Swimming Against A Tide
I’ve never considered myself a summer girl. Those women who glide effortlessly along on a cloud of salt air and devil-may-care beach hair are not of my ilk. Once the temperature reaches over 30, I collapse into a grumpy heap of swollen limbs and resign myself to the fact that I am really not that great at summer because it lacks the appropriate number of opportunities to accessorise the day’s outfit with a leather boot or furred hat. I hole up inside with books and movies and wait for the return of cool breezes to revive me.
This has been an altogether inconvenient predilection; I was born and raised in the hazy sub-tropical climate of Brisbane and natives are pretty much expected to blossom, frangipani-like, in such conditions. I did not. It was with glee that I pulled on thin stockings and a jumper during the three weeks of “winter” that we experienced each year and when I did finally experience my first bit of cold weather on a visit to Sydney as a 17-year-old, I promptly bought a fur-collared 70's suede jacket and ten VERY IMPORTANT novels to read while wearing it. I thought I was wonderfully cool for doing this.
I’d say that my summer averse lifestyle was also due in part to my — frankly terrible — attitude to physical activity. Physical education classes were an exercise in avoidance, and my resistance to sweat was noted early; to the point that my primary teacher wrote on my report card, “Kirsteene is a very slow runner”. Pretty harsh words for a 6-year-old to read but, no doubt warranted. I was a weirdly passive-aggressive kid and I’d probably driven her to distraction with my sulky attitude.
I fared no better in the swimming classes. On the dreaded grading day that took place at the beginning of swimming season each school year, I would inevitably be put in the wobbegong class. Wobbegongs are a type of bottom-dwelling shark that spends the great majority of their life on the seabed. They are not prized for their swimming abilities. All the popular girls in my school were graded into the turtle and fish classes and in my mind their silvery ability to glide the 50-metre lanes of the Cleveland Aquatic Centre was directly pegged to their ability to succeed as summer girls and therefore, in life. I comforted myself with a firm belief in my cleverness and overall “interestingness” and figured I’d just rely on that for the rest of my life; swimming skills be damned.
Surprisingly, I’ve made more effort to break a sweat as an adult, though under the threat of lifelong good-natured teasing at future family events. As the result of a drunken Christmas Eve proclamation and subsequent determination not to lose face in front of my four brothers-in-law I somehow managed to train for and complete the Melbourne marathon a few years ago. Sure, it took me five hours to cross the line and I now feel itchy and a bit faint when I look at my running shoes, but I did it and it’s always interesting to view the look of surprise on people’s face as they try to reconcile this feat of athleticism with my Rubenesque frame. It’s safe to say that I hung up the runners and continued my search for something -anything!- that would turn me from an autumn-loving audiophile and bookworm to a summer-loving, easy-breezy-beautiful type.
It was not until a holiday to South Australia that I finally found the activity for me. That trip was not the first time I had fitted a snorkel and mask to my face but it was the one that cemented my love for the cool dark silence of the underwater world. I call it my happy place. The place where my whirring brain slows down long enough for me to take a much-needed breath. Exploring the sea is the closest I’ll ever get to exploring a foreign planet and as I spent more time indulging my new hobby, including a stab at diving, I discovered I had a preference for the bright, shiny creatures and landscapes of tropical waters.
In late 2015 I was at a low ebb. I was exhausted and overwhelmed by life, struggling to make decisions and generally being a bit of an arse to friends and family both. I recognised I needed to find ways to cope, to grab happiness and bring some balance back to my emotional state. I hated yoga and I found meditation boring so in sheer desperation I turned to the local swimming pool. Diving and snorkelling had always provided this respite for me but with limited income, time, and no interest in spending much time with people, this seemed like the next shot I had at a salve.
The first day in the pool brought back memories of those wobbegong days and I did indeed have a woebegone appearance. In my stock standard black swimsuit and bathing cap, I felt incredibly self-conscious as I entered the slow lane and spotted the sleek summer girls gliding along in the fast lane. On that first day, I completed four laps and thought I was going to die. How would I ever get better? I could not complete one lap in full, stopping in the middle of the lane to catch my breath, then struggling on to the end, taking the full 60 seconds recovery time allowed before trying again.
I went back regularly that summer, and I did get a bit better — eventually getting up to ten laps a session. I did feel my brain slowing down with each lap and my breathing became more even. But, my practice fell away as the weather turned and I settled in for the comfort of autumnal alone time pretty quickly. I also went back to being a bit of arse to my friends and family as well.
This summer, I went back to the pool as soon as I could and I have improved markedly in both form and attitude. I barely cast a glance at others as they swim, now focussed only on my own drills. I’ve uncovered life epiphanies in the clean swoosh and rhythmic, song-like breathing of breaststroke and the delight of 100 metres of perfectly executed freestyle shoots pure joy through my brain. I developed a chlorine allergy, figured out how to deal with it and kept on going. When I take my goggles off I have big red swollen rings around my eyes that last for hours and make my face look faintly frog-like. I happily walk around bearing these marks of effort. I can swim a kilometre now and the confidence of reaching this milestone has spurred me to get back into running, rowing and cycling. I feel light. I feel healthy. I feel calm(ish).
I’ve worn many labels in my life; insufferable teenage book lover, lazy lover of the good life, a bit of an arse, very slow runner, stubborn marathoner, wobbegong. This label, the label of swimmer, is one that I love and I’m proud to swimming against my tide of self-doubt. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll one day even be a summer girl.
