I have always loved swimming. My parents used to say I was swimming before I was walking. That doesn’t mean I’m an incredibly strong or technical swimmer, it simply means I feel at home in the water. At school I swam competitively and did well, but that was many, many years ago and required many, many hours of training. Over time, swimming became something gentler for me, a few lengths at the gym, playful splashing in the pool, long, lazy swims at the beach.
Then in October, when I moved to Knysna, everything shifted.Brandon, who was training for the Knysna Extreme, introduced me to open water swimming at Belvidere in the lagoon. Suddenly, swimming wasn’t about tiles and tumble turns. It was about four distant buoys floating in the wide expanse of water, anywhere between 1.6 and 2.5 km depending on how brave (or energetic) you felt that day.
The first time I went out, I paddled my way to the first buoy. No pressure. No expectations. Just me, the water, and the view.And what a view. The mountains rising in the background. The sun glistened across the lagoon. The quiet rhythm of arms slicing through water. It was breathtaking.Over the months, I grew braver. I swam further. Eventually, I was capable of swimming the full distance. There was only one small issue.I like swimming backstroke. Not exactly the textbook stroke for open water swimming.But I’ve never really been one for swimming with the pack. Sometimes it’s far more fun to swim against the flow , literally.
Then came the decision to enter the Moreson Myl, a charity open water swim held in Wilderness at the beautiful Island Lake Holiday Resort. “Myl” is Afrikaans for “mile,” and a mile is 1.6 km , our usual training distance, so definitely doable. There was also a 350 m option, but we were there for the mile.
Still… this felt different.Two hundred-plus swimmers. A mass start.And the big question: could I swim backstroke. Brandon, Pam, and I arrived early on Saturday morning. The sun was rising over the water, painting the sky in soft gold. It was one of those perfect mornings , calm, bright, full of possibility. Brandon’s parents came to support us, cheering from the water’s edge. Their presence alone made the morning feel special. The start was delayed by half an hour, which only gave the nerves more time to settle in. Timing devices were strapped to our ankles, and we waded into the cool water to wait.
Pam, calm as ever, told us not to worry about where she was in the pack, she’d be fine. Me? Not quite so brave. Thankfully, Brandon said he’d stay close to me, swimming with his bright yellow buoy so I could always spot him. Then the hooter blasted. And everyone was off.I started with freestyle. I really did try. But it’s not that I can’t swim freestyle , it’s that I love backstroke. So there I was, flipping from freestyle to backstroke, from backstroke to freestyle, not exactly built for speed.
Swimming among so many people was challenging. Arms everywhere. Kicks everywhere. A few times I swam straight into other swimmers and they into me. It’s amazing how small the water can feel when 200 plus people are thrashing through it. I decided to hug close to the island, convinced it would shorten my distance in my mind at least. Brandon patiently swam alongside me, gently trying to steer me away from the reeds.
Unfortunately, I don’t always take well to instructions even when they are clearly in my best interest. So yes… I found myself swimming into the reeds more than once. But eventually, through splashing and reeds and stubborn backstroke determination, I saw it. The big red buoy.The finish. I could do this.And in that moment, it didn’t matter that I wasn’t the fastest.
It didn’t matter that I wasn’t swimming textbook freestyle.
It didn’t matter that I zigzagged my way across the course.
It didn’t matter that the course was actually 2km,no wonder I was tired.
What mattered was …
I was brave enough to start.
Stubborn enough to continue.
And joyful enough to swim it my way.
Sometimes the best swims aren’t about racing the pack. They’re about floating on your back, looking up at the sky, and realising you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
