With a short, short week, some of us had already mentally clocked off to holiday mode, feet up, brain gone, and dignity optional. Luckily, Janice was on hand to deliver a firm metaphoric slap out of my sun-drenched delusion and back into the Rylock reality. With six sessions left in the series, 109 salty legends hurled themselves into the brine to take on Brendan’s impression of Hunt for the Wilderpeople – a course so twisty that after a few turns and flips you’re no longer sure if you’re white, green, red, orange, or just emotionally beige. Temperatures continue to decline as are the number of wetsuit-less willing swimmers, but hold tight the best is yet to come. Again again, a big beautiful hug and squish to the volunteers, whom we owe our very lives and perhaps some of our insanity, and Rylock who continue to support this motley crew of rubber bodied, salt-soaked, maniacs – for reasons no one fully understands – but we’re far too grateful to question it!
On the ameboid shaped 1100m shaped long course – clearly designed after Brendan sniffed too many whiteboard markers –the wetsuit warriors came out swinging withEddie Swain absolutely streaking it (but avoiding an arrest) in a time of 16:26.2, taking the rubber crown. Just eight seconds back, Tegen Stewart clearly didn’t get the memo about taking it easy, storming home in 16:34.6 . In the togs-only torture division, James Boocock claimed non-wetsuit honours in 17:55.1, while Jude Vincent was hot on his speedo tail in 21:41.8, proving that neoprene is optional but stubbornness is compulsory.
Over in the more sensible ovoid 400m short course, things were no less spicy – just shorter and with less time to regret your life choices. Rodney Hansen owned the non-wetsuit race in 12:57.3, with no women keen enough to take on the short non-swimsuit course this time, so he had the “free and freezing” bragging rights all to himself. In the wetsuit smackdown, Ardan Warner cracked the magic sub-10 with 9:59.1, while Chloe Styles was hot on his heels in 10:06.0. Those two basically turned the 400m into a high-speed washing machine, and the leaderboard is now as stable as a three legged dog on ice.
As the water gets colder, and the courses get “mysteriously longer”, and the excuses get more creative, one thing’s certain: you lot will keep turning up, keep battling the tide, and keep arguing with your watches. See you next time – and remember, The dash to the line is like backing out of the driveway late: you didn’t really plan it, you’re going too fast, and you’re just hoping nothing’s in the way. Ka kite!
