Fail - My First DNF (2009)

Brendan Neil
Dec 24, 2025
4 min read

I didn’t finish.

That still feels strange to write.

In 2009, I recorded my first ever DNF. Not just in an event — but in anything I’d deliberately set out to do. Until then, I’d always found a way to get through. Slower, maybe. Quieter. But through.

This time, I didn’t.

The challenge was simple in concept and heavy in intent: cover the entire length of the Sunshine Coast. Run | Swim | Run.

Thirty kilometres from Noosa to Mudjimba. The Island Charity Swim Event. Swim from Mudjimba Beach, out around Old Woman Island, all the way to Mooloolaba. Ten kilometres, on the wrong side of the shark nets, raising funds and awareness for the kids and families of our special schools. Then another twenty-five kilometres down the coast to Caloundra.

Under my own power.

It was August, our winter, but unseasonably hot. The swim nearly cancelled due to rough conditions.

I started running well before dawn. Bevan drove the support vehicle. It was his birthday, he's 3 days younger than me. Before we left, I pulled out a birthday cake, lit a sparkler, and had a group of night-clubbing backpackers on Hastings Street sing him happy birthday.

It felt light then. Almost playful.

The run went well — mostly. I underestimated the elevation, from Noosa to Peregian. Things you don’t notice when you recce a route in a car. I was also sweating alot, it was unexpectedly hot. At 20km we spoke. I was behind schedule. I needed to pick up the pace keeping just under 5min/k pace.

By Mudjimba, I was on schedule, but already depleted.

I ate some eggs. Pulled on a wetsuit. Walked down to the beach.

That’s where it stopped being physical.

The water was rough. Northerly wind against a southerly swell. Short, sharp chop that stole rhythm and replaced it with resistance. Paddlers struggled to get out past the break. Carnage on the beach. Swimmers sent out 1min apart.

I swam out alone. Kramer, my paddler, got sidetracked out on the water, I continued swimming to the Island unassisted. The water was dark and disorienting.

Near the island, I saw the reef below me. Then a leopard shark passed directly underneath — close enough to almost reach out and touch. My mind slow enough to initially panic at the shape.

It rattled me. But I kept going. Kramer appeared.

After rounding the island, we met my safety boat — Jason and Shane. Experienced. Calm. I trusted them completely. I took on some fluid and set off again.

That’s when my body began rejecting everything.

Every attempt to drink.

Every small piece of food.

Stop. Vomit. Swim on. Ten minutes later — vomit again.

For ten kilometres.

Externally, it was chaos: chop, sickness, fatigue.

Internally, it was negotiation.

Just get to the finish. You'll deal with the run later . You've already done enough.

I knew why I was there. I’d raised money. Met the kids. Met the parents.

This wasn’t abstract motivation — it was personal.

Still, my body wouldn’t cooperate.

When I finally hit the beach at Mooloolaba, I could see the crowd from a long way out. Two parents, Rob and Mary, greeted fatigued swimmers with big hugs on the water line. Solidifying the focus on the intense gratitude toward a group of kind hearted souls - big enough to swim, bigger to choose to care.

Then Baylin — three years old — launching himself into my arms at the water’s edge.

My dad, with a zoom lens, captured the moment.

Me, soaked and spent. My son in my arms. Rob, standing nearby.

It remains my favourite photo.

It holds gratitude, purpose, family, and effort in a single frame.

And just out of shot, something was slipping.

A doctor said I was becoming hypothermic. I sat in the sun, trying to sip electrolytes. Nibbling food. Embarrassed.

Word travelled quickly that I’d been sick the entire swim.

People were concerned. Sensible. Kind.

And I let them decide for me.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t resist. I didn’t ask for time.

I resigned.

On paper, it made sense. Thirty kilometres run. Ten kilometres swum. No fluids retained. No fuel.

Internally, it didn’t.

Driving home, I sat in the passenger seat watching the coastline roll past — the same road I should have been jogging.

I recovered quickly. Ate. Drank.

Attended the celebration dinner that night.

Physically, I was fine. Mentally, I wasn’t.

What hurt wasn’t the failure itself. It was how easily I’d handed over agency at the moment it mattered most.

There’s research in psychology around this — decision fatigue, cognitive overload. When discomfort persists and clarity drops, the brain reaches for certainty. Not truth. Certainty.

Add social permission — authority figures, loved ones, logic — and the nervous system stands down.

What looks like quitting is often the brain choosing safety over ambiguity.

However endurance lives in ambiguity.

That day taught me something uncomfortable:

You can be fit, prepared, and committed — and still quit if you haven’t learned how to stay present when the story collapses.

I hadn’t failed because I was weak. I failed because I was inexperienced.

I’d found the edge — and folded instead of exploring it.

I see this often now in men rebuilding after divorce, career disruption, or identity loss. The moment where things don’t improve quickly. Where logic stacks up in favour of stopping. Where other people mean well.

And quietly, something unfinished begins to define them.

That 2009 DNF didn’t define me — it shaped me.

I boxed up the feeling. The embarrassment. The dissatisfaction of achieving a personal best that still fell short. I kept it.

Because inside that failure was a question I wasn’t done answering:

What am I actually capable of — if I stay?

That question has fuelled every solo ultra challenge since.

Not to prove strength. But to learn how not to abandon myself when things get hard.

And every time I look at that photo — my son in my arms, my father behind the lens — I’m reminded:

Even in failure, there can be meaning worth carrying forward.