Carol’s Column

There’s nothing quite like drowning to keep you fit

“MA, WE want to swim the Midmar Mile,” said my oldest son a week or so ago.

“The Midmar Mile?”

“It’s the big swimming event of the year. Thousands of swimmers compete — they come from all over the country to swim across Midmar Dam.”

Which is why I found myself hotfooting it down to Durban on Friday with four children, 25 packets of sandwiches, three flasks of coffee and 31 chicken legs — lest we starve on the six-hour drive.

The Midmar Mile took place on Sunday morning which left Saturday free.

And what an icecream cone, beautiful day it was.

A perfect day for boardsailing.

“Phone Peter Webber and he’ll lend you some wave jumpers,” said another friend. So at 8am we stood outside Wind and Surf and loaded the car with two boards.

“Ma, you can’t borrow Peter Webber too,” observed my youngest son. “Don’t depress me,” I muttered as we shot down to Snake Park beach where the waves jumped and the surf thundered.

“Watchit, be careful, don’t go where it’s hairy,” I warned my sons as they rigged their boards.

“Ma, stop being a mother,” said Ralph. “Relax, put your towel out, pour oil over your stretch marks and grab a tan.”

So I did. I fried quietly for half an hour until a dog trotted past and mistook my floral sunhat for a bush.

Which wouldn’t have mattered except it was still attached to my head.

I woke to see Barry sailing past.

That was all I saw. Somehow, two had vanished.

“Where’s Ralph?”

“He’s having trouble with his sail,” said Jamie. “The universal’s broken and every time he tries to lift the sail it slips out.”

Sure enough, in the distance I saw a pinhead. It got smaller and smaller.

With speed that would have left Sebastian Coe gasping, I ran to the next beach and the lifesavers’ hut.

Then stopped short and sucked in my tummy so that it shouldn’t overhang the lower part of my bikini.

Even hysterical mothers must make a good impression.

There they were, a flock of bronzed lifesavers. What a beautiful sight for short-sighted eyes.

“Listen, I don’t want to sound like a hysterical mother,” I wheezed, “but that’s my son out there drowning.”

“Don’t worry, we’re watching him,” said one, in a baritone boom.

Just then I noticed Ralph waving. Waves of distress.

“Hold my sunglasses,” I yelled to my daughter and leapt into the waves.

“Don’t worry, Ralph,” I muttered to myself as I kicked my way through the breakers, “I’m coming, I’ve been making your school sandwiches for the last 15 years, I won’t let you drown now.”

The swells were high, the waves turbulent and it seemed I’d been swimming for ever when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Oh my God, a shark!”

But, there, bobbing next to me, was a head. A nice head with long, curly eyelashes and a wide smile.

“Hi,” it said, “where do you think you’re going, to Australia?”

“I’m rescuing my son. I’ve only got four children and I can’t afford to lose one.”

I swam towards the shark nets and felt another tap on my shoulder.

“Listen, I don’t want to come between a mother and her son,” he said, “but we’ve sent out two paddle skis to fetch your lad. He’ll be OK, so come back with me.”

A whole lifesaver to myself! I was ecstatic.

Life’s cruel. Have you noticed how one can never pick moments?

Here I was, alone in the ocean with a lifesaver and it was just my luck that my hair looked a mess, one foam-rubber falsie had popped out of my bikini and floated away on the crest of a wave, the pounding of the seas made my false teeth clack against each other and I hadn’t shaved my legs.

This was no way to be rescued by a lifesaver.

Just then, I was lifted by a swell. Far away, I saw Ralph surrounded by paddle skis.

“He’s saved,” said my lifesaver, “let’s swim back.”

He looked weary and desperate.

We swam back slowly. He told me he’d just come down for the weekend to swim the Midmar Mile.

Which is why he looks tired, I thought to myself. He’s not used to swimming for any length of time.

“Are you OK?” he inquired solicitously, gripping my arm, “I’ll help you.”

Ah, what a way to go, I thought to myself as I spluttered happily shorewards in the clasp of this handsome young man.

A wave pushed my contact lens back into focus and I noticed he looked a little peaky.

“Are you OK, Dave?” I asked. We were on first-name terms. I mean, if someone’s saving your life, it’s only polite to be friendly.

He was slowing down, I could see he was exhausted.

“Do you want my flippers?” he offered.

“No, no, you keep them, your need is greater than mine.”

It occurred to me he could do with some fattening up, perhaps a little chicken soup to give him extra strength.

We staggered ashore.

“Such a nice lifesaver,” I commented to my daughter later. “Not much energy, but lovely legs.”

Sunday morning at Midmar was overcast.

Five thousand swimmers milled around shivering in the drizzle and there must have been three times as many spectators.

Event followed event.

Women, men, children, toddlers, geriatrics, they all swam across the dam.

Some fast, some slow and some dropped out. An amazing sight.

And then came THE event of the day. The Iron Man race.

These were the competitors everyone had been waiting for — the heroes.

The supermen — the ones who, to qualify for the Iron Man, had competed in the back-breaking Duzi Canoe Marathon, the gruelling Comrades Marathon and now the Midmar.

The crowd roared as slowly the swimmers came into sight.

And then the winner ran from the water.

There was something about those curly eyelashes and shapely legs.

“That’s my lifesaver!” I screeched. I was excited, you understand.

It took an hour to push our way through the hoards to ask him for his autograph.

A shy, retiring kind of a fellow, he stopped sipping his beer and puffing on a cigarette to say hello.

“It was nothing,” he said bashfully, “yesterday’s swim was good practice.”

Driving back to Johannesburg, I smiled the whole way home.

“Ma’s fallen for a lifesaver,” said Jamie as we drove over Van Reenen Pass.

“Rubbish,” I retorted sharply, “if it wasn’t for me, he probably would have drowned.”

“Ma, pass me a chicken sandwich, please.”

“Ma, who’s Ma? Just call me Iron Woman.”

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