Limitless E-Book

Nuala Moore

• Herausgeber: Gill Books
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 542

Beschreibung

The sea has always been a part of Nuala Moore's life: her earliest memory is of jumping off her father's fishing boat in Dingle harbour and swimming back to shore. But after years of diving and marathon swimming, including a relay swim around the coast of Ireland and a solo swim across Lake Zurich, Nuala struggled to balance sacrifice and achievement. Her life and personal responsibilities, coupled with caring for her father, forced a change in her pathway. Nuala began to push herself even further. Forcing herself into some of the coldest, most dangerous and remote waters in the world offered her freedom and the chance to take back control. Limitless is Nuala's breathtaking and awe-inspiring memoir – about how pushing herself to her mental and physical limits allowed her to find her true north, face her reflection and achieve the greatness she always knew was within.

Leseprobe

LIMITLESS

FROM DINGLE TO

CAPE HORN, FINDING MY TRUE

NORTH IN THE EARTH’S VASTEST OCEANS

NUALA MOORE

Gill Books

Mairimid ar a bhfaighimid

agus bláthaimid ar a dtugaimid.

This book is to celebrate the inimitable memory of my beautiful sister Mary Moore Ferriter (1959–2020)

You were diplomatic, charismatic and glamorous. You were full of empathy, warmth, compassion, determination and just the right amount of crazy.

I am the albatross that awaits you

at the end of the world.

I am the forgotten soul of the dead mariners

who passed Cape Horn

from all the seas of the world.

But they did not die

in the furious waves.

Today they soar on my wings

towards eternity

in the last crack

of the Antarctic winds.

SARA VIAL

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: Bearings

Chapter 1 The Source

Chapter 2 King of the Hill

Chapter 3 Seven Frogs and Clydesdales

Chapter 4 Taking on the World

Chapter 5 A Unique Expedition: The Round Ireland Swim

Chapter 6 Treading the Maelstrom

Chapter 7 Criss-Crossing the English Channel

Chapter 8 Trough

Chapter 9 The Donegal Ice Mile

Chapter 10 Breaking the Ice: Tyumen

Chapter 11 Making the Call

Chapter 12 Digging Deeper: Murmansk

Chapter 13 Unifying Nations: Swimming from Russia to USA

Chapter 14 Letting Go, Taking Hold

Chapter 15 Journey to the End of the World: Tierra del Fuego

Epilogue: True North

Acknowledgements

Copyright

About the Author

About Gill Books

Photo Section

PROLOGUE

BEARINGS

‘I am that quiet place, the centre of the maelstrom … The dangerous abyss, where few dare to tread.’

Virginia Alison

My breathing was heavy – laboured, even. As I knelt on the floor of the inflatable boat, I could feel a sense of panic starting to rise. My eyes fixed on the dark, iconic headland of Cape Horn. The Sailors’ Graveyard. So remote.

My swim hat and goggles on my head, the cold wind stripped what warmth I had from my body. The movement of the seas was frustrated and excited at the same time – three oceans mixing and meeting, racing around the world without resistance from any land mass. At this point in the world, there was no land either east or west. I was about to expose myself to the wrath of the Furious Fifties and lower my body into the notorious Drake Passage.

Closing my eyes tightly, I tried to visualise my swim. I rotated my arms and calmed my breathing. This is why you are here. My mantra played in my head. My mind flashed to the sacrifices I had made to get to this point, but mostly to the privilege I had of being here, of being strong enough to take on this swim. I was the first swimmer in the world to do so.

If you can’t breathe, you can’t swim, I told myself. So, breathe.

I inhaled and calmed myself a little. I tried to close down my world to this moment only.

The fishing boat took a wallop from a rogue wave and the Zodiac, the inflatable boat, jolted as it was slapped against the side of the fishing vessel. We all fell forward, grabbing the ropes from the side of the tubing. I could sense the team’s urgency, but I was not ready to let go.

The water was darker than I had imagined and bitingly cold, but it was the size of the waves that was upsetting me. I searched to find a pattern, some movement in the water that would allow me to see its intention, but there was none. Just undulating waves, coming from all directions at once. Some breaking, some billowing and then swirling. I wished I had more time to study their movements.

The reality of my swim was not matching my plan. How could I swim without my team close by in these conditions? What if I panicked and couldn’t get my breathing right?

Adan Otaiza Caro, the Cape Horn lighthouse-keeper, had indicated over the VHF radio that my command boat would be a few hundred metres away, because of the size of the swell. My skipper, Roni Olivares, also insisted that the safety team could not accompany me with the small Zodiac.

The uncertainties of this swim were now huge.

I felt the fear of letting go and not making progress, the risk of being tossed backwards and twisted by the waves, vulnerable to its power and failing to cross the meridian between the oceans. I wondered if I should have taken the swim from lighthouse to lighthouse instead, which would have been certain progress. I was scared of going home having failed.

I stared high into the headland, which was a few miles north of us. I had chosen to swim the meeting of the oceans, this far south – not for glory, but to find that person inside of me who was willing to risk everything. If the team and crew were to lose sight of me while I was swimming, with waves breaking and flipping me in another direction, in 7-degree water, with 4-metre swells of rolling ocean, the question would no longer be whether I would make land, it would be whether I would survive. I could stay alive for two hours at most in these conditions. The sense of fragility, of vulnerability – those weaknesses that I had trained and worked so hard to push away – was creeping back in.

This is why you are here, the inner voice repeated. You are on the cusp of your own greatness. Breathe and trust yourself.

You only have to swim and stay alive.

Keep breathing.

Look what you are capable of.

You are built for this.

I tried to block out the feeling that this was a risk too far.

Suddenly, the tears welled up. I was glad I had my back turned to the crew. Loud words fell from my mouth.

‘What am I doing here? I have to be home for work on Monday. Maybe I’ll take the easier option and swim closer to the headland.’ I could not figure out how I could make progress in this ocean.

Catherine and Chris, my dive-safety team, were kneeling inches from my face, watching me.

Catherine said firmly, ‘Nuala, you have to go now. We’ve got you and you can do this. Trust us.’

‘Tell me again how you will get me out of the water.’ My eyes darted between Catherine and Chris. ‘How long will it take you to get to me if I need help?’ I was asking for the tenth time.

The fishing boat had its engines in neutral. We were tied to the side, suspended. I could hear Roni’s voice. I don’t speak Spanish, but I understand urgency: we were bobbing with the engines ticking over, at the mercy of three oceans, all fighting for freedom as they raced excitedly around the world. These rogue waves could topple the boat and land us all in the water. I knew the vessel needed to get her engines started. She needed to gain control.

Catherine replied in a stern tone, ‘Look at Chris. He is ready to go. We will not take our eyes off you, but you have to get into the water now. The wind is changing, and our window is closing.’

I wiped away the tears, still hiding my face. I lowered my goggles over my eyes. I now had just two tiny windows to see out of.

‘Steady your ship and drive into the storm.’ My father’s words fell from my lips.

I turned to look at the iconic headland of Cape Horn bearing down on us.

‘Please give me passage,’ I said.

With one last intake of breath, I lowered my body into the dark, ferocious waves, maintaining my death grip on the rope.

Seven degrees is a battle even in calm water; in rolling oceans, it’s an entirely different story. My breath was ripped from me as I tried to conquer the cold shock.

When I let go of the rope, I will be alone. The boat will have to steam away to gain control. She will disappear in the waves. I will be at the mercy of this water, this wind, my own weakness. I am the storm. I am the challenge.

I looked up at the crew. Three albatross circled above my head, their wingspan greater than the length of my body.

‘I know why I am here,’ I said, with a breath that was now broken and ragged.

Catherine stared into my eyes, stern. Chris had the same stare.

Silence.

‘Let go, Nuala. Let go,’ her voice repeated.

The Zodiac banged against the timber side of the boat, bouncing from side to side. With all my will, I struggled to uncurl my white fingers, knowing that once I let go, I would be alone in the Drake Passage, the most dangerous and volatile body of water on the planet.

I had to let go.

1

THE SOURCE

‘It may take courage to embrace the possibilities of your own potential, but once you’ve flown past the summit of your fears, nothing will seem impossible.’

Michael McKee

I pinched my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. The beach seemed so far away. Why did we say this far out? I’m the youngest; I’ve never swum this distance. What if the boys don’t wait? What if I can’t swim that far? The water is really deep. What if I panic, or drown?

Stop it! I screamed to myself. If you cry, Dad won’t let you swim to shore. I put a huge grin on my face, the kind I put on to pretend I was fine, mainly because showing any fear or tears could mean being told I couldn’t do it. You’re too young. I was always too young.

Today I was nine years old, and I was going to jump into that crystal blue water.

Focusing on the castle, I jumped up high. I hit the water so hard it felt like I was sinking for ages. It was deep. I could hear the bubbles. I kicked my legs and put my arms out as if grasping for the blue sky. I opened my eyes. Everything was blurred. The salt water stung my eyes, but I was determined to get to the surface. My cheeks were bursting from holding my breath.

Keep smiling. Don’t panic. You can do this.

I turned around, gave a big thumbs-up to my dad and started my slow swim to the beach, which now seemed like miles away. The small, choppy waves were mountains in my vision. I stared at the stone tower high in the sky, at the people standing at the bathing box (a concrete structure built in the 1900s for ladies to change in because the main beach was men only at that time). I reached out with each stroke, as if pulling it all towards me.

Behind me, standing on the side of the boat, was Gerard, our neighbour’s nephew, who spent summers in Dingle. I heard him jump. The splash was followed by shouting from my father.

‘Nuala! Nuala! Come back! Gerard! Hey! Grab the tyre.’

I flipped over on my back and lifted my head to see my father, two arms holding the boat hook, reaching for Gerard’s arms, which were grasping at the air, directionless.

No, no, no, no! was all I could think.

I screamed at the boys gone on ahead, but my voice was lost in the distance. I turned back to the boat and focused hard on Gerard. At this stage, he was closer to the boat and seemed to be okay. Should I go back or forward? I was half afraid that, if I looked at my father, I would be in trouble for bringing a friend who couldn’t swim.

He was shouting at Gerard, who was now panicking. He caught Gerard with the boat hook, a long pole that he used to pick up ropes for lobster pots. A seasoned fisherman is always accurate with a boat hook. In that minute, Gerard, his curly hair draped over his face, wrapped his arms through the black car-tyre fender, holding on for dear life. I tried not to show any emotion as I breaststroked towards him in case Dad took us both out of the water. He was angry. We were always supposed to check if our friends could swim.

‘I thought you could swim!’ I screamed at Gerard, deflecting my father’s anger and doing my best to ignore his frozen stare and his clenched mouth, recognising the accident that might have happened.

‘I can,’ a squeaky voice replied. We were both more afraid of looking up at my father than the challenge of the deep sea and the waves.

‘I got a fright. No one waited for me. You were gone.’ Gerard was shaking from the experience. We didn’t tell my father that Gerard had never jumped off a boat before.

‘Come on, swim with me to the beach,’ I said as I grabbed him by the arm, pushing my feet off the timber side of the boat. I shoved him ahead of me into the water. He was 13 years old, but he didn’t live by the sea, so I made allowances for him.

‘We’ll be fine, Dad,’ I said with a big smile, as my legs worked hard underwater to keep me up.

I turned to face the beach. The boys were standing on the sand, staring back at us. I was tired, but there was no way I was going to get back onto that boat and miss my day. Getting Gerard to shore was a better plan.

‘You’ll be fine. Just keep heading for the castle.’

I started slowly beside him, convincing him he could make it to the shore, all the time praying I could swim the long distance myself. I could hear the engines of the Bridget as my father prepared to leave, so I relaxed.

It was only fear of the deep water and being left behind by the group that had frightened Gerard. About five minutes later we joined the others, the sand clearly underneath us. Once we were all together, everything was forgotten. That day, pushing Gerard the whole way to the beach, changed so much for me. I realised that not everyone had the same experience as we did. I also gained the confidence to look beyond what I was capable of when I needed to. I needed to get Gerard to shore; I needed my father not to realise I was afraid; I needed to be strong. And I was strong because I was more afraid of being told to leave the water than of facing my fear.

The engines revved and the Bridget steamed away out the bay, rounding the head. We watched her get smaller in the distance. In a few hours, she would return to pick us up.

Our Sundays in summer were all about this trip to the beach, while my father went mackerel fishing out in the bay. The boat was a 30-foot timber fishing boat with the wheelhouse up front. It was painted blue and named after my mother, Bridget.

My father was a fisherman, as were the rest of my family on both sides. The sea has always been a way of life in our family. As a very young child, my job was to sit at our back window for hours, watching, and tell my mother when my father’s boat came around the headland so that she could put the dinner on. Then we ran to the pier to carry his bags home and help him tie the ropes. Catching the ropes on the pier as they were thrown from the boat was such fun. I could never tie the knots, but I could hold the boat until another fisherman or my father got up the ladder.

As children, we spent a lot of time in and around boats on the pier at Dingle. Some children were not allowed on the pier, but it was our playground. We jumped from boat to boat, pulling ropes and helping unload boxes. My mother would not tell my father that we jumped from the pier and swam around and through the islets. The fear of being given out to and stopped was far greater than any fear of the risks.

The Bridget was a small vessel, so she was always tied outside a line of larger boats. When the larger boats came in, the fishermen would untie the vessel next to the Bridget and slot into position, so that a smaller boat was never closer to the pier than a larger boat. This prevented damage. Sometimes it meant our boat was five or six boats out from the pier. We loved pulling the huge ropes, feeling the strength of dragging five or six huge vessels, often falling on our bottoms on the concrete as the huge line of boats drifted towards us on the pier. These were the jobs we were given.

Once the inside boat came close to us, we jumped fearlessly from one boat to the next, always from bow to bow, using the handrails as guides. Sometimes we climbed up high ladders, holding our bags, never dropping anything. This was considered a thrill, one that would be viewed as highly risky today.

Our beach, where we all swam as children, was beside a working harbour. Dad always told us to stay on the rocky side of Sláidín Beach, the east side, the side of the lighthouse. We had been warned to stay away from the ‘channel’ on the west side because this was the deep area where the boats travelled in and out of the harbour. Dad would bring the boat to a stop and point out the deep, running water where the trawlers travelled in from fishing.

He always gave the same warning: ‘If you swim out here and get caught in this flow, you will get swept around the point to the Crow Rock, and you won’t get back in.’ Getting swept away was always a huge risk. ‘I can’t see you in the water under the bow of the boat when I’m in the wheelhouse steering her in. So don’t come over here.’ He always spoke in a tone and manner that made it clear a response was not required.

As the summers passed, I swam out further. In a small town like Dingle, the older children always minded the younger ones on the beach. We would all go there together as a group. I tagged along into the water, too, and the boys always ignored me, hoping I would go away. Around the headland is another beach called Beenbawn, past the lighthouse, an area my father warned me not to pass, but we would walk there every day and swim from the beach. Past the lighthouse, the water is deep, making the tides very dangerous for swimming.

One particular day, the boys decided to go swimming around the headland. My brother told me to wait on the beach. I nodded and sat down on my towel, abandoned. I watched like a prisoner planning an escape. I stared at the rhythm of their arms as they pushed out into the glassy sea, their bodies moving forward silently, the reflection of the green cliff grass clear on the surface of the water. Five heads, staying close to the rocks on the cliff side where it was calm, passing the bathing boxes. They all stood on the rocks and chatted for a minute. Sometimes I could hear a few voices. I waved. I hated being left behind.

They started their swim to the point. They had practised this swim for many weeks, taking it in stages. Often, I used to walk to the lighthouse and look down at them in the water, to study the rocks they sat on, where they could hold on. I knew that once they turned at the lighthouse and headed to Beenbawn Beach, the water changed. Knowing they would not look back; I decided that today I would sneak into the water after them.

I was 10 years old.

I paddled over to the bathing boxes and moved with the silence and secrecy of a snake, hiding out of view. I could not see them, and they would not see me after they’d rounded the first crop of rocks. I was clear for now.

I swam to the bathing boxes every day. No one on the beach paid any attention to me, a young girl going out into the water on her own, because this was what I always did.

I pushed my arms out and eased myself along. The sun was shining on the water. There were jellyfish and I picked up some stings, but I was afraid to scream. Once I passed the crop of rocks, I could see the boys in the distance ahead, near the lighthouse. They were sitting on some other rocks, so I had time to catch up. My plan was to be as quiet as possible. I was nervous.

I knew if I could get to the lighthouse without being spotted, the boys would not turn back with me – by that stage, Beenbawn Beach would be closer. One of the swimmers was Tom Long. He was our next-door neighbour, much older than me, tall, with huge shoulders and very strong. He could do the butterfly stroke. We all thought Tom Long was the best swimmer in the world. I knew he would save me if I needed help.

When the five heads turned by the rocks at the point of the lighthouse to swim towards Beenbawn, a shout went up. They had spotted me. The water was no longer calm. I took in some gulps of water and a few waves hit me in the face and took my breath away. This was why I had been warned not to come here. I was working hard, doing a mixture of doggy paddle and crawl. I was panting from trying to catch them but trying to smile. I wondered for a second if I should get out, climb onto the rocks at the lighthouse and walk back, but I didn’t want to. I was so proud of myself. I wanted to see if I could make it.

From over the cliff face, I could see the silhouette of Paddy the Lighthouse – local man Paddy Ferriter from Beenbawn, who lived in the lighthouse. He was staring down at me. His cap covered his head, and his pipe was, as always, in his mouth. Leaning on the wire, he waved down at me. I waved back.

It was scary, rounding the point. The bright sun was beating down on the water and it was hard to see with the glare. What if I hit a current?Is this where Dad said I would get swept around? I was halfway there, swimming like a puppy, arms rotating and legs kicking, keeping my eyes on the cliffs in the distance.

Then I heard the shouting. It was the boys.

‘What are you doing? What if you drowned?’ one voice yelled. I could tell they were not happy. ‘Hold on to that rock,’ another shouted at me.

‘I can swim,’ I said firmly, trying to hide the fear in my voice. I grabbed hold of the rocks.

‘You can’t swim out here,’ another said.

What am I going to do? Give up?It’s only swimming, I thought.

It never dawned on me that I could not swim well enough. What do they mean, I can’t swim out here? I’m here. I really hated being told that I was too young, or that I wasn’t able to swim that far. I was not turning back.

‘We’re not waiting for you. You’ll have to keep up,’ a voice said, not happy at having a young girl at the back of the group.

Once we left the rocks at the lighthouse behind and headed to Beenbawn Beach, the water was different. The cliffs on the other side now seemed far away, so small in the distance. I was very tired, and my mouth was full of salt water. I knew I was in trouble, but I was used to being in trouble. The boys started to go far ahead of me. At one point we had to leave the cliff and swim out in the middle of the water to get to the beach. I looked down into the deep water. It was dark blue, and I felt like I was on the edge of a huge hole, a great abyss. I looked to the sky to find a point on the other cliff to swim towards. I followed the heads in the water and, once we were close to the beach, the waves began their roll to the sand. We loved riding the waves so, once we got close, we all surfed our way to the sand.

There were so many friends on the beach, watching us. I felt so important. I started running back through the fields in my bare feet, in my swimming togs, while the boys were talking to the others on the beach. That was over 40 years ago, but I can still picture myself looking down at the rocks, knowing that I did it. I would never tell them how scared I had been.

I called out to Paddy, who was still standing at the gap down to the rocks. This was where he watched the boats go by and always made time to talk to us all.

‘You’re some girl.’ He smiled, lifting his pipe from his mouth.

‘Thanks, Paddy.’ I smiled back at him, and my bare feet bounced through the grass, my hair drying as I ran across the fields, back towards the other beach, where I could see my towel on the sand.

The total distance of that swim is no more than 700 metres, but as a child, it felt like crossing the infamous English Channel.

Once we all got back to Sláidín Beach, we sat and ate our sandwiches filled with jam and bananas long since blackened by the sun. Hours later, despite our bodies being purple and blue with cold and hunger, we made our way home, the setting sun slipping from the never-ending sky.

Around that time, there was an ad on television for Bovril. It was promoted by Wendy Brook, who was shown swimming the English Channel. It was night-time. Wendy covered herself with Vaseline and drank this thick, brown liquid. I was sold. I convinced my mother to buy me Bovril. It was a horrible, thick, gravy-like drink, but I drank it each day. I took a jar of Vaseline to the beach and, despite not knowing why, I put it on my face and legs and started to plan to swim my ‘channel’. My father had said that the place where the trawlers came in and out of the harbour was called the channel. I would start there.

I did cross my channel that summer. It was a short swim and my father sat in the boat while I did it. I was 11 years old.

A swimming race at the Dingle Regatta, at the pier. I was 12 years old. The wind was blowing hard, and the rain had turned the sea to a murky brown. It looked horrible, with seaweed floating on the surface of the dirty water. My eyes were riveted to the pier wall as the three of us were driven out for the swim start. No one asked how far the race was or whether we could swim. It was the first time they’d hosted swim races at the pier.

The engine went silent.

‘Jump!’ was all I heard.

I leapt into the water and started plodding for the wall. There was seaweed all over the place, my hands striking it, my hair getting tangled in it. I’m not sure if I took a breath, but I kept going for that wall. The distance was no more than 150 metres, but the feeling of excitement when we finished was as if we’d summited Mount Everest. We were all clapping, holding on to each other as the waves beat us against the concrete pier. I know I was nervous telling my father and mother about it that evening, admitting that I’d jumped in off the pier, but they were so proud of me and my shiny trophy. I still have that trophy; such is its importance to me.

One day in 1982, when I was 14 years old, our childhood was made all the richer when a fin appeared close to us when we were swimming at Beenbawn. A huge shadow of grey moved under the water, broke the surface and jumped again, so close to us.

‘Shark, shark!’ were the screams, as we climbed over each other to get to the rocks.

People on the beach stood up and stared. Shouts and panic filled the air. Then came the words ‘dolphin’, ‘porpoise’.

The shadow appeared to follow us. The fin was the length of an arm; the body was twice the size of any of us and so shiny. It was a dolphin.

As we walked home past the lighthouse, we decided to drop in. Paddy was sitting on his chair by the stove, the cat beside him. What I loved most about Paddy was that he wore his white Aran jumper inside out, to save the clean side for the days the tourists came. Today, it was blackened by the stove fire.

‘Paddy, did you see the dolphin?’ we asked.

He lifted his cap back on his head, took out his pipe and looked up at us.

‘Sure I know. ’Tis I that spotted him a few weeks ago, coming and going to the harbour. He’s following the boats in the evening. He’s resting over in that cave.’ He pointed to the entrance across the channel.

Our eyes opened wide.

‘He was here, swimming with us?’

‘He was, following you around. Sure I was watching him. That’s why I was watching you – he followed you to Beenbawn the last day. He was right behind you, Nuala.’ There was a huge smile on his face. We were so excited. Our very own dolphin.

‘See you tomorrow, Paddy,’ we called, and we ran off home.

Fungie the Dingle dolphin had arrived to fill our summers, to fill our lives for the following four decades. Swimming daily with Fungie was such an amazing privilege. For me, his presence, his bubbles, his grace, his patience and his beauty were the forces that carried me through the longest and darkest swims in the winter. Sláidín and Beenbawn remained my places, where dreams were born and where life was reasoned through.

The sea was a way of life. It was where we played, and where we learned to understand the risks that life presented to us. It was where we learned to be able to ask for help.

I was exposed to the sea’s dangers, living in a fishing family where discussions often centred on boats and lives being lost. Even so, when storms occurred, the boats continued to fish. My father often told us about the events of 1961 – Hurricane Debbie – which, to him, was a ‘bit of a breeze’. In 1939 my grandfather Ned Moore took a timber boat from Dingle to Killybegs, County Donegal, where the Moores began their fishing lives and where I was born. My grandad on the McGowan side was also a seafarer.

The sea is where I have always found my peace. That feeling was there from the start. I remember being told, in an effort to dispel my curiosity about the birds and the bees, that I had been discovered floating into the harbour in a scallop shell. This image remains cemented in my mind and to me it has always accounted for my passion for the sea. Never a petite child, the whole concept of the stork was far too romantic and impractical for me to believe, but the notion that I was of the sea felt right and true.

My mother insisted that we completed every water-safety course, every sea-survival course, all the training available. We learned how to take off our jeans in the water, make floats out of our clothes and tow people, and do resuscitation and CPR. I had every certificate. Some courses I completed twice, even the senior ones. My mother insisted it would give us confidence. The greatest lesson it ever gave me was never to underestimate the power of the water. Looking back, I can see that my childhood training prepared me for an amazing sea journey.

I remember, as a very young child, the sinking of the trawlers the Evelyn Marie from Killybegs in 1975 and the Carraig Úna off Rathlin O’Beirne Island in 1976. I remember the feeling of loss in the community. As a young child, I knew all the victims’ names. Families I had met, crews my people on both sides knew well, had lost members. My mother and father never sheltered us from the risks of the sea, but being exposed to that sense of loss was one of the greatest teachers. Accepting the danger was a way of life, but deep inside we held that respect. Each day my family and the rest of our coastal communities returned to their ocean.

In my early 20s, I trained as a member of the Irish Coast Guard Dingle Unit. The need to be prepared to rescue was always embedded in me. If I could help anyone, I would have the skills. Very early on I completed a coxswain’s course to drive the rescue RIB. We worked on areas like casualty recovery and cliff removals, controlling the rescue boat on the transfers of casualties from inshore RIBs to the RNLI vessels, which I loved – that race against time. I always trained for all outcomes. I trained to be strong in the presence of fear and worked for many years in the rescue services.

My mind has always screamed I’m nearly there as opposed to I can’t do it. I believed in myself even back then. Those experiences of my youth taught me to trust myself and gave me a gut instinct to embrace risk and danger. I think there was always salt water in my blood.

The sea is a way of life. I was born to it.

2

KING OF THE HILL

‘You can keep going and your legs will hurt for a week, or you can quit and your mind will hurt for a lifetime.’

Mark Allen

Living in the south-west of Ireland, in the Dingle Peninsula, cycling long distance was an enduring passion of mine. I cycled the 40 kilometres around Slea Head several times a week and took part in the annual 120-kilometre-long Ring of Kerry cycle challenge. It was just how I spent my spare hours. The freedom of the open road and our countryside. The wind in my hair as I enjoyed the rolling coastlines. Combined with my love for the sea and swimming, it led to a yearning to give a triathlon a go.

I had read a book called Iron Will: The Triathlete’s Ultimate Challenge, in which Mike Plant talked about the beginnings of the Ironman Triathlon, and it fascinated me. I felt that, with my background in swimming and cycling, it would be a good transition to make. I always believed I could do an Ironman Triathlon. Or, at least, I could try. I was invited to take part in the 2002 Chicago Triathlon, in a fundraising team. This was the world’s biggest triathlon, hosting 7,000 athletes. Without a thought, I signed myself up.

The first thing I did was to purchase a new bike for racing. Secondly, I thought entering a triathlon event close to home would provide a good focus before I travelled to Chicago. I had never done it before, but I viewed myself as a strong athlete, so it was only a matter of putting three sports together.

In July 2002 I registered for the King of the Hill Triathlon in Kinsale, County Cork. It was a sprint-distance event – a 750-metre swim, a 20-kilometre cycle and a 5-kilometre run – half the distance of the Chicago event, which was five weeks away. The Kinsale triathlon was part of the Triathlon Ireland series, an event that involved a technical course of hills and challenges. The plan was to try out my new racing bike and find out how a triathlon worked. My swimming was my strength, so for me, this was all about finishing and learning from the results.

I drove down to Cork the night before with Tania, my friend from Tralee. When we arrived at registration, as I collected my race packet, I was asked for a previous finish time. I joked that I hoped I’d finish before they took down the bunting. Silence. Sensing they were still waiting for an answer, I replied, ‘This is my first triathlon. I have never competed before.’

The woman looked at me.

‘No one chooses the King of the Hill as their first event. This is a Triathlon Ireland series event and there are points for competing. It’s not for first-timers.’ She wasn’t being dismissive, just matter of fact.

The athletes milling around looked very fit. I have a good level of confidence, even a bit of cockiness at times, but I felt intimidated by my surroundings. Suddenly I was filled with doubt.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I was only here to try.

The following morning at the car park, a field between the beach and the road at Kinsale, the activity was manic. The sound of triathletes on turbo spinners and the vibration of the static training devices cyclists used to warm up filled the air. Standing there with my bike, I was frozen. What do I do? Where do I put my bike? How do I organise my area? What do I wear for swimming? How do I get to my bike after the swim? What do I eat? There were so many issues that I had not thought through. There was no camaraderie and no direction, just athletes focused on winning. In fact, the more I questioned myself, the more I thought, What am I doing here? I was strong but I had never been lean. I didn’t look anything like these athletes.

The transition area was where we put our bikes. Beside the bikes, the athletes laid out all their things in their own special ways. Some had a small towel and on it, they placed socks in shoes, a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Their helmet was attached to the handlebars and in the helmet lay sunglasses, a bandana and sunscreen.

I looked around and realised two things: first, the laying out was to speed up the transition from swim to bike, and second, the key thing was for everything to be visible and easy to pick up.

I chose a space and lifted my bike onto the rack. I laid out my stuff on a towel, all the time watching the people around me and trying to mimic their organisation.

I thought about the tyre pressure and put exactly what was needed into the bike tyres. I wandered down to the beach, the sand soft underfoot. I memorised the route to the field and had a good look at the swim course. It was only 750 metres. I looked at each of the buoys from different angles, so that I could visualise my route, but it was so short I knew it would not cause me any difficulties. There were 126 entrants, and they all wore wetsuits. Many were already in the water, rotating their arms and warming up. I was the only entrant on the beach in a set of swimming togs. Tania was with me all the time, convincing me I would be fine.

Competitors entered the sea to start to acclimatise their bodies to the water temperature. I was quite content to breathe in and breathe out and save my energy for what I would be doing later. I was glad I could not see myself because I could feel every pore exuding fear and doubt.

I heard that other voice, the one inside my head that got me here, saying, I’m not here to race. I’m here to learn. It’s okay to mess up. There is no such thing as losing, just results we learn from.

I had been training using the three sports together for three months. I was a strong cyclist and a fast swimmer. I could understand the theory of triathlon. I had read the books and watched the videos. I had spoken to a few people. Now I had to present myself as a competitor.

I wandered over to the race marshal on the beach and asked, ‘Shall I go in at the back of the group? How do we go around the one yellow buoy? This is my first event.’

He looked at me in disbelief and said, ‘It’s a running start. It’s a race! Everyone runs in together.’

My eyes turned back to the yellow buoys. They were so small in the distance. I could not understand how that was going to work.

The triathletes were now all out of the water, and we gathered close to the marshalled area. The whistle blew: the race was on.

Over a hundred athletes ran together, splashing, arms moving in all directions.

It was an out-of-body experience. Caught up in the crowd of rubber-clad bodies with the momentum of a wave, I felt like I was in the Pamplona Bull Run. We were all vying for the same inch of water. There were bodies moving over me, slaps flying, and I couldn’t think what to do. I was in survival mode.

The concept of controlled breathing was gone. This was sheer physical intrusion. The inner voice screamed, This is your turf! This is your rough water and you’re bigger than this. This is your battle. The swim is what you are good at. Get yourself out of this mess.

I was physically strong in the water and, when bodies tried to swim over me or give me a slap as they swam by, heck, there was no wanting in me. I looked up and decided to swim outside the group, to find some clean water, as we call it, adding to the distance but making for a better swim. I pushed hard and swam to the beach. This was the fastest I’d ever swum, and I was so proud I was in the lead group. We entered shallow water. Getting my feet under me wasn’t easy, but I was upright and moving.

Running up the soft sand to the transition area, my legs were wobbly. I couldn’t get my breathing back on track. This is why people avoid standing up quickly after swimming. I was lightheaded. I could have trained for this if I’d known about it. I almost fell twice on the way up the field. People I’d passed in the water were running by me now. You don’t tend to forget the faces of other athletes as they run past and look at you. Something in that glance stays in your mind. Do I look defeated? It’s a question you ask yourself, of course, but it is very different when you see it in the eyes of others.

I found my blue and yellow bike. Then I had to figure out how to start the cycle. I really had not thought this through. I got a towel to dry the salt and sand from my body and change into my shorts and top. Athletes ran past me, jumping on their bikes, water dripping from their triathlon suits.

One athlete shouted, ‘What are you doing?’ as he ripped off his wetsuit, running at the same time. He didn’t wait for an answer.

What about chafing? I wanted to scream at them. Should you not change into dry underwear?

I held up my towel and, right there in the transition area, I took off my swimming togs and put on my underwear. The other competitors ran past me in utter disbelief. I thought I was doing the right thing. I had never once considered the notion of cycling with my swim togs on, nor had anyone suggested any other attire for swimming. Shoes and socks on, I was finally off, just as two slow swimmers were making their way up to their bikes. At least I was not last.

There was a wonderful group of marshals on the bike course, and they gave such support. I smiled back at each of them and thanked them. The road out of the transition area to the bridge was uphill straight away. My legs were a ton weight and wobbling like jelly. The cycle was gradually uphill for 10 kilometres, so I stood on the pedals and tried to get some momentum. I began crying because I felt so weak and because I couldn’t go any faster. But I knew it wasn’t about the fitness – it was about the mind. Everyone else was so fast; I had not trained to race. Trying to steady myself, I said aloud, ‘There’s no going back.’

I managed to get into a rhythm. I had trained on so many hills at home. I closed my mind to my surroundings and visualised the Conor Pass, a route I had cycled so often. That was 6 kilometres of a tough uphill, and this challenge was just a little further.

At the 10-kilometre turnaround, I was feeling brilliant. The struggles were behind me, the wind in my face as I headed downhill. Only 3 kilometres to go, but something felt wrong with the way the front tyre was going around. Suddenly, bang. I got a puncture. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t fix the puncture and, even if I quit now, I still needed to get back. The only choice was to run the remaining distance down to the transition area with the bike. I began the slow job of jogging while holding the handlebars of my racer. I burst out crying. A voice inside asked, What’s with the crying? How weak am I?

I was beginning to see that crying and sport were not compatible. It is so hard to cry and think at the same time. Anyone who has ever had a tantrum will know that they take a lot of energy. Now was not a good time! If I was ever going to get control of my breathing, I needed to stop crying.

I screamed at myself. There is no medal at the end of this, no certificate and certainly no one who cares about it more than you. Do this for you!

When the transition area came into sight, I got so excited. The faces of the people I’d left behind an hour ago were still there. I was so happy, but then I saw that some of the people who’d started this race with me were packing up their bikes. The clapping people at the finish line were applauding competitors as they came to the end of their run. I was only finishing the bike leg.

I threw my bike on the ground in the transition area and my body followed it, pride denying me another crying fit. Muscles aching, frustrated, angry and confused, I sat there.

‘You are well able to finish this. Loads of runners are out on the course.’ Tania was leaning over the railing, trying to convince me to keep going, to push myself through the last section.

‘For what? Why would I want to get up now and run-walk-crawl another 5 kilometres? The other triathletes are all finished, and I haven’t even started the run. I’ll be mortified,’ I replied.

Inside, I was thinking, If I stand up now, all these people will know that I hadn’t yet finished the race. If I sit here, they will think I’m finished. I did not recognise this fragile, insecure person I had become.

Why would I embarrass myself by continuing? Being accepted as a triathlete, at that moment, meant being equal to them. Instead, I was thrown to the ground, half-finished.

‘Will these people remember you next week?’ Tania said, trying to get me going. Probably not, but would I remember that I quit? Most definitely. I had no reason to worry about their opinions of me. This was about my own standards. I always finished.

I stood up. I was going to finish. Tania smiled as I walked past her.

I started my walk up the hill for the second time. Just 5 kilometres and this is over. You only have to walk out to Beenbawn Beach and back again. You do this every day. Don’t make it more than it is. It’s only a walk. There was nothing difficult about it, except for my embarrassment as I passed the race marshals and remaining supporters.

One lady smiled and said, ‘You will love yourself if you finish.’

I smiled and said thank you.

There were very few athletes left out on the road. I started jogging, then walking, not breathing because, once again, crying had taken over and everything was now foundering in anger. I was not as fast as I thought I was. I had envisioned this being a much easier event.

Triathlon was not for me. It was so hard to jog when it felt like the event was over. I grimaced, gasped and pumped my legs up that hill. I tried to remind myself that I didn’t need any applause. I could clap myself on the back any day and a medal, if I wanted to have one, would cost all of €2 in a shop. Being out there on my own, with only 3 kilometres to go now, became personal. Strangely enough, as I plodded on, I started to jog slowly, and I got a small but effective momentum going.

I arrived at the 2.5-kilometre turnabout, now only visible by a mark on the road. All the marshals were gone. There was evidence of a water stop, where a hundred athletes had jogged by long ago and grabbed water as they raced. Now, just a sign remained.

I could have cheated and turned a few metres short of the mark. I didn’t. I went to the exact spot, despite being there alone. I turned by doing an exaggerated circle. Giggling to myself, I was nearly there. Suddenly I raised the tempo. I was able to jog and sing. I think this was the first time that I really understood that the mind is the main obstacle to progress. My legs moved once I understood that it was possible. Training can’t help much if the spirit is weak. With a small smile, singing to myself, I looked down the hill. There was the large clock with the finish tape. I was last in the field, but I was also swollen with pride. I should have driven the route last night, to find out where I was going. Maybe that would have made it easier.

An older man shuffled ahead of me. Like me, he was struggling to cover the last 50 metres. Further ahead were his supporters, urging him on. I decided I couldn’t pass the man. Where would be the glory in that? I stood in the ditch until he came close to the line and then I made a dash for it as if I had a huge reserve of energy.

Crossing a finish line has different meanings for different people. Some athletes do it for points. Some do it for money. Some do it out of obsession. I was doing this for fun, but it was not fun. I realised that being self-conscious about how you look when you are competing is the enemy of achievement. Are they thinking I’m not fit enough? I was thinking. Or that I don’t fit in? I did not fit in. I did not look like any of the other triathletes. I had no idea how to compete on their level. How could I enjoy anything when I was worried about so many things? The person I was that day worried me. I was doing it – I had finished it – but my concerns about how I looked had taken so much energy from me.

As I crossed the finish line of my first triathlon, the tears welled up in my eyes – again. It was a relief to be still standing and a very proud moment. Tania was waiting. I was a big hero in that moment, both to my friend and to myself. I had done it at my own pace, but the point was that I had done it. The lady who’d wished me well was still there too, ready to take my timing chip.

‘Aren’t you proud?’ she smiled again.

I nodded.

‘Are they all gone home?’ I asked because I could see only two bikes left in the transition area and five cars left in the car park.

‘They’re all gone, but you’re fine. This is a fast race,’ She smiled as she took my timing chip from my ankle. I was officially last.

I nodded and walked to the transition area. Tania and I gathered my bike and other things into my car. We were the last car to leave. There was no sign left of there ever having been a race.

A 750-metre swim, a 20-kilometre cycle and a 5-kilometre run. My entire sprint triathlon was 1 hour 40 minutes. That time would be so acceptable today, but 20 years ago coming in after 1 hour 40 minutes meant that the banners had already been rolled up and the transition bars removed. It was an elite sport.

From then on, my training for Chicago took on a personal element. The physical side of the triathlon was not my obstacle. Dealing with the mental and emotional side was going to be the real test. I needed to create a sense of belonging, to figure out how I could fit in.

Standing at the starting line of a race is a battle when you believe you don’t fit in. I had trained but, without the feeling of having the right to be there, I felt shrunken and embarrassed. I didn’t look like an athlete, but I was certainly strong and athletic. I had covered the exact same route as everyone else. How could people like me get a start in triathlon?

To win this war, I would have to conquer the enemy within. I needed to figure out how to beat my weakness, and how to compete. During the following weeks, I trained to be better between the bike and the run, dropping the bike at the Skellig Hotel and starting to jog out the three fields, even for five minutes. I practised standing up from the swim and running back to the beach. They were small changes, but they were giving me confidence. I would be better in Chicago.

I learned so much from that first triathlon. I accepted that defeat was a momentary thing and that winning was personal. I was so strong when I was cycling, and I could run when I felt I was close to the finish. The King of the Hill changed me as an athlete and shaped my future in sport. Coming home afterwards, I had so much to think about, but I had one certainty: I was not going to carry this feeling. I would create a path forward. I would figure out how to fit in.

Six weeks later, as planned, I arrived in Chicago with the team representing Our Lady’s Hospital for Sick Children, Dublin. My next triathlon challenge was double the distance: a 1.5-kilometre swim, a 40-kilometre cycle and a 10-kilometre run. An Olympic-distance triathlon.

Somewhere in my mind was the thought that the longer the distance, the more time I would have to steady myself. I would need time. Distance was not my enemy, speed was. This event would be, first and foremost, about finishing. I felt that would help take the focus off my time and put the emphasis on the event itself.

I was part of a team with everything organised for us, which was a welcome change. I met amazing triathletes like David Adams and Miguel Gernaey, all great fun. A few days before the race, Dave brought us around the swim and run routes. He spoke about the need to train, to visualise the run route, to know when challenges would occur, and to keep hydrated. It seemed so much easier to take on the race when we could visualise it, all the turns and loops. Had I driven the run and cycle routes in Kinsale, it would have been easier for me. I still had not figured out how to change out of my swimming togs for the bike, so I decided to do the cycling and running in my togs and just pull up my shorts over them. I was a lot more comfortable in the longer events.

Chicago put all thoughts of King of the Hill out of mind. I passed the finish line in 3 hours 30 minutes, still wearing my swimming togs. My 10-kilometre run was a walk, but my 40-kilometre cycle and 1.5-kilometre swim were excellent. I was so proud. The team were waiting at the finish line with the Irish flag, clapping like maniacs for everyone. This was the sense of belonging that I loved.

Watching world champions and Olympians complete the event in under two hours was magical. Barb Lindquist was the first professional home, and it was unbelievable to me that we had completed the same course and that she was beside me. I walked straight over to her and asked for a photo. She obliged with a smile, as I unwrapped myself from my Irish flag and placed it in front of us. How I wished I had put on a T-shirt! I was standing there in my swimming togs and cycling shorts, chatting with one of the best triathletes in the world. I explained it was my first international distance event.

‘Any tips?’

She smiled as she held on to the Irish flag, then turned her petite frame towards me and said, ‘You got to lose the belly for the bike and the run to be faster. Still, your time is good. If you race as a Clydesdale or an Athena athlete, there are records to be won for you.’ A wink and a smile. I smiled back.

It didn’t seem realistic to believe I could ever be a runner, but her words, ‘there are records to be won for you’ were ringing in my ears. My 40-kilometre cycle only took 1 hour 30 minutes, and my swim was 19 minutes per kilometre. I was still losing time on transitions and the run, but I had improved so much. My time was strong. What was a Clydesdale? Or an Athena? I had to find out.

I spotted a bright yellow tent with loud music blaring from within, and inside was a festive atmosphere. I had found the Clydesdales. A group of larger athletes were milling around. It turned out to be an athletic association for triathletes and runners, in which athletes competed within weight categories. The colossal banner of triathlon records hanging on the wall, showing the ages and weight categories, gave me a huge sense of excitement. I could compete in the weight category of 180 pounds and over, giving me a 20-pound cushion. I could enter the 200-pound category, but I had dreams of losing weight. Nothing sharpens focus more than a deadline. A man walked by wearing a T-shirt that said, ‘Caution: Wide Load’. I smiled.

I studied the banner again, thinking I was mistaken. My age group and weight category showed a time of 3 hours and 43 minutes as the present world record. I had just competed faster than that. I was shocked, but then I was invigorated. I walked forward and registered as a member there and then. I could visualise my name on that banner. I could have a world record.

Returning to Dingle from Chicago, I remained energised over the following weeks as I researched and developed training plans. I started cycling and running, swimming and cycling, training to be faster between each of the disciplines. Triathlon was a sport that demanded intelligence. Chicago had filled my mind with new words, like ‘commitment to the outcome’, ‘enthusiasm’, ‘persistence’ and ‘determination’. It was the first time I realised I could be breathless and keep running. Before, when I became breathless, I stopped. I felt like I had never really challenged myself before. In Ireland, most athletes, at least those taking on Olympic-distance triathlons, were lean and muscular. It was hard for me to connect with those people. In Chicago, I saw top-tier athletes who looked like me.

I was going to be a winner.