It’s a Friday in early July, 8.30am, Central Otago’s sky just beginning to lighten, the air temperature at -2°C and every puddle and pond plate-glassed with ice. Down at the water’s edge, competitors, bystanders, helpers, medicos and supporters have gathered in a small canvas village, all clothed in hefty, full-length coats or hooded puffer jackets, wool gloves and tasselled beanies: it’s the ice swimming championships, run by the International Ice Swimming Association Aotearoa NZ, in the 3.5°C chill of St Bathans’ Blue Lake.
Thirty-nine competitors have come from Auckland, Tauranga, Wellington, and Nelson, to qualify for the world ice swimming champs next year. One at a time, with the lakeside crowd clapping, shouting and cheering every entry, they head for the far end of the lake. Newcomers are attempting a shorter course, either 50 or 250 metres. Others, the more experienced, will do a kilometre or 1.6km: “the Ice Mile”.
First in the water at 8.30am is the popular Omar, a handsome, stubbled IT expert from Wellington. Embraced by his proud wife, he has no wetsuit (the rules don’t allow wetsuits), no Vaseline (rules again), only goggles against the elements. There is a bright floating buoy attached around his waist. He looks unconcerned, confident even. He windmills his arms to loosen up before striding into the monochrome grey chill of the lake.
The shoreline chorus cheers: “Go Omar!” “You can do this Omar!” “You’ve got this, Omar!” “It’s just there and back Omar!”
He is doing the Ice Mile swim today. Omar has already swum Cook Strait and Foveaux, too, and represented New Zealand at the world champs in France last summer. One more day at the office, this, accompanied by a puttering safety boat just in case …
Corrina is next, something of a heroine in this company. She’s draped in a weighty woollen duffel coat waiting her turn. In her other life she’s a librarian and cellist. She swims with the “Washing Machines” sea swimming group in Wellington Harbour most mornings before work – but that’s much warmer than the Blue Lake. More like 12°C.
Just a few months ago, she swam Foveaux Strait in nine hours. She tried Cook Strait once and failed, so did it again and succeeded. " Her regular swim buddy Rebecca has done the “Double Taupō” – the full length of the lake and back again without stopping. 80km. She has that to look forward to as well.
What does Corrina think about while swimming these lunatic distances in frigid water? “Not a lot,” she replies. But usually she counts to 100, then counts to 100 again, then counts to another 100 until the end. Over and over and over. But on the Foveaux Strait swim she composed a letter to David Attenborough telling him of an odd, yellow fish she’d just seen. The human brain does weird things in extremis.
On Sunday, the third day of the championship, a grey fog rolled in over the lake as a female swimmer was lifted from the water and urgently bundled into the recovery tent with suspected secondary drowning. It occurs when the facial muscles are so numb the swimmer can’t close their mouth, so frigid water seeps in and slowly fills the lungs. The victim is too desensitised to be aware of much, except that they’re gradually going under. A First Responder vehicle raced in, bearing fluoro-vested helpers and all manner of revival instruments, and the swimmers who were next up paced around, with understandable anxiety evident. A worrying wait for a helicopter, tents scattered in the downdraft chaos, then an airlift to Queenstown, admiring colleagues applauding her departure. She was later reported to be fine.
All morning, each morning, for four days they continue. There’s a break at lunchtime, then more intrepid souls plunge in through the afternoon. Most competitors are women, middle aged. The youngest – and fastest – is a 17-year-old lad, as thin as a pipe cleaner. Every swimmer talks of the endorphin benefits lasting all day, once they know they’ve survived. It’s all about the personal challenge, and survival. Facing down the hard stuff. Mind over matter … think about your style … breathe in, blow out … don’t think about the cold.
“It’s all up here,” says Omar, tapping his forehead. “The top four inches. You get used to it with practice.” Those breezy Wellington dawns, before work.
The recovery tent is busy, hotties strapped to numbed bodies. Five doctors are in attendance. The outdoor gas heaters glow, the oil drums blaze away between the flax and toetoe, even when the tepid sun gets up over the ridge some hours into the morning. Very personal battles are being waged, private enemies defeated. How much can you take, on your own, when you can’t feel anything any more, out in the Blue Lake in the middle of winter?
“You’ve got this, Corrina!” “You can do it, Michelle!” “Great swim, Aileen!” “It’s only there and back, Omar!”
Sir Grahame Sydney is a Central Otago-based artist and writer.
