by 
There was movement at the river, for the word has passed around
that the Nowra Fundraiser Regatta was underway.
It was rumoured that the 8kms, was really 9.5,
So all the clubs had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted paddlers, from the clubs both near and far
Had mustered at the golf course overnight.
Cause Mako love hard racing, where the wildest paddlers are
and the drummers snuff the battle with delight.
There was Matty, engine roomer and quite a dapper pup
with his singlet of the whitest white of snow.
Few could stay beside him when his blood was fairly up,
he and Mako go where others fear to go.
And Silky sweep of legend, came down to lend a hand
No better steerer ever held the oar.
For never waves could throw him, while his trembling legs could stand,
he learned to sweep a teeny lad of four.
And Court was there, a stripling, on a teeny bottom mat
she was something like a racehorse undersized.
With a touch of lanky paddler, three parts outrigger at that
and such as are by dragon boaters prized.
She was hard and tough and wiry, just the sort that won’t say die,
there was courage in her quick and snappy pause.
And she bore the badge of Mako, in her bright and fiery eye,
and she stroked the crew with heart and guts and cause.
With the wind gusting to 50, and the swell above our heads,
the crew raced towards Pig Island’s brow.
The turn around the corner into weather paddlers dread,
There was no time for fancy paddling now.
Bear bellowed “Silky wheel us, wheel us to the right”,
And boldy lad, and never fear the spills”
For never yet was paddlers that could make the 5 kms home,
If we didn’t gain the shelter of the hills.
So Ernie whipped the sprint room, we were racing past our friends
Who had sunk yet calling us to up our pace.
So we raced our boat right past them, later time to make amends
As we turned to meet the storm face to face.
We halted but for a moment, before Chicki swung the lash
But we saw our well-loved bridge just fore in view.
And we charged beneath bridge, with a sharp and sudden dash
And off towards the finish line we flew.
And down in local taverns, or where beers are often raised
Where paddlers gather, beer or two on high.
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky.
And where around the river, where the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes and the rolling plains so wide.
The Mako 9 km paddle, is a household word today
And the paddlers tell the story of our ride.
And now the section that I can’t make rhyme. SUNDAY RACING.
8km mixed = GOLD
2km mixed = SILVER
200m mixed = Mako Hungry SILVER out of 22 crews.
We raced. We laughed. We loved. We are knackered. We are Mako.
