This year, instead of heading away on holidays like much of my inner-city suburb, I’ve enjoyed the quiet. Streets which are usually heaving with traffic now move close to the speed limit.
My friendship group shrinks too, leaving only a handful of people who are working through.
This year, those of us left behind have been meeting almost daily at Williamstown beach, creating a sort of unofficial rhythm to our days. We began swimming in the bay during winter, when the water broke your spirit with its cold. In July, when the temperatures were grim, and your skin tingled for hours after you climbed out, it was more about surviving the experience than swimming for pleasure.
Now the bay is warmer, busier, and less overwhelming, so we’ve begun testing ourselves in other ways – swimming out further, measuring our distance, and swimming as often as we can.
When everyone is away in Melbourne, the early morning drive from the north to the bay in the west is uncomplicated. There’s no traffic jam on the Westgate Bridge or trouble parking near the beach; it’s like the water belongs to those who wake early.
We meet at the concrete bench near the lifesaving club, the five of us pulling on caps and goggles. Conversations are started but never fully finished. Maybe there’s a burst of laughter as we share a moment from the night before. Then, wading in, we test the temperature, check how visible the sand is, if there are jellyfish lurking, a stingray maybe.
There’s another round of laughter that enters the water with us, and then the brief lull as we stand, legs submerged, toes digging in the sand, waiting for the anecdote to be finished so we can push out into the sea. We swim together as a loose pack, one of us coaxing the others to keep going.
And then once we start, it’s not so hard. The tide might blow us off course. But a local reminds us where to look, where to fix our eyes at the telegraph poles on the shore, and to swim between them.
On the morning of the last day of the year we swim out into a bay studded with swimmers, all of us farewelling the year that has been. Treading water out deep at the second pole, there are scraps of conversation traded among strangers, united only in their love of morning swims. A dog has managed to paddle out too; she’s with a group of women, waiting for them to stop talking so she can shepherd them back to shore. A man tells us he’s over from Arizona, and it’s his second swim in as many days. He has no ocean at home; just a lake, with a murky bottom, that’s not the same as the bay.
A couple of more serious swimmers power through, their bodies sleek inside black skinsuits. They stroke towards us, not clocking the bobbing of those of us who need a short break before we swim for home. As they disappear into the swell, we take off after them, knowing there’s a coffee waiting on the shore.
The swim back always feels shorter. Perhaps we’re powered by the returning tide.
And as we reach the shallows, we stand and pick up our conversations where we left them back on the sand. Wandering out of the water, we peel off swimming caps, lowering our heads under the water to rinse our hair. We keep talking while we towel ourselves, pulling on dry clothes over still wet bodies, our skin sticky with the salt. Another dog wanders past, maybe stopping for a pat, and we might chat to the owner. Someone says it’s their turn to buy the coffees and there is a quick reminder of the orders.
Dressed, we wander over to the kiosk where swimmers sit, their hair wet, their smiles big, their muscles loose and tired. The coffees come and we perch at a table, still talking. When it’s time to go, we make plans to meet in the morning. Same time. Same place. And we leave each other with a hug and a kiss as we head off down the path, still unsure whether it’s Monday or Sunday or somewhere in between.
Nova Weetman is an award-winning children’s author. Her memoir, Love, Death & Other Scenes, is published by UQP
