Life Aquatic

If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.  Loren Eiseley

I do love the water. Have done since learning to swim at Windmill Hill Pool and enjoying the long summer afternoons picnicking with the family at St. Leonards where the North Esk River offered a chilly challenge. The muddy banks, rocky bottom and snaggly tree roots all made the water visually impenetrable. It tested our bravery and revealed a significant lack of common sense. We spent hours diving in and floating down to the small cascading rapids. As we got older and braver we swung off the rope that dangled over the deepest part of the swimming area. As children we could only be enticed out of the water with the promise of food.

In my teenage years I ventured away from the safe recreation of swimming under parental watchful eyes and spent nearly every day of the long summer holidays at The Basin. Here the South Esk River moseyed through a deep gorge and in the rainless months of January and February it ambled on to join the Tamar River. Despite its innocuousness the basin itself was potentially treacherous and local legend had us all believing that it had no bottom. You’ll drown for sure if you go in there. I’d made promises never to swim in the green murkiness but the challenge called. For most of the day I would, as promised swim in the unheated lap pool but the call to adventure was often too hard to resist. The flat rocks had Hoggs Bottom provided the best launch pad for a dignified dive or a less sophisticated bomb. And while I did swim in the theoretically lethal water my fear of the bottomlessness and the eels ensured the submersion was short.

I also swam at the beach. I loved it. In Tassie it took a certain kind of kind of strength of character and hardy will to immerse oneself in the often icy seas around the island. Often the summer sea temperatures reached only 17 or 18 degrees, and winter temperatures plummeted to 10 (and that’s a generous estimate). None-the-less I swam.

As I did in Canberra. Not the sea nor the lakes but the multitude of pools. And you might think that that was no big deal but consider swimming through winter in the nation’s capital. The water was warm, the inside temperature steamy but I still had to make the dash to the car as the air temp dropped towards zero. One night at the Civic Pool access to the change rooms through the tunnel was blocked and we hardy few had to make a dash across the open lawn area. It was snowing. Enough said.

And now I live at the beach and our summers are spent enjoying the lifestyle of choosing which beach to swim at. I explained to an American friend that we did go into the water well above our knees quite fearlessly. She, having dined on the rumours that we are not only girt by sea but we are also surrounded by sharks, simply said. Y’all gonna get bit.

I also go to the local pool and participate in deep water aqua and long chatty therapeutic walking in the hot pool. I love the atmosphere of the aquatic centre. The body confident, the body shy, the athletes and those whose Olympic selection is unlikely fill the lanes and thrash out a few laps. The aqua instructors are brilliant. They motivate from the pool deck, some sing at us, others are generous in their praise and only once, on a day when the class was most uncoordinated were we informed that we’d never make the artistic swim squad. Crushing, but true.

Most recently I tried a sensory deprivation float in a tank of magnesium rich water. Weird at first but then singularly relaxing and rather mind bending. Once I got the hang of floating without using any muscles I allowed the sensation to lull me to a near state of sleep. Despite being in a space not much bigger than a spa bath I felt I was travelling, drifting down a river and able to give away the sense that I had to control how I moved. The hour went by quite quickly and despite my hair being a knotted mass from the magnesium I felt great.

So why write about the life aquatic. It’s hardly a story of singular prowess as a swimmer, surfer, kayaker or water sport aficionado but it might just explain why water features heavily in my writing. It’s my motif. Lake George and the beaches of the south coast are a feature of the Lily O’Hara series. It is significant in the novel I’m writing at the moment (it is set predominantly at the Gorge in Launceston). I love the symbolism of water, its power, its life sustaining capacity. I’ve seen drought and flood, king tides and thunderous torrents and I know it influences life, and sadly at times it brings death. Water, in many cultures symbolises life, rejuvenation and healing. It is seen as a means to cleanse and purify in a spiritual sense. In Greek mythology water denotes eternal life. So it is no wonder that water is used as a metaphor and at times a living character in stories.

To that end of added a short story I published some time ago called The Swimmers.

The sound of water is worth more than all the poets' words.  Octavio Paz

The Swimmers

Tracey Lee

The water was blue and smooth and deep enough to buoy the heaviest spirit. And the swimmers gathered noisily around the pool and waited for the social process to run its course before they readied themselves for the plunge. They were the same each week, reluctant to bare their white and sometimes ill-shaped forms to the morning swimmers at the Beauty Point Aquatic Centre.

A herd of geriatric masters gathered seriously at the other end making much of their prowess as past champions. They were as tribal as the young hopefuls, who under the watchful eye of a frenetic coach, warmed up with a range of ligament stretching moves designed to make them swim faster. They were attired in club colours and snapped vibrant latex caps simultaneously. Oldies eyed off youth, and youth scoffed at the challenge, water sports began.

To pool side the obstetrics gaggle waddled in a poetic muddle of beauty and awkwardness. Their target was the training pool and six soon to be mothers proudly competed for the most protruding evidence of the happy event to come. I watched them with fleeting envy as each lowered herself into the water and indicated the relief as gravity no longer hampered fluidity of movement. They bobbed and submerged and emerged as a pod of dolphins, joyful and radiant with the new lives growing within them. In contrast was the gang of wild kids who had obviously wagged school to spend the day harassing others at the pool. Looking like they were dressed for a break dancing rather than swimming they plunged headlong and without regard into the diving pool. They ignored the signs that set out stern rules about jumping and running much to the blatant horror of the swimming nobility poised for racing dives at the end of the Olympic pool.

After this initial reconnaissance my attention came back to the unusual group to which I belonged. There was no obvious connection to each other. Not like age connected the old masters, or the uniform that united the recalcitrant youth or purpose that connect the group of mothers to be. But we were a group none the less, familiar and relaxed with each other. And in our purpose we were more connected than any other group that formed and swam here at Beauty Point.

Firstly in our group there was Edward. He was shimmering in his new swimming outfit; the term bathers was not ample enough to describe the appearance of his ensemble. He was virtually neck to knees in purple lycra and his protruding abdomen and rounded buttocks accentuated the firm fitting nature of his costume. And the chicken like legs that angled out of the purple swath were a most uncomfortable white and did not bear naked eye investigation. But we were a polite group and we congratulated Edward on his sensible choice of sunsuit as opposed to Speedos. He was keen to be assured about the colour…we unanimously affirmed his choice. We were liars, but he was our friend and with his state of mind the last thing he needed was public ridicule over his fashion disability.

Katherine stood stretching beside Edward and being less able to conceal her contempt at his appalling apparel she looked away towards the kiosk. She was the only one among us who took the serious measures of stretching and warming up her well concealed muscles. She would often criticise us for our casual and ignorant preparation for exercise. Sport was a loose term for what we did but for Kate the ritual was important. She had been a sportswoman in her teenage years and maintained that instinct and competitiveness despite the fact that genetics had let her down. The weight gain in her twenties was reaching maximum effect now in her late forties. She was seemingly oblivious to her burgeoning silhouette and cut a rather startling figure in her high cut racers. I applauded her ignorance and I alone in the group never commented on her vanity, remaining forever envious of the blonde curls that stoically disallowed the appearance of grey hairs. I was, however, somewhat amused by her belief that she had the style and power of Dawn Fraser when she was in the water. Her overly slow and elaborate arm movements reminded me of someone who was in a state of difficulty and nearly drowning. Despite these flaws I was secretly delighted that she remained immutable in herself belief. Kate was a winner.

We shuffled and changed positions several times before Benedetta announced her intention to swim. Her tiny stature and frail limbs allowed her to shelter among the more robust and loftier of our group. Despite her minute body she had the most aggressive nature, almost combatant in fact. I had often held fears that she swam with us because the pool was a good place to pick fights, an activity she indulged in weekly. She had been the hardest to convince that swimming as a group might be good for all of us and now was the most committed. She swam like a dog; head high out of the water and arms and legs moving in simultaneous confusion. It was this style that led to heated arguments with other unsuspecting swimmers in her lane who dared to enter her personal space or commit the crime of passing her regardless of her lack of pace. Benedetta was a fighter; she wouldn’t just explain others’ faults to them she would yell insults that heeded no political correctness.

She was already pool side sitting in mute contemplation of the cold water and the long haul from one end of the pool to the other. ‘Here you slack arses, get to the pool!’ she yelled at us. We obeyed and slumped to her side like disgruntled school kids.

‘Really Bennie, don’t speak so loudly. People might think you are serious’, Henry gently chastised.

‘I do mean it you lazy old fairy. Get in the pool’.

Henry, quite immune to Bennie’s opinions, winced at the thought of what others might think. The words she used did not hurt him but he had a healthy dose of paranoia when it came to strangers judging him. He had wrapped his arms around his thin waist in an attempt to conceal some of the protruding ribs. His swimmers were ancient, probably ones from his teenage years and yet they had not seen much action. Henry, a formal man of impeccable manners, was a delightful addition to our little band. Perhaps he above all of us was the odd man out but much respected despite Benedetta’s colourful depiction. At sixty Henry was afraid that gravity was doing its worst to both his body and the bathers, or bathing trunks as he called them. I watched him climb down the ladder and hold on to the pool’s edge. Henry had never married and I had assumed correctly or otherwise that he was gay. He never confirmed or denied his sexual preference and it didn’t matter to me.

So there we were sitting on the diving blocks, no-one had the ability or intention of using them as means to enter the water. We simply sat and thought about the undignified slithering motion required to immerse ourselves in the chlorinated brilliance that shimmered for fifty metres ahead of us. We held back momentarily from the plunge, even “Dawn” joined the collective hesitation.

Then with ritual precision each swimmer submerged to the pool floor, hovering in the blue momentarily before breaking the surface and sucking in air. I was always the last to perform the swimmers’ rite of commencement because I liked to watch my group from above. I liked to see their hair float out in streams from their heads, their skin translucent and ethereal in the refracted light. Each one was given wholeness in water that air and earth could not provide. Then in their own time they would strike out for the other end of the pool in their own unique ways.

Edward, purple and white pushed off with such determination that he looked like he might be a real swimmer. The illusion was quickly dispelled by his first stroke. Those slim, bare arms broke the water weakly in an attempt at freestyle. Five strokes, six, seven, eight strokes…definitely not his best effort. This attempt at swimming was then followed by a gliding, floating motion that he would maintain for three or four laps that would take about an hour to complete.

In contrast Kate would lash out strong and confident. That peculiar bent arm action looked painful but was effective enough to propel her forward lap after lap. She only stopped when a nauseating pain in her head took her breath away. It was as if she had been halted by a slap to her face. Sometimes if Bennie was near she would float beside Kate and wait with her until the pain subsided. Then Bennie would be off again. Thin, hairy arms could be seen thrashing the water with every strident stroke. She wasn’t so much swimming as she was thrashing the life out of the water. She was like a blender, limbs whirring in rotation, covering little ground but by God she was making her presence felt. Head high above the wetness glaring at contenders for her space, spewing obscenities at the bewildered lifesavers who incessantly asked if she needed help. Benedetta was alive and she was making sure everyone knew it.

Henry, a safe distance behind the scrimmage, held his kickboard close to his chest and stretched the rest of his body out behind him. He looked a little afraid and yet so dignified in what looked like a swim through shark infested waters. He apologised to everyone who splashed passed him even though they could not hear him. Henry looked like a man who was going nowhere fast but with all the class in the world to accompany him on his short journey. He had stepped out of time to be with us, and out of his comfort zone to strip down to almost nakedness to swim these few lengths. Dear Henry only persevered with a few laps and then Edward or I would assist him from the pool.

We were a strange group. But definitely more unified than the other swimming fraternities gathered at the pool. Our connection was not age, size or sport. It was something infinitely more important than that. It was the water that connected us, it gave the challenge our poor bodies could rally to; it took away the pain and gave hope. It cleansed the soul and cooled our heads. In the effort to get to the other end we had no time for morbid reflection on our lot on terra firma, our concerns were guided by the hustle and bustle of pool life, the splash of water, the taste of chlorine, the moments of freedom.

I watched my friends swim away as best they could. I looked at my own body perched less than majestically on the diving block. I glanced at my lopsided chest and in silence grieved for what I perceived as disfigurement. The breast sliced from my chest to save my life was an awful obviousness of my affliction. There was no concealing I was sick, no chance to reconstruct that part of myself in order to keep the world out of my private pain. At least Kate’s brain tumour was hidden, albeit temporarily. Benedetta’s leukaemia was undetectable to the naked eye. Edward, poor sick Edward. The treatment had left him thin and hairless, and ironically still dying. Gallant Edward in his purple armour. Look at me…I am still alive, barely but alive today. Then Henry, so self-conscious of his near-death status lapped briefly and then retired. I feared the worse as Edward helped Henry negotiate the steps so soon after he started.

And then there is me. I am Lia and each day a spectre follows me but I am free of my nemesis when I am in the pool. Death is afraid of the water, its holiness and its wholeness. It does not follow any of us there but waits in the shadows beside the pool for our return to earth.

I allow the water to suck me under and I try to remain suspended in the icy blue longer than usual. Looking up to the sun I burst through the surface and swimming side stroke to protect my wounds I swim and swim. I pray, I meditate, I daydream and I think of others who joined us here at the healing pool and were not saved. We were twelve last January, now we are five. It is November. Time passes quickly in water.