I’ve wanted to be an ocean swimmer ever since I moved to Sydney. The idea of getting out past the waves and braving the elements excited me. I would tell anyone who would listen: “Once I live closer to the beach, I’m going to be out there. Just you wait.”
I’ve lived walking distance to the beach for more than a year now. During this time, I’ve read a lot about ocean swimming: how swimmers overcame challenges or life-altering moments. I even listened to a podcast on how to face your fears in the ocean.
But where I excelled in research, I wasn’t as proficient in the water.
I started off strong, swimming laps in ocean pools at Malabar and Coogee with a friend who was visiting for the summer. I found a secondhand wetsuit for the colder months (which I was really chuffed about), and bought new goggles so I could see the fish and seaweed better.
Claire Keenan practices her freestyle in the waves at Clovelly.
But then, in what I can only describe as extremely bad luck, I was stung in the face by a jellyfish (it’s still a touchy subject). The traumatic encounter happened during an impromptu, after-work dip at Clovelly. It was so painful, I still get goosebumps now. I also looked ridiculous – a point of reference here.
When I still couldn’t bring myself to fully submerge my head underwater, I decided to go back to the safety of an ocean pool. It was at Wylie’s baths one sunny Sunday afternoon, when I watched kids and staff collect nearly 50 bluebottles with elongated kitchen tongs, that I really started to question this whole idea.
I spent my childhood in various bodies of water. Every school holiday involved swimming in the Murrumbidgee River, riddled with brown snakes, or in the Hume weir before the drought sucked it dry. During school, it was up and down the local swimming pool. As I got older, my parents and their friends, with carloads of kids, would drive two full days to the Gold Coast. Up north, where the water looked like the sky and the waves like clouds, I fell in love with the ocean.
But I have since reminded myself, as you should too, that we do not need to succeed at every hobby we pick up.
Claire Keenan swims in the ocean at Clovelly. Photograph: Jessica Hromas/The Guardian
At the time of writing, my ocean swims probably amount to 20 laps of a pool. I never did use that secondhand wetsuit because it felt too claustrophobic. I was called “brave” by locals after one extremely cold Coogee swim where I had to turn back from Wedding Cake Island, somewhere I’d always dreamed of reaching. What a rookie, they must have thought.
What I lack in distance, I have made up for in establishing an enjoyable routine: the guilt-free option of swimming only when I feel like it. I’m not game enough to join a swim club, so I’ve made the solo swimmers and the fish my community. I’ve swam and squealed alongside enormous blue gropers, tiny stingrays, silver and striped fish, and even a Port Jackson shark (more of a muffled shriek for that one).
As sea water fills my ears and I’m lost for breath, it’s the busyness and beauty of the underworld that keeps me distracted and swimming. While we are all losing our minds above, everything feels pretty simple underwater.
When the tide is too high and crashing, I don’t bother taking my goggles and, if it’s extra low and clear, I’ll snorkel instead. I actually prefer snorkelling anyway.
