17,097.8 km to belfast
Northeasterly all week, so the pool was full of bluebottles this morning, little blue balloons with their strings out, bobbing about in the lap lanes as if they'd paid to get in.
I did my forty with my head up, like a Labrador. Got one across the wrist on length thirty-one anyway. Vic says vinegar. The lifeguard at the beach says hot water, as hot as you can stand. I stood in the shower at home until the hot water ran out and said a few things my mother wouldn't have liked.
13.2 km so far. Lachie has the map from his project stuck on Claire's fridge now, with a red pin on a line from Bronte to Belfast. He moves it when I tell him the number.
According to the pin, I have swum to Chatswood. I have never once gone to Chatswood on purpose.