By David

Gradually Miskimmin is being found out. Of course he will never be exposed from inside sport. Too many people rely on him for their bread and rations. Miskimmin has bought their loyalty, purchased their silence. Can you imagine Renford, the CEO of Swimming New Zealand, ever questioning a Miskimmin decision? Even if the new Mazdas were replaced with well used 1985 Yugo GVs I doubt that Layton, Renford or Villanueva would call out the dear leader. No, change in New Zealand sport is not going to come from within.

The closest anyone came to internal reform was the sterling effort of swimming’s Coalition of Regions. But even then the reformers stumbled at the final hurdle. As has so often happened in New Zealand and world politics, the most probable source of reform is likely to be the Fourth Estate; the New Zealand press. Of course I am not silly enough to include Swimwatch in a list of viable media critics. With only 250 unique readers each day Swimwatch has little influence. Indeed I imagine a fair portion of the blog’s readers are Miskimmin and Renford toadies.

Real change will need far more than Swimwatch. And it looks like that’s just the boost reform is beginning to get. I think Miskimmin and his empire may be beginning to piss off some pretty important people in the main stream media.

Remember when Swimming New Zealand misinformed the Sports Editor of The Dominion Post, Jonathan Millmow, over the results of the New Zealand team at the 2013 World Swimming Championships? I have no idea what Millmow’s private thoughts were about their deceptive blundering. At the very least, I imagine he must have attached a Post-it note on his computer saying, “Double check anything Swimming New Zealand say.”

A week ago the Fairfax New Zealand sport’s journalist of the year in 2012 and 2013, Simon Plumb, wrote an important article for the Stuff website on problems in Bike NZ. Plumb discussed Miskimmin’s decision to withhold information because; “the balance of public interest is in Sport NZ’s ability to carry out its functions effectively.” Fairfax is appealing that nonsense to the Ombudsman.

Plumb also drew attention to Sport NZ’s decision to spend $70,500 on consultancy fees with a firm “owned by former Sport NZ boss, Nick Hill.” Of course everything may be in order, but it is not a good look.

And then Plumb discovered that; “Last year the taxpayer-funded organization avoided “a relatively large” financial deficit only by “capitalizing” $200,000 spent on redeveloping a website”. I suspect many accountants would prefer a sport charity like Bike NZ to expense the cost in their annual profit and loss statement. The impression of hiding a big cost is hard to escape.

Finally Plumb confirmed that; “The organization is still trying to replace the loss of its prime commercial sponsor which left two years ago.” It appears that commercial people may be having trouble supporting the Miskimmin empire. State has left Swimming New Zealand. When good money is at stake, commercial people have an uncanny nose for the scent of trouble.

And this weekend another Fairfax and vastly experienced journalist, Mark Reason, wrote an opinion piece, published in the Sunday Star Times. His topic was Miskimmin’s plans to centralize the preparation of elite canoeing at Lake Karapiro. Here is a summary of what Mark Reason had to say.

A High Performance Canoeing Centre that will cost in the region of $1.5 million is forecast to be used by 14 people. That’s less than a single rugby team.  For the past week many of New Zealand’s canoeists have been paddling furiously against the current to tell Fairfax Media why the proposed centre will be such a colossal waste of money.

Even the CEO of Canoe Racing New Zealand says he would have distributed the funding for the centre more evenly through the sport if that decision had been available to him. But Peter Miskimmin, the head of Sport New Zealand, confirms that the choice was a high-performance centre or nothing.

The thinking behind the centre is that it will bring a number of sports together in the one environment. Rowing, cycling, triathlon and canoeing can all share certain facilities and learn from each other. Everyone is pulling together.

Many in the canoeing community believe that this is Utopian moonshine. And if you wonder why I do not directly quote all these malcontents, it is because they are afraid of the consequences. They are afraid that they will be punished for publicly airing their views. Maybe they are paranoid, but they believe that Sport New Zealand suppresses free discussion through ostracism and financial sanctions.

Mark Weatherall, the CEO of Canoe Racing New Zealand, says: “The key decision is to make a commitment to build a facility. We are yet to determine how best to use the facility. Weatherall acknowledges as “a fair call” my comment that it seems strange to approve and build a facility without first determining its purpose.

Alex Baumann, the CEO of High Performance Sport, says the centre is a long-term project. “We believe canoeing has the potential to grow. It’s a great opportunity for the future.”

Miskimmin says: “We’re looking at 15-20 years and beyond. We’re creating something for the future.” Miskimmin also expresses surprise that Canoe Racing New Zealand has not yet explicitly determined the purpose of the centre.

These men believe in their vision of excellence. Germany and Hungary, the world’s most successful canoeing nations, are club-based. But the vision for the future (in NZ) sees a high-performance centre and so a high-performance centre will be built.

“Utopian moonshine” – what a perfect description. The socialist dogma with which Miskimmin and Baumann pursue their centralized dream has not been seen since East German communism built centralized facilities for swimming in Potsdam and boxing, track and field, volleyball and yachtingat Kienbaum. We have all heard the stuff Miskimmin and Baumann come up with to justify the millions spent on their socialist ambition.

Well, you just guess who said this about their national facilities, “this was the facility where athletes and coaches from a variety of disciplines would go to hone their training in preparation for major competitions.” “In its heyday the National High Performance unit employed up to 40 coaches, six physicians, ten physical therapists, five medical assistants and four nurses for the students and 70 other athletes including world record holders.”

If you guessed the author was either Miskkimmin or Baumann, you are wrong but not without good reason. I doubt there is a fair person reading this story who would deny that the description sounds as if it was lifted straight from the Miskimmin/Baumann policy manual. But no this is in fact an East German PR hand-out telling the world about their high performance training facility in Kienbaum. It is difficult to believe that it is a National Government that is funding New Zealand’s experiment in pure sporting socialism.

Miskimmin and Baumann tell us, “this is a long term project”. We are looking “at 15-20 years and beyond. We’re creating something for the future.” Well let me have a shot at forecasting the future of the facilities being built by those two. In 15-20 years they will have been tried and proven to not work. They will be done and discarded. Cycle tracks will have been taken over by wood-worm, canoe facilities will be overrun with river weed, concrete buildings will be cracking and worn and paths and tracks will be wind-blown and unused. The purpose for which they were built will not have been achieved. The Miskimmin and Baumann dream will have failed; will have become a national nightmare.

Like every socialist sport’s delivery experiment New Zealand will be beaten by those who deliver elite sport through a diversified free enterprise open market. Eventually we will adopt a private enterprise approach. Sadly we will have lost millions and two or three generations of sporting talent in the process.

But, there is hope. The fourth estate is waking up. Forces far greater than Miskimmin or Baumann are beginning to see weaknesses; are beginning to ask why. And that is good for sport; for New Zealand; for my country and probably yours.

By David

This week I received a copy of the Constitution that every Region is expected to endorse. Uniformity and bland sameness, it seems, are going to be the defining features of the Miskimmin and Renford swimming empire. Already we can only vote for the “dear leader’s” chosen followers. Constitutional monotony is the next step in crushing individual flare and personal initiative. Mind you, the constitutional game was lost the minute Miskimmin and Moller imposed, because that’s what it was, the new national constitution on the sport of swimming. I look forward to the day when another rebellious Coalition of Regions calls a Special General Meeting and ends this whole sorry chapter in our swimming history. A few well-chosen remits would quickly restore power to the regions by means of a federal democracy.

Why? Because Swimming New Zealand is beginning to smell. Like garbage in the kitchen it’s time to put their issues in a black plastic bag; out on the footpath for Rubbish Direct to dispose of in the morning. God, I do hope they don’t go to a recycling station. There must be something better to write about than that the misfortunes of that sorry crew.

I thought about writing a story about Arch Jelley. Now there is an uplifting subject; Arch Jelley, coach of a score of international athletes, including my wife Alison. He is always labelled as the coach of John Walker. But prominent as that is, coaching Walker is also only the tip of the Arch Jelley resume. I owe Arch plenty. Through the course of a thousand telephone calls he changed me from a pretty harsh, uncompromising, bad coach to something a bit better. I would have to sell the house and the car to pay for the hours Arch Jelley patiently explained the error of my ways. Yes, Arch Jelley, he would make a fine subject for a Swimwatch story. Then I discovered Athletics New Zealand had beaten me to it. On their website they have a super piece on Arch. I recommend it. Here is the link: http://athletics.org.nz/News/ArtMID/4639/ArticleID/543966/Jelleys-Long-Stint .

That idea lost, I thought perhaps I could indulge in a little nostalgia and tell you about my first, and only parachute jump. I have done a bungy jump. I’ve been paragliding and I have over 2000 hours flying experience, including an engine failure at 9000 feet just east of Stratford in Taranaki, but, for me, nothing comes near the terror of leaving an airplane on my own at 4000 feet. This was before the days of cushy tandem jumps and the like. This was “alone, alone all alone” and down you go.

The idea of a parachute jump came to me on a suburban train traveling between Waterloo Station in central London and my home in the village of Sunningdale. An advertisement in the Evening Standard newspaper told me that an ex-member of the British SAS had recently opened a parachute school based at the Thruxton motor racing circuit airfield in Hampshire. I determined that the next weekend Alison and I would drive to Thruxton and I would take their weekend parachute training course; the conclusion of which I was assured included a very safe 4000 foot jump.

The weekend was quite demanding. It didn’t take long to work out that the ex-SAS sergeant was not one to be messed with. While that was a bit of a pain it was also reassuring. If anyone was going to get me through this alive, this guy was probably the one. We were taught how to control the parachute. We spent a couple of hours learning how to land without breaking a leg. We were trained on how to exit the airplane – “one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, one thousand and four, one thousand and five and look up to check that the parachute has opened.”

Then we began studying a long list of things that can go wrong. More importantly we were told how to react to each of the problems. It was terrifying. Do you know how many horrible things can potentially happen when you jump out of an airplane? Your parachute can open in the airplane. That’s a serious problem for you and the airplane. Your parachute can get caught in the airplane’s door, or its landing gear, or its wings, or its horizontal or vertical stabilizers. Your parachute might not open at all or the lines might get tangled. You can land in a tree or on the roof of a house. For every difficulty the correct response was emphasised and drilled.

We were allowed two hours for lunch. Alison and I visited Stonehenge and had lunch in a lovely pub called the Boot Inn. I can even remember what I ate; thinking it might be my last supper – a beef and oyster pie, a sticky toffee pudding and a pint of beer from a local independent brewer. The condemned man ate a hearty meal.

Sunday was set aside for the jump. I was on the second flight. It seemed to take forever to climb to 4000 feet. I was freezing and my legs were in agony kneeling on the airplane floor. I was nearest the door and was therefore first out. This involved holding on to the Cessna’s wing strut and climbing onto a small ledge that had been welded to the bottom of the fuselage. The SAS type had told us he would count down from five. On zero I would let go of the airplane. And he lied. Sure, he started at five and went four and three and on two he hit me on the shoulder with incredible brutality and roared, “Go”.

I got such a fright I let go immediately. “One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, one thousand and four, one thousand and five and I looked up to check that the parachute had opened. You have no idea the utter relief, the elation beyond belief that a nicely formed circle of parachute silk can provide. I was alive and the chances were good that this would end well. Carefully I guided myself down toward the many acres of grass that made up the Thruxton raceway infield. But I got that wrong. Thruxton is an area about 1500 meters long by 1500 meters wide; most of it grass. True a relatively narrow car racing track snakes around the perimeter. However with unerring accuracy I guided my parachute slap, bang into the middle of this concrete and asphalt path.

The landing bump was suitably painful and my trousers split cleanly through the crutch, but I was intact and I was alive. They asked me if I wanted to go again, for a second jump. No thank you, I had risked it all and survived. I was happy and I was going home. And that’s my parachute jump. Pleased it’s done. Pleased it’s over. Take it from me, swimming is much more fun.

By David

For readers outside New Zealand I should explain that the term tangata whenua is a Māori term for the indigenous peoples of New Zealand and literally means “people of the land”. In the context of tribal descent and ownership of land, tangata whenua are the people who descend from the first people to settle the land of a district.

And with that clarification back to swimming. This week the National Age Group Championships have been held in the Wellington Regional Aquatic Centre. That’s the pool where Swimming New Zealand defended their practice of having swimmers start by diving into illegally shallow water. After I protested and FINA confirmed the validity of the protest, Swimming New Zealand changed their mind and began to start races at the other, deep end of the pool. Or did they? More of that later.

There are always interesting stories that come out of a meet like this. I wasn’t in Wellington. I’m no great fan of the Age Group Nationals and agreed with the American decision not to have a similar national event. And as if the Age Group nationals were not bad enough the Swimming New Zealand decision to ask many age group swimmers to peak at the Commonwealth Games trials and then hold on for another month to swim in Wellington is stupid and dangerous. I’m told the decision to put the Age Group Meet after the Open Championships was made by Luis Villenueva. One can only hope that his next decision is a better one.

Probably the most amazing 2014 Age Group story was relayed to me this afternoon. The proud, Maori parents of one of the competitors could hardly live further away from Wellington. Their home is in a tiny village at the southern end of Ninety Mile Beach. In 2006 the population was 1,125; up from 84 in 2001. On Monday night the swimmer’s father decided that he just had to see his son swim. Throwing caution to the wind, he climbed into his car and set off on, what Google tells me, is an 11 hours and 46 minutes, 976 kilometer journey. Now for our American readers I must explain that this 1000 kilometer drive is no easy stroll along the I80 from New York to Chicago. This is single lane. This is ten thousand twists and turns. This is a night spend facing the glare of oncoming headlights.

Seven hours later he was in Taupo and stopped for a middle of the night snack. Finally and a further four hours later he arrived at the Wellington Regional Aquatic Centre. And Swimming New Zealand wouldn’t let him in. They said it was a fire regulation. They said the pool was full to its licensed capacity. The father pleaded to be let in. He explained he had driven through the night; had filled the car with gas twice just to see his son swim in the New Zealand Age Group Championships. Could he please go in; just for ten minutes?

But, according to Swimming New Zealand, the rules are the rules. No exceptions. The conversation had just reached this impasse when a friend of mine, who knows the Northland father, appeared at the entrance desk. My friend is well known in Wellington. Perhaps he could persuade Swimming New Zealand to let a father see his son swim. But alas no. This was not a matter to be taken lightly – the rule of law cannot be compromised.

Finally, in desperation, my friend resorted to the national conscience. “Were,” he asked, “Swimming New Zealand aware that this man’s ancestors were the tangata whenua and owned Kilbirnie Green long before the pool was built.”

Momentarily, I am told, that argument stopped the debate. But soon Swimming New Zealand was restored to their most difficult best. Not even the tangata whenua would be allowed in on this occasion. And so at the end of 976 kilometers, eleven hours, two tanks of gas and a midnight meal in Taupo a proud father sat in the pool car park while his son swam in Swimming New Zealand’s Age Group Championships.

Now, there are several aspects of this story that interest me. First of all, I love the tangata whenua argument. That’s Maori humor at its best. I’d have let the father through simply on the merits of the claim.

Second and far more seriously, given the huge injustice of making this father sit in the car park why couldn’t the Pool Manager or a couple of his staff or Layton or Renford or Villenueva or some of their other hangers on go and inspect the togs in the SwimT3 shop and make space for the father. I guess they are too important for that.

Third, why couldn’t the reception staff sell the father a single visit gym membership? I understand patrons were still being allowed into the gym from where they could watch the racing. After a full night on the road, I’m sure the twelve dollars would not have been a problem.

I understand the importance of fire regulations and building capacity numbers. In this case the rule of law is imperative. But what I don’t understand is the manner in which Swimming New Zealand pick and choose the laws that matter. For twenty five years they ordered the nation’s children to dive into an illegally shallow pool. They branded me a trouble maker for bringing the danger to their attention. And at this meet Swimming New Zealand persist in defying my protest and the world governing body’s instruction by demanding swimmers dive into the shallow end of the Wellington Regional Aquatic Centre. Every 4×50 meter relay involves twenty swimmers in each race starting their sprint from the shallow end of the pool. It’s only six months ago that a Raumati swimmer lost her front teeth diving into their precious pool. What’s happened in every relay in Wellington this week is negligence beyond belief.

And so, while I accept the need to enforce capacity rules, I do not understand why a special accommodation could not have been made in the case of the Northland parent. There were plenty of options available. Just as difficult to understand is the concern Swimming New Zealand show for capacity rules while they continue to dig their toes in over a seriously dangerous pool. Picking and choosing which safety rules matter; which ones will be enforced just makes the organization look hypocritical beyond belief. Perhaps because they are hypocritical beyond belief.