By David

I’ve been in a boxing ring twice. My career ended 1:1, both decisions coming as the result of a knockout. The first rumble was part of my initiation as a third former (freshman) at Wellington College. For American readers, “college” in New Zealand means high school. I was a Firth House boarder which allowed more time for harsher and more prolonged initiation rituals, all aimed at inflicting pain or humiliation or both. My task was to fight Brian, the biggest fifth former (junior classman) in the school, an expert rugby player and never beaten at boxing. Witnesses to the event told me that my predecessors had survived best by taking a few hits until their nose or some other site started to bleed. They had then fallen over and begged for mercy. They said that I would be well advised to do the same thing.

I am unsure whether or not I agreed with their plan. The idea of taking the first few hits had very little appeal. Anyway, on the first Friday of school I was taken to the Aero Club where most initiation ceremonies were performed. Gloves were fitted and a bell rang. Brian advanced across the ring. He was huge, muscles everywhere, my death in his eyes. I closed my eyes. Better not, I thought, bear witness to my passing. In a final act of defiance I swung my right arm as hard as I could.

I’m told it was the Aero Club’s best and cleanest punch. I’m told it landed square in the middle of Brian’s perfect face. I’m told Brian crumpled to the floor on his muscle bound bottom, clutching at the blood spurting from his aristocratic nose. I’m told this because I still had my eyes tightly closed waiting for Brian’s assault. When I did look, Brian was on the floor surrounded by distressed sycophants, concerned at how they would repair their hero so the teachers would not know. None of them spoke to me, afraid that their conversation may be taken as approval for what had just taken place. I took my gloves off and left determined to convey the impression of “no problem, just another day’s work”.

I’ve mentioned Kahui and Donald on Swimwatch before. They were my Te Reinga mates. We hunted together, swam together and ran cross country together. We had our share of success, winning the provincial high school team cross country championship, earning good money from selling deer and wild pigs and I swam for Hawkes Bay and won an Auckland provincial (state) championship. One activity we did not share was their passion for boxing. They were good; both New Zealand junior gold medalists. They trained most nights in the Pohataroa Station (farm) shearing shed. It was two miles from our homes. I used to run up there and do their dry-land and weight training. I stayed well clear of the ring though. They would have murdered me.

Their coach was local school teacher, Mane Mokomoko. He was a tough bugger who later fought for New Zealand in the Vietnam War. I pity any Vietcong who came across Mokomoko on a dark night. Being that I knew better than to fight Kahui or Donald, Mokomoko suggested I might like to box Mavis Stone. She was no push over, a tough and skilled fighter who had also won secondary school shot put titles. Eventually social pressure and Mavis’ assurance that she would go easy on me forced me to agree. I entered the ring, a bundle of nerves and contradictions: on one side, a woman intent and capable of causing me bodily harm, and on the other, a mother whose clear instruction was to never hit a woman.

As we closed I swear I never saw it coming. Mavis hit me with the force of a dozen Mac trucks. I do not know how many of you have read Mohammed Ali’s biography, but in it he describes the confusion caused by a hard hit. He likens it to entering a room filled with floating serpents, alligators and butterflies. I didn’t see any serpents but I was certainly locked in a pretty dark and small room at that moment. When the confusion cleared I was on my knees and my blood was drip, drip, dripping on to the shearing shed’s lanoline and sweat stained wooden floor. Mavis had won by a knockout in just nineteen seconds.

Mokomoko sent us home that night with the instruction that we had to hop the first mile on one leg and the second mile on the other leg. Donald and Kahui barely made it such was their glee at my puny performance. The next morning I was unsure whether my nose, legs or pride hurt the most. The twenty five mile trip to school was longer than usual as Donald and Kahui told each new passenger the story of last night’s training. Sometimes your mates can be rough buggers.

By David

In World War Two, 72 million of a total involved population of 1961 million died; a casualty rate of 3.7%.

On the Florida Gold Coast of all the swimmers registered at 10 years of age only 10% are still swimming at age 16; a casualty rate of 90%.

Two Board members from our team attended the Florida Gold Coast Annual Meeting this weekend. They were impressed with the emphasis placed on the region’s high drop-out rate. I’m impressed too. Florida Gold Coast is not the only place in the world that has the problem. Certainly New Zealand does. From what I’m told, the speakers at the Florida Gold Coast meeting attacked the dilemma head on, put the blame where at least 50% of it lies – over ambitious parents (OAPs): all the ones with, “eat sleep swim” on their number plates, or “I’m a swimming Mom” on the wind shield.

The attention of the Annual Meeting is not misplaced. The casualty rate is outrageous. Since I’ve been in Florida, I have tried to stress the importance of patience, of proper and careful swimming education – often to no avail. Here is what I mean:

A swimmer was brought to me six months after I arrived in Florida. The swimmer was a wreck mentally – the person could not even finish a race. The swimmer’s physical state was poor, as well: they were half a minute slower over 800 meters than they had been three years earlier. It did not take PhD in exercise physiology to recognize over-use abuse; just the thing being talked about at the Florida meeting. Through care and patience, the swimmer was brought back to life.

Another mother kept bringing her ten year old daughter to every day double sessions and quietly dropped hints that I should be writing up more speed work. No amount of education seemed to work on an otherwise intelligent human being. Her child’s swimming was a drug. She knew times and splits for her daughter and every other daughter who swam on the Florida Gold Coast. All classic OAP.

Yes, Florida Gold Coast’s emphasis on OAPs is not misplaced. But it is only half the story. You see, there is no point in some of us doing the right thing – of preaching the importance of patience, of holding off severe speed work, of accepting early modest race results, of stressing personal improvement ahead of winning – when there are other coaches who offer a welcome home for the greedy.

Never anywhere have I seen a transfer rate like that on Florida’s Gold Coast. When I arrived one of the Region’s long time coaches told me about the migration habits of some of the local swimming population. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was being bitter. Not at all; it’s like fair ground dodgems at NASCAR speed.

OAPs can only feed their habit when they find a coach willing to supply a home. While there are coaches out there pandering to the early and deadly ambition of greedy parents, those coaches who do the right thing are going to lose money. Lydiard spoke about this in his first book written back in the early 1960s. He said coaches who followed his physiologically sound principles would lose runners. He lost a few, but did not worry as those who left never succeeded in the world arena. Like Lydiard, I don’t really care. It is just another price of doing the right thing. As the data shows, eventually it’s the greedy that lose most.

Junkies will find a pusher. But if the 90% casualty rate is to be reduced there is little point in only addressing the problem of OAPs. Florida Gold coast also needs to address the problem of coaches who supply OAPs with their fix. That’s the step that would take real courage.

By Jane

David Cromwell over at TimedFinals recently put together Top 5 Tuesday on the best swimming venues in the United States. He covered the virtues of the aquatic centers at Fort Lauderdale, Seattle (David! The pool is in Federal Way! That’s like saying Newark is in Manhattan!), Minneapolis, Texas at Austin and Indianapolis. I’ve swum in three of the five and they are fantastic venues. “Seattle” hosted my first Pac 10 Championships, where I placed seventh in the 200 yard breaststroke. Minneapolis saw me qualify for NCAAs in the same event. I swam in my first U.S. Senior Nationals at Indianapolis whilst suffering from whooping cough. I was unaware of this at the time, since I’d been misdiagnosed as having asthma. But I digress…

I wanted to pay some attention to some of the world’s less well-known swimming complexes that are pretty special. The pools that you loved swimming at, not because of their incredible records, impressive diving platforms or massive stadiums. They just had personality. The pools are listed in an order which is purely arbitrary and indicates not their worth, but the order in which I thought of them.

8. Le Stadio Olimpico, Rome, Italy
Olimpico, Piazza Gentile da Fabriano, 17, 00196 Roma, Roma (Lazio), Italy

The venue for the 1960 Olympic Games, Rome’s aquatic center is a collection of outdoor pools that look like they’ve been there since the Roman Empire ran Britain. Two of the secondary pools, situated behind the main competition pools and up a small hill, don’t exactly live up to Fina standards for length. I’m guessing the one I used to practice in between races was about 20 meters long. Give or take.

There are two fifty-meter pools at the facility and one is indoors. Its ceiling is incredibly high and is covered with mosaic tiles. There is a long, enclosed wooden walkway that leads from the indoor pool to the Olympic pool outside. The entire venue is probably one of the most amazing I’ve ever seen.

7. North Sydney Olympic Pool, Sydney, Australia
20 Alfred Street South, Milsons Point, New South Wales 2061, Australia

You can’t do much better then North Sydney in terms of location. The pool sits directly beneath the Sydney Harbour Bridge and is flanked by the Luna Park amusement arcade. The water is salt, which burns Australian mosquito bites and tastes simply terrible, but you’ll put up with it to swim in here.

Beat that

6. Freyberg Pool, Wellington, New Zealand
139 Oriental Parade, Wellington, New Zealand

Freyberg pool used to be kind of awful, even though its location is also pretty stellar. When I was younger, the 33.3 meter (yeah, seriously…) pool was seen as the poor second cousin of some of Wellington’s better facilities, such as the newer Regional Aquatic Centre. However, Freyberg has always struck me as a work in progress that has additions and improvements made to it all the time.

The pool appears to stick out from Oriental Parade into Wellington Harbour, its northern and southern facing walls made mostly of glass. Swimwatch’s David had just completed a training session at Freyberg during his university years when a massive Wellington storm blew in some of Freyberg’s panes of glass. That was the same day the Wahine sank in Wellington harbour.

Freyberg’s only drawback is its odd length, which requires swimmers complete three lengths in order to have swum 99.999 meters. However, several good swimmers have trained there, and one may say that training in such a pool improves your chances at being good at both short and long course swimming!

5. Piscine Georges Vallerey, Paris, France
148, Avenue Gambetta, 75020 Paris, France

This pool staged Paris’s Olympic swimming in 1928. It was initially built atop a giant furnace, which is what kept the pool’s water warm. Now, Parisian and French Swimming offices inhabit the space where the furnace used to be. I can’t imagine working beneath that amount of water, but dozens of French swimming administrators do so every day.

4. Newmarket Olympic Pool, Auckland, New Zealand
77 Broadway, Auckland, New Zealand

These two pictures of the Newmarket pool were emailed to me by John Nixon, who manages the facility. Previously, I had a rather unflattering picture of the pool in this post, but this one definitely does the pool justice. It’s a great place. Very near downtown Auckland, Newmarket is a classic old Olympic-sized facility that has been updated with a trendy cafe, fitness center, massage therapy unit and sports shop. When racing in Auckland, we’d drive for half an hour to work out at Newmarket, avoiding Auckland’s newer, more boring pools. The pool was covered in 1993, after being outdoors for many years. The host of the 1950 Empire Games (now Commonwealth Games), it has been an Auckland landmark for well over half a century. Below, the pool is shown as it was in 1950 during the Empire Games.

3. DeNunzio Pool, Princeton, New Jersey, United States
389 Witherspoon St, Princeton, NJ 08542

Princeton University’s pool is awesome. It incorporates everything that a “real” aquatic center should have as well as really feeling like a university pool. That can be a hard balance to achieve. While the University of Minnesota’s pool is a true aquatic center, the University of Washington’s pool is 100% college facility. The DeNunzio pool has all the charm of one with the professionalism of the other. And its flash new scoreboard is neat, too.

2. Belmont Plaza Pool, Long Beach, California, United States

Long Beach’s Belmont Plaza pool is possibly the most famous indoor pool in California. Maybe it’s the only indoor pool in California. If you’ve never been there, you may have seen it as the “school pool” in the movie Van Wilder. Big pictures of swimmers appear on Long Beach’s walls. Numerous international flags are displayed for all us foreign athletes who raced there during Pac 10s and Speedo Cup. The place gets filthy during such large meets and sand comes under the doors from the nearby beach. It’s one of my favourite pools in all the world.

Pac-10 relays prepare to take off

1. Leeds International Pool, Leeds, England
Westgate. Leeds. LS1 4PH

The Leeds International Pool closed permanently in October, 2007. It is a huge shame. The pool was old, a bit decrepit, strangely designed and too shallow. However, it was a landmark. I have heard that a new aquatic center has been built in Leeds to replace the L.I.P. Perhaps in 50 years and after much love and just as much abuse, the new pool might match the antiquated awesomeness of its predecessor.

By David

For a mountain, it isn’t all that spectacular. There is no obvious summit, it barely reaches 3000 feet and it is covered in dense native bush. It may be unimpressive, but it does play an important role in New Zealand’s cultural history. It’s rumoured to have been the home of the last and now extinct bird, the Moa. More importantly, it’s the spot where the legendary Maori fisherman Maui embedded his hook to pull New Zealand out of the sea. Today Whakapunake is made for hunting. Wild pigs, deer and thousands of goats make the mountain their home.

Kahui, Donald and I spent most weekends on Whakapunake. Twenty five miles away in the bright lights of Wairoa, a local butcher paid us ten cents (it was called a shilling back then) a pound for a pig or deer, gutted but with the skin and head still on. For three teenage boys it was good money. Dead pigs and deer paid for my first trip to Australia to swim with Don Talbot.

It was best to get onto the mountain on Friday night. As soon as the bus got us home from school, we set off on the three hour ride to the summit. My horse, Nehaw, was a sure footed beast. On the blackest of nights he offered a safe and stumble free journey. You had to be a bit careful with him though. When he was tired he’d try and bite your leg. Early on the journey, about a mile from our place, the New Zealand Government’s Ministry of Works used to park their road work machinery; tractors, graders, bulldozers, all that sort of thing. Every weekend, we siphoned off a pint of gas from one of their machines. We were no boy scouts: gas might be cheating but it was the best way to get a fire started at close to midnight on a wet night. With oil currently $US100 a barrel we probably owe the New Zealand Government a house mortgage in pints of gas.

We had some good spots to sleep. One was a veritable Hilton: under a ledge, almost a cave but not quite. It was dry – the back stone wall trapped the heat from the fire, and ample moss and ferns made for a soft and comfortable bed. Our worst night was out on the open track. All night, the rain lashed down. Even our pint of gas failed to get a fire started. There was no option but to huddle in misery and wait for the morning. It was worth it. We got three quick deer and set off for home, the deer over our legs and saddles providing some warmth from the rain that never let up.

Shooting for profit is a bit different from recreational hunting. Our Wairoa butcher would deduct a tidy sum from our pay if a bullet damaged any of the animal’s prime cuts. It put a premium on getting a head or neck shot. After an expensive first couple of years, we didn’t lose much in damaged meat.

Fortunately we had a couple of really good dogs. They found pigs and trapped wounded deer and held them waiting for us to arrive and finish the job. One of our best dogs, Juno, was killed by a mangy old boar just before I left to go to school in the United States. We tried to sew the wound in her neck with a nail and one of the laces from my boot but it didn’t work. Pity about that; she was a good dog.

Our best day’s tally – two deer and six pigs – caused a hell of a problem with transport. I’m not sure what time it was when we got home. Whenever it was, I’d fallen asleep on the horse. My mother looked out the window at around one in the morning and noticed Nehaw standing dutifully at the gate. Goes to show, when you need a horse to bite you on the leg they won’t bloody do it.

There is a swimming content to this story. At the top of Whakapunake there is a swampy lake that is tapu, or sacred. According to Kahui and Donald, it is the exact spot where Maui’s hook pierced New Zealand’s North Island. If it is, Maui is lucky he got New Zealand out of the water. I guess the lake covers about an acre but it’s not all that deep so even Maui’s hook could have easily fallen out. My mates said the tapu on the lake was further strengthened in the 1860s when one of the greatest Maori warriors, Te Kooti, created a golden calf out of the riches he had plundered from local European settlements. He had, they said, hidden the calf in the lake on the top of Whakapunake. It must have been an impressive sight, Te Kooti sitting on his trade mark white charger casting a further tapu spell on the Whakapunaki Lake.

Kahui and Donald were Maori and therefore could not look for the prize in a sacred lake, but conveniently, I was a Pakeha (European) and therefore would not be affected by the tapu. These days I’m not sure that distinction is allowed, but back then it seemed to be okay. For several days I swam around in that freezing cold, dirty water looking for Te Kooti’s damn calf. My two mates stood on the side issuing instructions and thanking their ancestor, Te Kooti, that they had been born part of the Maori race.

These days I have little sympathy for any of my lot who moan about the temperature of the Palm Beach County’s carefully heated pool. Any complaints and they too can go look for Te Kooti’s calf. Donald and Kahui still reckon it’s there somewhere.

By David

Harsh accusations have been made recently about Swimwatch. They say we are too personal and parochial. None of it is correct or matters, but that is what they say. Well this week the critics will be silenced. We are going to tell you of two magnificent New Zealand sporting achievements that have nothing to do with local Florida swim clubs. Already Swimwatch critics will be clicking elsewhere, “If he’s not talking about us, we’re not going to read it,” I hear them say.

But before considering the triumphs of New Zealand sport, I went to the Florida State Swimming Championships last weekend and saw again one reason why the US is so good at this game. You may recall an item we published recently that questioned the disqualification of one of our swimmers. She moved her foot after the “take your marks” signal. Well, the referee involved was also working the Orlando Championships. He took the time to climb way up into the stands, where I was sitting, to talk over the disqualification. His view, confirmed by the starter, was that our Lane Five had not only moved her leg but had begun to start. I don’t agree but it does explain the disqualification and the referee is the boss. If you have ever been to a Florida High School Championships it is a very busy meet. What is important is that the referee took time to sort out a problem. He thought it was worth an explanation. For that I am very grateful. Swimwatch have long argued that officials have a huge influence on the standard of a country’s sport. America has some bloody good officials.

Anyway, enough of that; we must move on. What are the significant events that have happened in New Zealand sport this week? Well, first of all a New Zealand bred horse has won the Melbourne Cup. Let me explain; the Melbourne Cup is the Australian equivalent of the Derby in England, the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe in France and the Kentucky Derby in the United States. The Australians hate it of course, but our – that’s New Zealand’s – horses always win their precious horse race. And we did it again yesterday. A horse call Efficient, bred in a town called Cambridge, New Zealand won the race and $3 million.

I may have exaggerated a bit, telling you that New Zealand horses always win the Melbourne Cup. The truth is, of the past 52 Melbourne Cups, 29 winners were bred in New Zealand; that’s 56%. The one thing better than beating Australians once is beating them 29 times. Your average Aussie gets so upset, they make up Kiwi jokes. Like – Did you hear about the New Zealander who came to Melbourne to watch the Cup? He brought one shirt and one five dollar bill and didn’t change either. We are not wounded by all this. We understand their frustration, we sympathize with their hurt.

Trumping a Melbourne Cup win is difficult. But Jerry from Hokitika, New Zealand has done it. Here is the news reported on the Stuff news website

“A Hokitika whitebaiter is reveling in a monster catch, which saw him take 300kg of whitebait off just one tide. At the going rate of $25-$30/450g on the West Coast, he will make between $22,500 and $27,000. And the man didn’t even take it all – a second man took 200kg on the same day last week. The wife of one fisherman said the bait caught on the day of the big run was “beautiful bait – lovely and clear and we didn’t even need to wash it”.”

What is whitebait you may be asking? I can do no better than quote from Wikipedia:

“The most common whitebait species in New Zealand is the Inanga. The whitebait is small, sweet and tender with a delicate taste that is easily over-powered if mixed with stronger ingredients when cooked. The most popular way of cooking whitebait in New Zealand is the whitebait fritter, which is essentially an omelet containing whitebait. Foreigners frequently react with revulsion when shown uncooked whitebait, which resembles slimy, translucent worms.”

On the West Coast of New Zealand the sport of catching whitebait is a passion. I’ve heard of girlfriends being traded in return for a better position on the river’s edge. There is no need for cheerleaders in this sport. A man’s reputation is made for life on the back of a 300 kg catch; national champion and record holder.

I used to fish for a species of whitebait called Nohirors, or baby eels. We used Silver Fern fronds as nets and caught enough to fill a good breakfast of whitebait fritters. We weren’t as passionate about it all as our West Coast countrymen. I never heard any of my mates offer their girl friend for my spot on the edge of the Hangaroa River.