FRENCH NOTES:Simply completing an ocean swimming race should be enough of a challenge, but I can't stop my competitive instincts from kicking in, writes MATT WILLIAMS

HUNDREDS OF us stood on the beach on a sparkling clear Sydney Sunday morning. There were men and women aged from 15 to 80 waiting patiently on the sand. We had wiped on our sun screen, done our stretches and drunk our bottle of water. We were about to start in a surf life saving club ocean swimming race.

The official stood on his platform, starter gun in hand. The loud speaker crackled to life. “It is our duty to inform you that you race at your own risk. By participating you accept that this is a dangerous activity and no responsibility for accidents, including stings by jelly fish or death by shark attack, is accepted by the club.”

A voice rose from within the mass of swimmers, “Do they have to say that just before we start? We all know it, but do they have to say it right now!”

We all nod in agreement. “Bloody lawyers,” moaned another.

The gun fires. The elite swimming group, including Olympians and specialist ocean swimmers, sprint to the surf and start to navigating the breakers.

I am still on the beach. We are all grouped by age. Each wears a different coloured cap for visual safety. We wait for the younger groups . . . under 35, under 40, under 45 . . . As an old rugby mate goes past he gives me a sledge. “See you at the bar. Hope all the steaks are not gone by the time you old blokes get there.”

By now the competitor in me is getting agitated at the under 45s and my mate in particular. They are wearing blue caps. I make a mental note to overtake as many blue caps as possible. Internally I consider the stupidity of having anger toward a group of under 45s. However, after a life time of competitive behaviour I give into its simple rule.

Beat as many as possible.

Another gun shot. I am running, diving, swimming in a washing machine of waves and bodies. There is only one rule. Keep on swimming. I am hit by hands, struck by feet, pushed and bumped.

My heart is pumping, my breath raging in my lungs. I cannot keep this pace up. Finally I reach open water and desperately try to find a rhythm I can sustain. I tell myself to slow down.

I can see little through my goggles. As my head turns to breathe, I briefly see sky, rocky cliff, ocean. Sky, cliff, ocean. It repeats. My ears are plugged. I hear nothing put the slap of the ocean.

A few life savers are on rescue boards to guard our path. There are hundreds of swimmers in the water, what good would three boards do in an emergency? The loudspeaker instructions of “swimming at your own risk” ring in my ears.

I am more than 500m out and have two kilometres to swim to the finish. There is no turning back. Pride and ego won’t permit. There are fears but you cannot give into your fears, even my fear of sharks. Look fear squarely in the eye and say ‘I am going to beat you.’

Last January 25th, I took part in the Australia Day Swim in Sydney Harbour. The start was from the steps of the Opera House, a majestic location. I was later informed that the Sydney Aquarium was monitoring seven tagged bull sharks hunting in the harbour that day. My question was, what about the untagged sharks? I did not get an answer. But no one was eaten. “No worries,” as we say.

Now I have my rhythm. It is not fast. I will cover the two kilometres in about 40 minutes but time is irrelevant. Competing and completing are the prizes. I would also pay good money to beat my mate from the under 45s.

Surf life saving clubs (SLSC) are fantastic institutions. They are amateur, yet very professional and responsible for saving thousands of lives and educating young Australians about water safety. Many Irish backpackers owe their lives to a SLSC.

“Clubbies,” as the volunteers are called, risk their own lives and save tourists by the hundreds. When waves roll to the beach, the water then moves back out to sea and creates “rip” currents and they will kill the inexperienced very quickly. The flags are the safe places on the beach.

I am not between the flags now. I am more than a kilometre from the start. I can see no ocean floor. Keep on swimming. Think about Ireland, not sharks.

Rugby started me swimming. I hurt my back playing under-20s and the club doctor suggested I start doing laps of the local Olympic pool to speed up my recovery.

I was a very fit 19-year-old when I hit the pool. I don’t know what I expected but I did not expect to be physically exhausted after 100 metres. Swimming fitness is very different to rugby fitness. Swimming laps was great advice. I am not a great swimmer but I swim a lot.

In Australia the greatest killer of children under 10 is drowning. Backyard pools are the greatest killer. Many years ago I stood by my brother’s pool at a family barbecue. I watched in disbelief as my then two-year-old nephew slid silently into the water. In the few seconds it took for us to respond he sank to the bottom. No splash. No noise. If we were not there to act he would have silently drowned. His dad beat me into the water.

My brother played hooker and we joke that it was the fastest five metres he had ever run. We had our boy safe in our arms only a few seconds after he hit the water.

When I lived in Greystones, Co Wicklow, I religiously taught my own kids to swim. Not to be Olympians, but to be safe. “Do the five and survive,” we say. Teach kids to swim five metres to the edge of the pool and hang on, help will come.

In the 1980s, most Sydney rugby clubs had a relationship with a surf club. Manly with Manly SLSC. Randwick with Coogee. Easts was with the North Bondi club. My club Eastwood, had a relationship with Bilgola SLSC on Sydney’s northern beaches.

The finish line giant buoy is in sight. The inky blackness below has made way to a rolling sandy ocean floor. I pause to tread water. There are a good number of blue caps behind me. I think: “There will still be a few steaks left for me, you cheeky bastards.”

This is the most dangerous part. Years ago at the Bilgola swim I tried to catch a wave at the end. I was tired and lacked the power to drive onto the wave. The wave drove my shoulder into the sand bank. I was lucky it did not dislocate. When you are fatigued the trick is to not catch a wave, just get to the shore in one piece.

My legs are weak as my toes touch the sand. All the blood in my body has moved to my arms, shoulders and back. I slowly jog through the timing gate. The electronic tag on my ankle bleeps.

I could not care less about my time. The ocean was happy so our times are good, if the ocean was angry our times would be bad. Australian poet Kenneth Slessor once said: “Time that is moved by little fidget wheels is not my time.” The fidget wheels of a clock cannot place value on swimming in the ocean.

Simply, the challenges of the ocean make me feel it is good to be alive.