Swim Start–“Damning Strokes”

by Ollie:

Dynamo on the seawall

More and more people pushed onto the seawall.  There were families fighting for a seat where they could say hi to mom or dad.  There were Germans wearing sleeveless shirts tucked into booty shorts who snapped pictures from behind a long, expensive lenses. Far Easterners were wandering into established spectator camps and planting themselves in the free space with oblivious, innocent expressions.  Everyone had their own shirts promoting a team, a country, or, most often, a single person: “Crowie’s Entourage” or “Run, Betty, Run.”  Some even had their own profane motto: “Badassism” was one that stood out to me for its nerdy machoism and the way it stunk of overcompensation, a very lame motto especially compared to the flawlessly stated NDA.  I gave every new shirt and its wearer a critical eye and most of them failed the test.  Even a cool shirt with a good motto worn by a kind looking person, I would blow off  with some internal grumblings.

The morning held in the air the same promise of a football Saturday.  People were introducing themselves to their neighbors while fidgeting with their cowbells or in our case, vuvuzuelas.  There was something not fully developed but building.  Despite all the people setting up shop to view the swim, the crowd noise was soft, suppressed, maybe, by the morning’s gray haze.  I anticipated that it was only a matter of time before the whole scene exploded with the intoxication of sport and the brainless thrill of being a single fan amongst a crowd of many.  The Kona grown caffeine that everyone was sipping would certainly slap them awake, and they’d toss their paper cups to seek out stronger drink.  I looked forward to that.

It struck me that the contest was a free-for-all.  There was no home team to establish the old

precedent, in which the majority of fans were in enthusiastic agreement that only a small minority defied.  Here, on the island, rambling militias ran amuck supporting only their one great warrior.  But could we not all join in obnoxious support of these sadistic athletes in a way that is mutually pleasing to both fans and competitor?  What about hooliganism?         The hubbub kept building in the bay.  The half mile arc of the stone seawall was crowded with three rows of spectators standing and a first row sitting, dangling their legs above the sharp lava rocks.  The medical tents, changing stations and showers that made up Transition were bustling with activity.  In twos and threes the male pros ventured out from the gated tent compound, walked down the short flight of wooden stairs to the beach and waded in the water, swinging their arms and getting acclimated to the temperature before diving unde

r and taking their first expert strokes.            Around the corner of the spit claimed by Transition, an army of seaworthy volunteers emerged crewing all types of watercraft.  There were kayaks, and a gang of dark haired surfers that wore reflective yellow and moved fast as they pulled themselves along on their stomachs.  Paddle-boarders stood straight up in the sea and moved away from the group to wander freely on the water.   Outrigger canoes propelled by synchronized strokes at the command of a boat captain quickly slipped past all the others in the party and took a proud lap.  Bringing up the rear were thick rubber rafts moving at a troll and carrying important looking people–I guessed journalists, cameramen, race officials and medical staff.  A chopper flew overhead.  Loud speakers cut on and the announcer welcomed everybody to the Ironman World Championship 2012 just as a strong swell collided with the seawall and sprayed the spectators with saltwater.

Flotilla and swimmers warming up.

 

We were making sense of the whole spectacle by pointing at people in the water and making wise conjectures as to what their function was.  There is the sweeper, he picks up the dead bodies left floating on the surface.  The lady with the harpoon, she tests for performance enhancing drugs.  Those are the strippers, you’ll see what they do later.  If challenged by another about the claim that all the people in the inner-tubes with the purple swim caps are disabled folks who won the Clif Bar Float Away Sweepstakes, we would simply concede a shrug, then point out that the scuba divers carrying gyroscopes are measuring the choppiness of the ocean, a variant called c-factor, which is a statistic they put up on the screen, along with wind speed and temperature, when the event is broadcast on T.V.  It seemed to be the best activity to pass the time.  It explained the madness and reassured us that we were smart and included.

Eventually 6:30 rolled around.  All the male pros were treading water about a hundred yards into the bay, being restrained by the surfers who paddled back and forth between two buoys, creating a floating start line.  Tribal drums overtook the loud speakers, silencing the jocular announcer, and thrusting a furious, lustful elixir into the air.  The beat was fast and cage rattling.  Everyone was juiced.  I half expected to see an on-looker lose control and throw themselves onto the perilous lava, joining, by instinct, in the mass self-sacrifice.  The surfers stopped and turned their boards to point towards the swimmers.  Then the cannon exploded and shook the whole island.  The swimmers took to attacking the water like a school of voracious piranhas in a feeding frenzy.  What had been dozens of little white swim caps bobbing in the distance turned into a maelstrom of limbs and splashing water that moved steadily out to sea.

The female pros took to the ocean in similar fashion five minutes later.

While the common Ironman triathletes were pouring out onto the beach, we were able to snap a picture of the Dynamo crew who put their arms around each other and posed handsomely for us.  After the picture, they fell back into the mass of athletes in wetsuits and were lost from sight.  More and more athletes emerged from Transition to mill about on the beach, wade into the water and finally go under.  Lemmings on the precipice, about to leap willingly into self-constructed torture, as my dad later put it.  Their numbers continued to accumulate and soon the water was saturated with them.  They all swam out to the floating start line, now double the width, and at seven o’clock, the last cannon exploded and my sister and the rest of team Dynamo took their first damning strokes.


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