There's a light spatter of rain in the city at the end of the working day and everyone is ducking about with umbrellas and rain jackets and newspapers held over their heads. I'm just in my jeans and T shirt, come from the warmth of the office, and strolling leisurely toward the bus stop with my hands in my pockets and my eyes intermittently closed as I lift my face to the sky to feel the drops on my skin. I'm unavoidably reminded of a very memorable passage, read many years ago, from Tom Robbins' 'Another Roadside Attraction' describing exactly this behaviour by the protagonists of his narrative, and realise this is the inspiration for my own action. 'It's only water' I say in my head, 'I’m pretty sure I won't shrink.’
As a child, I was not fond of water. I was happy enough sitting in a nice warm bath but if it was hair washing night, my Mum or Dad would insist on rinsing the shampoo from my scalp by turning on the taps and ducking my head under the flow, with my eyes squeezed shut to avoid the chemical sting. But so often, the water would run hot and the instinctual jerk of my head from the scalding stream would bring the back of my skull a mighty whack against the spout. Showers I was OK with and, like many a young teen, would happily have run the tank dry languishing in the rush and steam as the bathroom mirror fogged beyond redemption.
But at the local swimming pool I was terrified. The sheer scale of the body of water and my almost complete incompetence with swimming meant I would, at most, gingerly lower myself down the ladder at the shallowest corner of the pool and stand there immobile, clinging to the edge tiles. And the beach, on those days the family would make the long trek to join our friends for a day spent idling at Northern Sydney's Whale Beach, was little short of terrifying. I recall hours of playing on the sand or among the rock pools, but the mere thought of entering the surf among the crashing waves scared the daylights out of me.
Somehow, all that eventually changed. After I left home and moved to the inner city, my spare time was frequently spent at whichever public pool was most close – Prince Alfred Park when I lived in Surry Hills; Ashfield Pool during my time at Burwood and Victoria Park when I was sharing a house in Annandale. For a few years, Andrew 'Boy' Charlton Pool became almost a second home - the venue for my daily pilgrimage, making sure to avoid the early morning or lunchtime crowds of 'lappers', I would cycle there each day for a couple of hours spent slowly breast-stroking my twenty lengths of the main pool, or lazing in the sun, or gazing over the perimeter wall at the naval ships at Garden Island, or simply enjoying watching my fellow idlers - all tan and lithe and slothful in their skimpy briefs and sunglasses. All of us simultaneously parading our own bodies whilst wistfully admiring everyone else's.
So swimming pools became somewhere I felt happy and safe and relaxed. Even when my partner and I bought our first home in Thirroul on the South Coast, it was rarely we swam in the surf, preferring instead the security of the beachside seawater pool. But then, one day, we acquired some cheap body-boards and she took me down to the beach to try them out in the small shore break. I still recall to this day the thrill of joy when I experienced for the very first time in my life the lift and push and fall and rush of catching a wave, surrounded by foam and the press of water, all the way to the crunch of the sand.
All these years later, water now has this amazing pull on my psyche and my soul. We are extraordinarily privileged to live near the beach and my every morning is begun with an almost compulsive desire to simply be near the water. I don't even necessarily have to get wet - I just need to feel the presence of the ocean. I love to stroll along the sand and watch the waves roll in, rushing up the sand and over my bare feet. Or simply stand and stare at the rising sun over the gently undulating expanse, perhaps to glimpse a pod of dolphins playing as they glide past. Or wander across the rock platform to witness the swell crashing against the edge, throwing plumes of pure white to the sky.
Now, as I sit on the bus home, the rain streams down from the low grey sky and there's a quiet solemnity to the world beyond the window. I'm reminded of the Japanese expression 'mono no aware' (moh-noh noh ah-wah-ray) which approximately translates as 'a melancholy awareness of the transient beauty of nature'. It is indeed melancholy, yet transient, this day of rainy weather from which we all hide - scurrying from home to work and back; sheltering in our cars, busses and trains; cowering under our umbrellas; ducking from the shelter of one awning to the next; ultimately, on gaining the security of our homes and families, shutting and locking the doors behind us and retreating to the false warmth of the glowing television or snuggled under our doonas with a good book to read. But it's beautiful too - the rain, in all it's natural inevitability and I suspect a part of that beauty is the simple reality of its being water. Water, in all its many impositions into our daily environments - rains, rivers, puddles, ponds and lakes, right through to the vast oceans that cover seventy percent of the surface of our planet - the blue planet, the water planet. Water has a special quality that seems to affect us all. Somehow there's a calmness to it that can rub off on those of us who embrace its beauty and solemnity and melancholy.
I revel in it! Be it a simple morning shower, or a relaxing bath after a day of labour, or a joyful splash with the friends or family in a backyard pool, or drifting downstream in a dinghy with a line dangling over the side to a baited hook, or watching the glassy surface of the ocean change through a spectrum of mauves, scarlets, oranges and palest lemon hues at sunrise, or best of all, sitting on my favourite surfboard 'Tigger', out the back of the swell at my local beach - gently rising and falling with the passing waves, soaking up the quiet morning ambience and most of all, simply being aware of the all encompassing 'presence' of the water. It lifts me, supports me, refreshes me, calms me, and then, with a rush, it pushes me shoreward with a thrill and an inner yelp of joy.
Jump in, the water’s nice!
