorescent shades of zinc. We looked like ancient warriors,

painted and ready for battle. With grim faces and black bathers the women blended

into men as the start exposed shoulders, scars and skin. We looked out to sea and saw

nothing but waves. The distant pines of Rottnest Island were now just a memory.

As we set out, some raced ahead. My aim was to make it to the 1000m mark, meet

Nevs boat, and not get disqualified for failing to find him. It was a challenge. The

ocean was a flotilla of boats, skis and paddlers. Then I spotted his green hull, with my

husband Paul up front. But they could not see me.

At the 1000m buoy the race officials boat sped up. Are you looking for your boat?

they asked, Yes all green, I replied. They raced off and found Nev. Within

minutes we were on our way, swimming out to the first buoy: 10k away.

I had rehearsed the race in my mind. Everyone says it is mental, not physical. I could

not contemplate 20ks, so I had broken it down. Meet Nev. Swim 6. Make it to 10 and

be halfway. Feel strong to 15. Enjoy the final run.

Julie was right, but not quite. Unexpectedly my hip did start to hurt, and early on. It

had never caused trouble beforemy shoulders had felt the pressure. But it did not

stop. It nagged all the way.

The first 6ks were hard. The jellyfish barbed my face, my armpits and my neck. It

hurt but I took comfort from Jenny Bradleys words. Every time the jellyfish stung

me, Id imagine they were giving me energy, she said. It didnt work. I lost count of

the stings and the white blobs that passed beneath my eyes.

Finally, we made it to a row of giant ships anchored 6k off-shore. I tried to eat but

choked on a muesli bar. It had worked during training but not out here. There was

nowhere to stand, nothing to hold onto and seawater filled my nose whenever I tried

to chew. Muesli bars were out. Powerade and sports gels were the only way to go.


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The 10k buoy arrived around the four-hour mark. I felt strong even though Id hoped

to get there sooner. Theres acurrent, said Paul. The other boats are being blown

2-3k south. I knew what he meant. Every time we stopped, I had to swim to the side

of the boat to get back on track. Nev was struggling to hold me, on a straight line.

From 10 to 14ks I had a rush of energy. I was mesmerised by Sea TV thescreensaver of jellyfish passing slowly beneath my eyes above a clear view of the

ocean floor. I could see rays, schools of fish and clumps of seagrass. I could swim

the English Channel, I thought. But, when I broke the news to the crew, they were

not so keen.

You havent even got to bloody Rotto yet, said Nev. He thought I was joking. But I

could tell that the sailor in him liked the idea.

Within minutes, I came to regret my words. Once we passed 15k, I began to struggle.

My shoulders acheddespite the Neurofen I had taken halfwayand I was starting

to get confused. I could see the island and its beaches, but it was not getting anycloser. I could not work out why.

Later Nev explained. The current had blown us off course and we had around 800m to

make up. As a result, for a time, we had swum parallel to the shore. Other swimmers

had done the same for around 2-3k. I had been lucky.

The final run was messy. Nev and Paul said they had to leave but boats filled the

closing channel, ignoring the rules. They stuck with me as I struggled to find my way.

My shoulders were tired. My mind boggled. I expected to see buoys and flags but

none came.

Finally, Nevs boat peeled off and I followed a paddler with his swimmer. With a

final burst of strength my shoulders rallied and I pulled past them, through the choppy

water. I rounded a corner and the finish was in sight. The jetty, the flags, the crowds,

the noise. I was there. I was going to make it.

I did two duck dives as a tribute to my triathlon days and stood on firm ground for the

first time in over eight hours. Id made it, in eight hours and 46 minutes, the 35th

woman to do so that day. Dozens didnt make it. I walked up the beach, accompanied

by a volunteer. Whats your name? Where are you from? Are you OK?

Strangers kissed me at the finish line and told me they were proud. Only later that day

as we sped back to Fremantle on Nevs boat - did I fully appreciate how far Id

swum. It was the day I earned the right to call myself a swimmer. And, Im proud to

say, an Australian.

swimming to rottnest

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