Harbour Crossing, Auckland, Sunday, November 25, 2007
Decorum on a breezy harbour
Studies in dialectical development

Visiting New Zealand for a weekend provides, if you're interested in this kind of thing, a compelling demonstration of how dialects develop.

"Uhs thet Jull on the line wuth a sighting of J'st'n T'mb'rl'k?" said the d'sk j'ckay.

"Yis", s'd J'll.

It’s said of New Zealanders that they’ve lost all their vowels. To which New Zealanders respond to us hubristic Stray’ans, "We’ll find our vowels, when you find your consonants."

Quite.

Now, begging, ... er, bagging, Kiwi accents is the easiest thing to do, particularly for hecks, ... er, hacks like us, and we are not into that. Not for us such a facile, glib cop-out. Indeed, we take a more intellectual approach. We use the example above as just thet, ... er, that: en exarmple. First, you get a whole lot of coves pronouncing sounds differently from the mainstream, in this case, New Zealanders saying things differently from world benchmarks -- which is us, for we Aussies are the world standard setters in English pronunciation, particularly now that the BBC insists no longer on the Queen's English, and we're going to become a republic soon, anyway -- then eventually, when they've been doing that for a hundred years or so, these people start writing them down differently and -- Voila! -- you have a dialect! Much like Dutch is to German; Portugese to Spanish; Bislama (pidgin) to English itself. (Perhaps the Kiwi dialect is itself a form of Bislama?)

Lemmings.

You would think, in a day and age of international air travel and deeply discounted air fares, that accents wouldn't vary that much across borders any more, since there is now much more interaction, and cross-fertilisation on Friday nights after work, amongst peoples of different persuasions than there was, say, 50 years ago. After all, oceanswims.com went to Auckland for the weekend for the Auckland Harbour Crossing, whereas 50 years ago, we'd have thought twice about it. The alternative was Perth.

Some of our best friends are Kiwis, of course, and we are used to dealing in Bislama Kiwi. Or we thought we were. Dealing with them in New Zealand is very different to dealing with them in Stray'a. For one thing, when Kiwis come to Stray'a, they feel compelled to enunciate like us to fit in. Much like a friend of ours did in the US many years ago. Within hours of arriving in New York, he'd contrived a New York accent, ordering a "dog, but hold de mayo", claiming to our raised eyebrows that he couldn't help himself because of all the New Yorkers around him.

In New Zealand, there is no relief. Everywhere you turn, people are speaking in Kiwi Bislama, which, amongst their own, is such a thick strain of English that one is constantly stopping subconsciously to process what they -- that is, we -- hear in order to translate it in our inner monologue. Some things come more easily than others. "Yis", for example, came to us finally and makes some sense in its dialetical context. It means, in Stray'an, "Yes". Like "Si" (Italian) is to "Oui" (French).

Another one is more perplexing: "Ollblek". What is "ollblek"? From the context in which we heard it, it seems to signify some person of superior rank or standing in the community, almost mystical, legendary. Like Alan Jones in Stray'a. Or Macca. A member of the Privy Council, perheps. They still have knights in New Zealand, so maybe "Ollblek", capitalised, is some rank in the New Zealand Order of the Silver Fern. We heard it many times during our weekend in Auckland, and we still are perplexed by it, although we were able to identify one person tagged with this honorific: someone called Ian Jones. He was a very tall, athletic looking fellow who swam across Auckland Harbour with us, and 1,250 other punters, on Sunday, November 25.

Off to the starting line. It's about 125 metres out into the harbour. Check the pano above for what this place looked like the day before at low tide.

Ah, yes, the Auckland Harbour Crossing. That's why we were there, hanging about around the bars of Viaduct Harbour in Auckland, familiar to us as the place where we transected all our business with local meeja during a four day visit to Auckland, as a fleck, not a heck, in 2000. Later, the wharf bars were the scene of the tragic death of a Melbourne rugby league club football manager, who, after a game against the Warriors, dived off the wharf into the harbour, except that where he was standing on the wharf was above a concrete pontoon. The poor bugger died. It was truly tragic.

We checked the weather forecast the day before we left for New Zealand and it said it would be coolish on the Friday, rainy on the Saturday, and nice on the Sunday, the day of the swim. So we packed a jumper and a rain jacket, together taking up 2/3 of the volume and the weight of our luggage. But just as well. Friday was cool, as the forecast had predicted, Saturday was rainy and cool almost to the point of sleety, then Sunday, cool in the morning, turned into the most magnificent of days, easily the most glorious of the four occasions on which this swim has been run, according to organiser Scott Rice.

We had two cobbers who'd travelled to Auckland from Sydney to do this swim -- LeaRoy from Swan Hill: thet’s two cobbers, not one: Lea Hill and Roy Swan. We hung out a bit together over the course of the weekend, including, on Saturday, catching the double-ended ferry from Auckland across the harbour to Devonport -- because it's a double-ended, blunt-ended ferry, it always looks surrealistically as if it's going backwards. Devonport is sort of like Sausalito is to San Francisco. We wanted to scout the start at Stanley Bay.

Stanley Bay is a kilometre or so from Devonport ferry wharf. You walk along the waterfront to HMNZS Philomena, which is the HQ of the New Zealand navy. Seriously, what warrior nation could be intimidated by a navy whose headquarters is named Philomena? For some reason, they wouldn’t let us wander through Philomena, however, along the waterfront to Stenley Bay. So we detoured up the hill and along Calliope Rd.

The foot of Stenley Bay is just along the way. We got there early afternoon, at dead low tide, when Stenley Bay was mudflats running out into the harbour for a hundred metres or so from a steeply sloping beach. At the nadir of the beach, when the "send" turned into mud and bedrock, the border between the two was marked by a line of broken glass and rubbish. "Be careful tomorrow, LeaRoy," we enunciated clearly to our cobbers. "The tide will be up, but make sure you start swimming as soon as you ken!" See, already, the locals are affecting us. "Don’t put your feet down!"

Stending on the park above the bay, we looked across the harbour to Auckland. ‘t was cold, wundy, and the sea breeze – Auckland is at the narrowest point on the North Island, so nerrow thet ‘v’ry breeze ‘s a sea breeze – whupped up a swill thet broke ‘n sits along the m’dflets. We wore our rain jackets. Lea whupped her hood over her hid. Roy peddled in the harbour (w’th h’s fit). W’thout our rain gear – we’d been too tough to br’ng ‘t – we h’ddled ‘n the lee of the p’bl’c d’nny ‘n the park. We’d trudged down to the water, to gauge it’s temperature, but the air was so cold, the w’nd so blik, thet the water s’mplay filt warmer then the air. Ut d’dn’t augur will.

We’d heard some startling things about this swim in the previous few hours, however. At check in that morning, we’d been given our race number, our chip tag, and a wave number. They wrote the race number on our right hand, the wave number on our left. To LeaRoy, however, they described it as a "contingency" number. We were nonplussed. Where we’d been lid to believe at chick’n thet we’d be in wave five, LeaRoy understood that waves would apply only if there were problems. Lest year, we’d heard, they’d sent off 900-off swummers in one wave. Say what! 900-odd swummers in one wave.

Thus year, there were supposed to be 1250 swummers plenning ter cross Auckland Harbour. Surely they’d run thim ‘n waves…

We ran a detail of this pic above. Why? Because we never fail to be amazed at the stress that punters put themselves under with their stroke, including us. Check out the pic above for better geek at the technique, but the poor lovie is twisting her body, spreading her legs, twisting her arms and shoulders, and generally tying herself up in knots. It must have been an ordeal across the harbour. We don't publish this to be critical or to make fun of the lady in question. Rather, we hope all you punters take note that a better technique will make you all better swimmers, easier swimmers and more comfortable swimmers. That means you can go faster, and you can enjoy your swimming more.

Next morning – it had bin iliction night ‘n Stray’a, and we hadn’t bin able to git ter bid ‘nt’l arfter the former Prime Minister hed conceded. We fell asleep shortly after 1, NZ time, before rising at 5, NZ time, ter catch the 6.10am firry across ter the start. Thus was par fer the course fer ‘s, however. In our day jobs – which we’ve been urged constantly by well-meaning friends never to give up – we rise customarily at 5 or 4.30am, depending upon where we’d fallen asleep the night before. Whilst we were used to early hours, we also were used to injoyung a nep on Friday afternoon, or Sat’dy et the virry list. No such luck here, where there was so much new territory to scout. After Stanley Bay, we headed back to Devonport, where we discovered a bright, vibrant, very trendois luttle shopping centre, where we hed l’nch end shopped. Whereas Lea pucked up some noice (slupping ‘ter Stray’an) pants and a tea bag tray, we popped into en entiks store and pucked ‘p a centin of c’tleray. Bone handled st’ff, whuch w’d bin look’ng fer for a while. We got virtually a full sit, including a full sit of fush knives, table spoons, carving forks and bread knife, in a solid wooden case, fer $NZ85 whuch on the exchange rate et the time of writing was around $A74. We copped thet.

It made packing for the journey home another issue entirely, but we copped that, too.

The 6.10 am ferry was pecked with sombre swummers, early fer all of them. Most of them in witties, although not much laughter was heard. The organisers encourage witties as a safety measure, for the cold. We were curious as to the water temp we’d find, but not too apprehensive, ever since we did the winter pier to pub at Lorne in July, when the water temp was 12. After that, we reckoned we could handle anything that Sydney could throw at us, perhaps even Auckland.

We had over an hour to wait for the start, too, on arrival at Stanley Bay. Amongst the first there. LeaRoy and we took over a bus shelter with glass walls, hoping to charge other swummers admission in the cool, cutting breeze that was blowing at that time of the morning. Some approached us, refused to pay, and we let them in.

The crowd gathered. Portaloos got a workout, although no sign of Kenny, more’s the pity. Regular announcements from Mr Rice, directing, advising, never intrusive, always helpful and clear, in stark contrast to some of the event announcers we’ve experienced. Rice was good, though. Helpful and present, but not overwhelming. Ranks up there with the announcer at the Dawny to Cockatoo Island swim, Rob Duckworth, a professional announcer on Sydney radio. Rob has a lovely, mellifluous voice, is helpful, informative, witty when the opportunity presents, but never overwhelming or omnipresent. Meeja turned up, too, et Stenley Bay. "En announcement fer the meeja …" said Rice through his migaphone. "Kane Redford w’ll be stending in front of ther briffing position in ther park fer ‘nterviews …"

After the swim, LeaRoy from Swan Hill joined us for gelato on the wharf on Auckland Harbour.

Start time came. We were briffed. 1,250 swimmers all off go? Yis, indiddy! Over the road ter the bay. Tide was up. Very up. So up, in fect, thet the harbour was half way up the sea wall. Rather than tip-toeing gingerly down the beach towards the mud, rock and broken glass, the peloton slipped on its beckside down the sloping flagstones of the wall and straight into the harbour. Like lemmings over the cluff. We took some pics of them, braced ourselves, pressed the Start button on our GPS-in-a-prophylactic, perched on our heads, and plunged, through the detritus, the flotsam of the high tide on a stiff sou’-easterly breeze caught against the sea wall, into Auckland Harbour.

It was bracing, indeed, but nothing uncomfortable. oceanswims.com was one of maybe a dozen mugs sans witties. At this temp, maybe 17deg C, we couldn’t understand why there weren’t more of them nude, like us, except for the organisers encouragement, for safety reasons, which we understand entirely. Particularly amongst the big fet worn out old mugs demographic. Like us. The ones thet kerry their witties with them always, built in.

So there we were, bobbing around in the harbour at high tide, dstopping for a picfac on our way to the start line, which was about 150 metres offshore. A curiously short start line, given the 1,250 eejits about all to all start off go. But what we’d heard would happen, did happen. That is, that punters seemed to be aware of their relative speeds, for all things are relative, and they spread out, as you will see from the accompanying pics from the oceanswims.com Brownie Starflash-in-a-plastic bag, reminding us more than ever of Dylan Thomas’s evocative line about the "fishing boat bobbing sea". As far as we could tell, they spread out realistically, most of them not prepared to get right onto the starting line, for the melee that would ensue when the gun went. So when the gun did go, the melee still happened, but it was 2,500 threshing arms spread all around Stenley Bay. A sight indeed!

We took off, too. Being back a bit, we found ourselves never in a crush, although there was a bit of threading to do. But everyone seemed polite, everyone seemed occupied by their own efforts. It was one of the most courteous pelotons in which we'd joined …
Goodness, we go on sometimes. The bottom line is that this was a terrific swim. You wouldn’t have thought so, with all 1,250 all off go, but the field spread out courteously and generously. The water was fine, albeit murky. Not as clear even as Sydney Harbour at Cockatoo Island the weekend before. And we swam with a brisk sou’-easter slapping us in the face at about 10:30am, ie just to the east of straight ahead, just enough to make breathing to the left difficult. We breathed to the right, until we got about 2/3 of the official 2.8km across when we started to come into the lee of the city sea front and the wharves, the wind dropped and the chop it whipped up dissipated. Then we started breathing to the left, too, and found that, after all that distance breathing right, it was like starting afresh with new muscle groups. We thought we could see the bottom most of the way across, shadowy, faintly down there below us through the muddy, estuarine water. We didn’t see that many other swimmers, which is what tends to happen in journey swims, particularly those in a straight line with a current running across, left to right, dragging the mob westwards just a little. Despite the chop, the water was flat, though, with little swell and no backwash to speak of, with the harbour authorities banning boats on the harbour whilst the swim proceeded.
One thing we weren’t keen on was the finishing run around Viaduct Harbour. It’s where all the pleasure boats berth and, like any stretch of water like that, in the back of your mind is all the sea life probably hanging about there, typically of the blind mullet variety. It’s not for nothing that parts of the Broadwater on the Gold Coast are known, for example, as Poo Bay. The water quality dropped off in Viaduct Harbour, although it afford some otherwise nice reaches from the harbour proper to the finish, and some good spectator positions, especially around the finishing area in front of O’Hagans Pub.
And the finishing arrangements also left a little to be desired, with a metal ladder at the end suspended over the side of a pontoon, up which one clambers, much like a pirate, onto the pontoon, thence to run up the gangway to the timing pads at the top. As the colourful Killer said at Tweed River the same day: ”This is a swim, not a run. The swim finishes at the flags (in the water).” Rushing up a wet ladder, basically an aluminium pipe frame, is slippery and dangerous, as were parts of the pontoon deck and the gangway.

But that’s not to criticise. This event was without a doubt the most completely organised, best run event in which we’ve participated, particularly of the larger swim events. Organiser Scott Rice left little to chance, such as the presentations, which were scripted to the point even of briefing the crowd. But it wasn’t an anal scripting: he’d just thought of how it should run, and he got the crowd in to co-operate.

And the weather turned it on, too. After the cool, early brisk breeze, it turned into a warm, balmy glorious spring day around the Viaduct Harbour, the kind of day that makes you, after trying hard for 2.8km across the harbour, feel good to be alive, and wholesome after the morning’s efforts. There was a terrific feel to this swim, a positive, friendly culcha. It was great to be a part of it.

He didn't crash and die. He faked it. And he travelled to New Zealand where he took up the career of which he'd long dreamt, but for his pushy mother and father. On Calliope Rd, Devonport, a legend lives on.

Everyone asks us about the water temp. When we emerged at Viaduct Harbour, we got some neighbouring punter to check our watch, which has a thermometre on it in characters of such a size that we, personally, can't read it. They told us it said 19 deg C, which is eminently acceptable. We reckon it was a little colder at the start on the north shore. Maybe 17 deg C. Still not uncomfortable for fat geezers like us. We reckon, after doing the winter pier to pub at Lorne (nothing at all to do with Lorne SLSC or with their major event, the Pier to Pub, except that it follows the same course), where the water temp was 12 deg C, we can handle anything Sydney or Auckland can throw at us.

Another discordant note: someone got clocked rounding the first booey inside Viaduct Harbour. The offender was an enormously, enormously overweight, ugly mug with something stuffed into a prophylactic on the top of his head. As he neared the booey, finding himself having to shift right, his right arm came over swingeing and clocked the back of the head of the innocent, inoffensive punter next to him. On the offender’s behalf, we apologise. It was entirely accidental and unintentional. We … er, he didn’t mean it. And we ..., er, he apologises.

The Auckland Harbour Crossing also was the first in the 5-race Sovereign NZ Swim Series. Later, it travels to Wellington, Christchurch, then back to Auckland for two swims, ending with the King of the Bays swim along Auckland’s eastern bays in April.

Click here for more info, and get yourself over there, if you’re not there already. There’s a great feel about this event. Well done, yourself, Scott Rice, and all you Aucklanders and other Kiwis who made it such as fun, good natured day.

Not. In Auckland, we heard a cute story from Roy Swan. Over in France, they reckon the best game of the world cup is the play off for 7th and 8th places. It's called the Bledisloe Cup.

SERIES WEBSITE AND RESULTS (CLICK ABOVE)