By Tessa Moriarty

I wake to the frightening but familiar sound of my alarm. Apparently, that means I’ve slept. It feels however, more like my eyes have been wide open all night starring at the ceiling. A voice in my head says: ‘cancel snooze, roll over, it’s freezing. They’ll understand, tell them you were too tired.’

But just before I listen to that voice (thank goodness), something automatic sits me up and swings my legs to the floor. The rest of the manoeuvre from bed is more muscle memory because I do this every morning (ha ha – well maybe I have a morning off once in a monsoon), and after I’ve prized myself from the doona, the routine falls into place. Then before I know it, I’m sitting on the wooden beach bench-seat next to the people I come to meet at this very time each day in the dark and ungodly cold.

How do I do this you may ask? (Particularly if you’re not a winter sea-swimmer). Well one of the biggest factors that gets me to that seat (that our swim buddy Tom built) almost every time – is the people who meet me there go through the same little ‘shall – I shan’t I’ tussle in their own heads, every morning (perhaps Tom doesn’t), the way I do. And in spite of that, we make it there (most mornings anyway) and then we go swimming together, all the way through winter. And spring and summer and autumn too.

I’m highly motivated to be in the cold water. Hooked, in a good way, just like my friends. The winter temperatures don’t stop us either, in fact – they serve to make the need and the drive greater (well, in my case). Being in the blue to keep those blues away is
primarily why I started this caper, and why I continue with it, five years on from getting into the sea over getting into the pills. At the time, the sea seemed a healthier option to medication and all those side effects, to pull myself from the fog of a post Covid burn-out and prolonged grief. I’ve never regretted that choice.

And my mates – my swim buddies, and all us nutters (as we are sometimes referred to by those who don’t get the pull and the thrill of why we do what we do), they help to keep me coming. They keep me inspired, buoyant and enthused. The sea gave me back my life and my swim buddies are the line to that life. They’re my lifesavers. Sometimes they even keep me accountable to the commitment I make to this maintain this hard-fought joy. I love them for that.

At the moment I’m away from my usual swim gang for an extended period of time. But anywhere there’s water – there’s people who swim in it, right? You bet. We all know that.

And so, over the last few weeks that I’ve been turning up religiously at Williamstown beach, I’ve come to chat to the people there and am beginning to feel at home. Like a fish out of her own water, who has found another body of water, I also found another
school of fish to swim with. But that’s the thing about swim people, isn’t it? – we’re friendly, welcoming and will swim anywhere at any time, with anyone. Where-ever we go. As long as there are fish like us to swim with.

And go I do. I met another group of crazy happy sea people when I took a writing retreat for ten days on Phillip Island. I befriended a woman I’d connected with through Ocean Swims, who swims daily at Ventnor. So, every day while I was there, I swam with her and her trio of Selkies – actually they snorkel-swim because they have great Bomboras which they love to explore. And in the chilly mornings of early spring last year, they took me into their warm cold-water fold. I’m still in their Whats App group and from time-to-time they post something special to me about their seascapades, or their world on the island and
beyond. Or they ask how I am. And I do the same, because in a very short time when you swim with the same folk daily, you form a connection that becomes an unspoken bond of love that is water. In my case – it’s the arohanui (deep love) I feel for the steely-blue moana (sea).

Swim communities are big across the world and people in them talk about the importance that the group has in their lives. It’s not just being part of a shared experience that’s meaningful and vital, or the social connection and companionship and deeper
friendships that develop, or even the spin-off groups that are formed borne of common interests and values, that happen along the way. No, it’s not those things, nor is it the blather and banter as you try to dress your damp naked body under a towel on the wet sand in the rain, laughing, and then you share in the bliss of a hot cuppa chit chat after it.

No, it’s none of those things. And it’s not even the way you tell someone that you have a step that needs fixing and before you find a hammer in the tool shed a couple of the blokes from the group have repaired it. Nor is it the surprise gathering on your birthday or the impromptu group breakfasts and dinners. No, it’s not that. Not on its own anyway. Because its all of those things, wrapped up in the boon of why we swim together and the magic that happens when we do. But it’s also about the fundamental human need we all have – to belong. To be in, to gel, to count, to feel valued and cared for. To matter.

It’s 1.30am and I’m wide-awake, because at this gruesome hour there are workmen in the street outside the bedroom window doing something I’m sure is absolutely necessary but is keeping me starring at the ceiling. I wonder if tomorrow (which it already is), I’ll be too tired to go swimming. But a voice in my head pipes up and says: ‘Of course you’ll go, you’ve got people to swim with.