OLYMPICS / Barcelona 1992: Synchronised Swimming: Albatross proves no burden for Shacklock: Guy Hodgson suspends disbelief and examines the prospects for Britain in synchronised swimming

YOU cannot take synchronised swimming seriously, can you? Well, you can actually. When it was announced there would be a break of 30 minutes between the first and second set of figures yesterday the crowd not only refrained from the anticipated sigh of relief but filled the Olympic pool with jeers and whistles.

Yes, a crowd. An enthusiastic one. And on a day when synchro was at its least visually appealing in the compulsory figures. For the finals, the musical bit, tickets can be found only on the black market.

For a sport that has been variously described as something between ballroom drowning and post-meltdown ice dancing and has become the butt of so many jokes, this is one of the great achievements of Barcelona. They like synchro swimming here; they like it so much it will be expanded to include a team event at Atlanta in 1996.

'It's very popular with the public,' Andrea Fountain, the British coach, said. 'We get good crowds whenever we swim. The IOC (International Olympic Committee) is looking at cutting some sports for 2000 but I doubt if synchro will go. It's one of the very few female-only events, whereas there are lots of male-only competitions.'

This has not prevented Britain's competitive trio in Barcelona, Kerry Shacklock, Laila Vakil and Natasha Haynes, running the gauntlet of smirks and nudges when they announce what they do. Treading water, no matter how elegantly, does not carry the same cachet as hurtling through it as a racer or a diver.

'You do get tired of people making fun at synchro's expense,' Shacklock, Britain's leading exponent of the peg on your nose and for God's sake smile brigade, said. 'But they don't realise how much work goes into it. Other swimmers respect us because they see the amount of training we do.' Her pre-competition schedule amounted to six hours a day of weight training, gym and pool work- outs.

The British trio were totting up the figures yesterday in an arrangement which from a distance looked like a casual swim in the municipal pool. One competitor would perform while her immediate and changing audience of swimmers got in and out of the water. Everyone was identical, convent black costumes below bright white caps; everyone was uniformly poised.

The exercises carry exotic names like swordasubs and barracuda back pikes - which is as well as the competitors have an anonymity which, like their clone-like appearance, is designed to prevent the judges from letting national interest cloud partiality. It did not make the crowd anything but interested, however. At one point officials had to appeal by loadspeaker for the silent reverie that is meant to accompany such technical work. To no avail, good figures were applauded, bad marks booed. There were flags, too, including at least two Union Jacks one of which, bizarrely, was embellished with the words 'Bristol City'. Ashton Gate has always attracted the less conventional football supporter.

The ensigns were being waved over a significant day for British synchro. Shacklock had been 12th in the singles and needed good figures to finish in the top eight and qualify for the solo final. At the same time the 20- year-old from Wokingham and her partner, Vakil, needed to protect their rear against attack on their eighth place in the doubles.

'Kerry's done a superb albatross,' someone said revealing a knowledge way beyond the assembled journalists, most of whom were Italian and more engrossed in a volleyball match on television. But was it enough? 'I can't talk, it's too tense out there,' Fountain said. 'She might just scrape in.'

She need not have worried. Shacklock did more than just reach the final, she was in seventh position, while the doubles combination crafted together at Rushmoor Synchro Swimming Club improved two places to sixth. A medal is unlikely today or tomorrow but who knows how the albatross might land?

And something significant had happened out of the pool. In the 10 minutes the judges needed to tot up their marks and calculate the top eight, tension mounted and finger nails were being bitten. Mine. Doctor, help. I actually cared if Britain reached the final.

(Photograph omitted)