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TONY SCALABRINO BREAKS AGE RECORD SWIM

On 3 January 2007, Tony Scalabrino broke the record for the oldest swimmer to cross from Robben Island to Bloubergstrand. Herewith his own (as always, extremely humerous) take on the swim:

STRANDED
BY TONY SCALABRINO
     THE THIRD DAY OF JANUARY IN THE YEAR TWO THOUSAND AND SEVEN

Each succeeding wave washed me closer to the beach. When my head was covered by white water, I knew I was close . Eventually, when I could feel sand brushing against the hairs of my chest, it dawned on me that I was in shallow water and perhaps I should try standing. So I did, only to be knocked over by the next breaker. Finally I wobbled on to the beach, clear of the water. This was a distinct improvement on my first crossing when I actually had to crawl on to the shore.
     I had arrived. I had completed the swim. My first reaction was of jubilation -    “Yeah, I’ve done it.” Then I looked around. My second reaction was of consternation - “Where in the world was I ?” This was’nt Kleinbaai. This was’nt Big Bay. This was way north of Blouberg. My third reaction was of realisation -     Basil, my beachman, was waiting for me to hit the beach somewhere down south.
He will never find me !!!!
     My fourth reaction wasn’t a reaction at all - just a thought - “Did Robinson Crusoe feel the way I feel - abandoned?” I looked out to sea. The boat was still there, beyond the breakers, getting slaughtered by the South Easter. “Should I swim back to the duck ?   Should I face also getting slaughtered by the raging South Easter ?  Should I have my head examined ?” No Way not Today !!!
     A wise old man once told me “ Sonny, when the chips are down, when you’ve hit rock bottom, when all seems lost, just remember one thing - One door closes only for another to open.”  That door was opened by Dale.
     “Hey, where have you swum from ?”
     “Robben Island. But I’ve got a problem. A friend is supposed to meet me on the beach, but he’ll never find this place.”
     “Can I help ?”
     “Have you got a car ?”
     “Yes.”
     “Has it got a heater ?”
     “Yes.”
     “Great.”
At this point I should explain that it is the norm for me to get the ‘shakes’ big time about ten minutes after a long sea swim in cold water. It is supposed to be a mechanism which the body uses to warm itself to normal body temperature. Soon after I got into the car, the convulsions started. Past experience has taught me not to fight them. Shake rattle and roll. Every muscle in the body moves in a different direction. Speech becomes a stutter. I was resigned to the process but I can imagine an observer becoming totally alarmed at the sight. Dale was no exception. What must it feel like, to offer help to a stranger from the sea and then watch him apparently die in your car ?
“Shall we try to find your friend ?”
“GGGoood  iiiidea.  LLLett’s tttry.’”
      We cruised down south looking for Basil, but I was busy trying to keep my head on my neck. This made it difficult to focus my eye on the world around me. Eventually we ended up in Kleinbaai, Blouberg. By this time the convulsions were beginning to dissipate. He didn’t show it, but I think Dale was beginning to feel a sense of relief. I wasn’t going to peg off in his car after all. Dale took out his cell phone and we made several calls, trying to make contact with Basil, but to no avail. At this stage the shakes were gone and I was back to being a coherent human being. Dale’s contribution to my well being had been immense but there was nothing more that he could do for me. We were at the parking lot outside the ‘Ons Huise’ restaurant, a place where Basil might find me. So I thanked him and he left.
       I sat on a bench, soaked up the sun and waited. But then I had an idea. I got up and strode into the restaurant. People stared. Most displayed a curious expression on their faces. Not surprisingly, because I was a fine figure of a man - short, hairy, potbellied with a face sun burnt a bright beet rood red and two white rings around the eyes. I was elegantly attired in a black speedo bathing costume, a bright red bathing cap, topped off with the latest fashion in swimming goggles. Understandably, the receptionist was rather startled by the apparition that was me, so she called the manager.
“ Please excuse my appearance, but I have just swum from Robben Island.”
“ Great. How can we help you ?”
“ I wonder if you wouldn’t mind phoning for a taxi ?”
He kindly agreed and made the necessary call.
“ The taxi will be waiting for you in the parking lot in about 15 minutes.”
I thanked him and went back to my bench.
      The sun was warm, the ambiance pleasant and my thoughts drifted to the beginning of the swim. We arrived at the Island early this morning. When I jumped into the sea from the boat, I expected to be shocked by the cold water, but instead I was surprised at how warm the sea was. Most of my swims have been in 13/14 Celsius, a temperature my fat encased carcass can handle, but swimming in this pea soup (measured 17 Celsius by Hugh) was so much nicer. The tide was low so as I swam through the kelp to the Island to begin the swim I could see the sea bottom and enjoyed the beauty of it all.
       Later, at about a kilometer into the crossing, the temperature dropped to about 15 Celsius, which was still pleasant but then the sea started getting choppy - not so nice. Strong swimmers plough through the chop. I am not a strong swimmer. I hate the chop - partly because I swallow sea, partly because it knocks me off my stride but mostly because it prevents me from sleeping. I swim slowly. The fact that I hold all the records for the slowest crossings attests to that. The best way to pass the time on a long swim is to induce a state of sleep. Sleepwalking is a natural phenomena but sleepswimming is an art only acquired by many hours of mental training and only mastered by a few.
        Every hour and a half, I take a break, mainly to check on my boat crew. Piloting a slow swimmer can be extremely dangerous to one’s mental health. Chronic boredom can drive them nutters, so I normally provide them with a bag of goodies, rich in nutrients, to keep them alert and on the job. On my first break I did my customary check on Peter and Hugh. They appeared to be bearing up well, which I suppose is to be expected because they had piloted me on previous swims and this no doubt had imbued them with a degree of mental strength and fortitude.
        I was apprehensive at the beginning of the swim, partly because my last crossing was two years ago, partly because my training schedule was disrupted by a bout of flue, resulting in my swimming only two kilometers in the last ten days, but mostly because the weather forecast predicted that the South Easter would start pumping later today. I don’t like the South Easter. The only time I ever aborted was because of a South Easter. It was late afternoon. I was a mile from the beach. The wind changed to South East and gradually increased in strength. It was later afternoon, half an hour later, and I was still a mile from the beach. Barry was the boatman and he was starting to get a mite anxious.
“Tony, I think we should pack it in.”
“ Don’t worry Barry, I’ve still got plenty of swimming in me.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was still a mile from the beach, and the wind velocity was increasing.
“ Tony, I really think we should call it a day. It’ll be dark soon and even now we are going to battle to get back to Oceana.”
I could see that Barry was truly worried. On the other hand I hate quitting. I absolutely hate quitting. I hate quitting with a passion. I was totally cheesed off. My heart wanted to continue swimming but my head had to concede that Barry was right. We aborted.
         Now, as I swam, the prospect of the South Easter kept intruding in my thoughts. Don’t  worry, I told myself. The weather bureau is often unreliable, more often wrong than right. So, low and behold, as we approached the last quarter of the swim, my optimistic hopes were dashed. The South Easter arrived. I got knocked to the left. I got knocked to the right. On several occasions I got knocked 360 degrees with Hugh shouting from the boat.
“ Tony, Tony you’re swimming back to the Island.”
Eventually Peter and Hugh came up with a brilliant solution. They turned me North so that the swell was behind me, placed the boat broadside to the wind and told me to aim for the point of the bow. The ploy worked and the South Easter, with the help of an ingoing tide eventually washed me on to the beach.
       The arrival of the taxi startled me out of my reverie. The driver walked right past me, looking for his prospective passenger. I strode after him.
“ Hullo there, here I am.”
He looked at me. I don’t think he liked what he saw. Maybe he was wondering where I kept the money for the fare. There didn’t seem to be any place, unless, like a drug mule, I had secreted it in a body orifice. If I was in his shoes I would have asked outright, “Hey mate, how are you going to pay the fare ?” But he didn’t. He quietly invited me into the car and after asking directions, took me to Oceana.
         As I got out of the car I looked for the boat. In the boat I had my bag. In the bag I had my clothes, my car keys and my money. But the boat was not there, because the boat had come and the boat had gone. I had no money to give the taxi man, so I gave him a big smile.
“Just a minute. I ‘ll be back.”
I sauntered into the clubhouse. Most of the occupants were at the pub. No one gave me a second glance or inquired as to the state of my undress. They are made of sterner stuff at Oceana. But my luck was in. I spotted Monty, a past commodore  of the club.
“Hi Monty, I’ve got a problem.”
Monty is a past master at dealing with problems and after I had explained my predicament, he organised me the cash within minutes.  I then phoned Kay, Peter’s wife. Again I was in luck because at that moment Peter walked into the house. I asked him as to whether he could bring my bag back to Oceana. There was a brief but pregnant pause. I could hear the mumbles in his brain. He and Hugh had battled against the South Easter to get the boat back to port. The duck then had to be driven on to the trailer and towed back to it’s garage in Rondebosch. He was dead tired. Now he was asked to come all the way from Claremont, back to Oceana in the rush hour traffic. But all he said was “Okay, I’ll be there.” Half an hour later I had my bag. I paid my debt. I got dressed. I went home.
 This is not a tale of woe.This is a story of  how helpful and kind people can be,
- Dale, the good Samaritan
- Basil, driving up and down the coast, anxiously looking for me
- The ‘Ons Huisie’ manager, who could have kicked me out of the restaurant
- The taxi driver who trusted me for his fare
- Monti. who organised a loan quickly and without question
- Hugh, for his support, encouragement and expertise when the S.Easter arrived
- Peter, who gave his all to enable me to achieve my goal in retaking the record
   to be ‘The Oldest Person to have swum Robben Island’ - the record which he had held