Tribal speak

There are moments when you surprise yourself. When the calm, coffee-in-hand, dog-walking version of you quietly steps aside and something far more Johannesburg steps forward. Friday was one of those moments.

Our Belvidere routine had unfolded as it so often does. Swimmers in the water. Walkers on the shore. Nats and I strolling with the dogs, keeping pace with Brandon, Keegan and Pam as they worked their way from buoy to buoy. Gentle, predictable, almost meditative.

Until it wasn’t. A ski boat came tearing across the lagoon, dragging a skier at speed through what is very clearly a No Wake Zone. Not just bending the rules, bulldozing straight through them. At first you almost hope they’ll realise. Slow down. Correct course. Do the decent thing.

They didn’t. By the time we reached the viewpoint, the skier had fallen and the boat had paused about 20 metres from shore. Close enough. Close enough for me to decide that watching quietly was no longer an option.

I marched.There’s something quite cinematic about that kind of walk. Purposeful. Direct. Slightly fueled by outrage. I planted myself at the water’s edge and called out, “Excuse me!” once… twice… several times. The children on the boat saw me immediately. The man? He perfected the art of not-seeing.

Eventually, he looked. And I asked, as politely as one can when internally on fire, “Are you aware that this is a no wake zone and there are swimmers in the water?”His response? A casual shrug wrapped in arrogance. He’d grown up there, he said. He knew the flood levels. He could ski there. Which is fascinating because none of that has anything to do with the actual rules of the lagoon.

So I returned serve.I pointed out, quite clearly, that he obviously didn’t have a skipper’s licence if he didn’t understand how to operate a boat safely in a designated no wake zone.

His counterargument? Turning up the music. Loud enough to try and drown me out which, I’ll admit, only added a layer of absurdity to the whole scene.

Meanwhile, out in the water, the swimmers were effectively stranded at buoy two. Waiting. Watching. Trying to predict the behaviour of someone who had already proven himself wildly unpredictable.

Then, unbelievably, another child got up on the skis.Off he went again. Engine roaring. Weaving between the buoys.

Past the swimmers.By this point, Brandon had joined in let’s say his version of “polite” had loosened slightly. And rightly so. This wasn’t irritation anymore. This was a genuine safety risk.

Even a nearby fisherman, who had no personal stake in our little group, started shouting at the boater. Because some things are just universally understood or at least they should be.

And then, the quiet voice of reason from the most unexpected place. One of the children.“Dad, can we just go home?” Out of the mouths of babes and possibly the only sensible voice on that boat.

Eventually, they left. No details taken. No names. No way to report him to SANParks. Just the lingering frustration of knowing someone got away with behaviour that could have ended very differently.

But it did leave us with something else.

A reminder. Both Brandon and I grew up in the south of Johannesburg, where there’s a certain instinct baked into you. A “don’t mess with me” reflex that doesn’t ask permission before showing up. On Friday, it arrived in full force.

Pam has since decided that if anyone ever needs an escort down a dark alley, we’re the people to call. And she might not be wrong. Because sometimes, standing up and making noise isn’t about being confrontational. It’s about drawing a line in the water.

There are endurance events and then there is the Knysna Extreme.

Set in the heart of South Africa’s Garden Route, the Knysna Extreme is not your average triathlon. It is wild. It is long. It is relentless. It is, Brandon’s choice of a triathlon. No circuit races. No crowds encouraging you on. Just one singular, audacious goal.

Starting with a 5km open water swim in the Knysna Lagoon, all before most people have finished their first cup of coffee. From there, a 174km on the bike. Starting in Knysna, heading toward George via parts of the historic Seven Passes Road, then climbing over the mighty Outeniqua Pass, pushing into the dry vastness of the Karoo. The terrain changes. The wind changes. Your legs change. And just when most people would call it a day , there was still a 50km run. Through forests, over mountain passes, climbing ,descending, climbing toward Diepwalle Forest Station.

I spent the entire day championing him, throughout the epic experience. I was privileged to be his “support” following him in the car, “protecting ” him from any vehicles along the route. I was absorbing the emotional rollercoaster that only endurance sport can create, especially the endurance of my bladder.

The Extreme experience itself deserves its own story. Because it’s more than a race, it’s a test of resilience, partnership, logistics, grit, and deep internal dialogue.

But today’s story is actually my journey although Brandon is definitely my inspiration..

I’ve always been active. As a child I played multiple sports. As an adult, I’ve danced, swum, walked, and run. I’ve never been fiercely competitive, except with myself. I like to feel alive and able to move my body without the creaks and aches, of let me say age, although I have always believed ,age is but a mindset.

Then Brandon bought me a Garmin watch.

The watch has became, let’s call it “motivational.” Suddenly 10,000 steps wasn’t just a suggestion , it was a mission. I found myself walking laps around the house at night, glancing at my wrist, calculating how many steps I needed to “close the ring.” It has became slightly obsessive, if I’m honest. There’s something deeply satisfying about that tiny digital celebration.

Moving to Knysna has helped. It’s hard not to be active here. Forest trails call your name. The lagoon invites morning walks and swims. When your partner is training with dedication and discipline, it naturally pulls you along.

That said ,we still love good food. We still share a glass of wine. Health, for us, isn’t punishment. It’s balance. Watching Brandon complete the Knysna Extreme didn’t make me want to sign up for a 50km run.

But it did remind me of something important. We are capable of more than we think.

Maybe my “extreme” isn’t 174km on a bike. Maybe it’s consistency. Maybe it’s choosing movement over excuses. Maybe it’s Pilates and cardio training twice a week. Maybe it’s walking and jogging at Belvidere or Leisure Isle . Swimming 1,6km in the lagoon with friends.Maybe it’s simply deciding to be a little healthier. A little fitter. A little more intentional.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because endurance doesn’t only live in epic race days.

Sometimes, it lives in the quiet decision to keep showing up, one step at a time

No Wake Zone No Brain Zone (Fast Boat, Slow Thinking)

My Inspiration