29 August 2009

It rained last night, and dawned cloudy and gray. I am relieved because every other day for the last week, the birds have shrieked their first “good morning” in the pitch black, and I wake a minute or two earlier every day from the sun on my face, making a mockery of the blinds. The weather is windy, but so unseasonably warm that everyday tasks—walking to university, to the grocery store, to the shopping mall—become delightful romps. I have been used to running in the afternoon to catch the warmth of the day, but this is no longer possible, as I tried a few days ago and cut my run in half, finishing crouched in the shade of a rock and ducking into a convenience store for a three dollar Vitamin Water. Yes, I am using sunscreen.

I bought a new bikini and one of those long nylon Roxy shirts (Aussies call them rashers, no idea why) and Friday morning, I kitted up and went swimming! Not in the ocean, but in one of the many baths, essentially a laned swimming pool made of concrete and build into the rock. Every beach has them, some larger than others, saltwater and natural, waves breaking over the side. Having seen dozens of persons jump in (most wearing wetsuits, hmm), I was hoping they were free for public use. I traipsed out into the sun with my goggles and a bus ticket in a little plastic baggie (in case of emergency, I carry my bus ticket everywhere). I was sweating in the 20 minutes it took to walk down to Clovelly Beach. There was a group of girls wearing identical uniforms of t-shirts and black shorts that said “gymnastics;” a few naked toddlers on the sand; and on the opposite side of the inlet, several persons in hats and baggy jackets flitting around with reflecting screens and tripods while an impossibly tall, leggy lady in a tight blue dress and stilettos arranged herself against the rocks. This is the second photo shoot I have seen in two weeks—the other was up at Bronte Beach, just around the headland, and I am tempted to start buying fashion magazines to see if I can identify the background.

So just in case the baths aren’t free, I wait until everyone else is staring at the model, shuck down to Roxy shirt and swimsuit (“cossie,” short for bathing costume) and leap into the water. Then I cross my arms over my chest and assume the HELP, that is, the Heat Escape Lessening Position, which we learned in lifeguarding as one of the first steps to warding off hypothermia. After a moment I am able to uncrank myself through sheer willpower (the dialogue in my head goes something like “well this is embarrassing, do I want to swim or don’t I? Yes I do, but it would be even more embarrassing if I made the headlines in a foreign country for going into hypothermic shock because I decided that I was too cheap to buy a wetsuit…”etc.) Besides, I am only in the baths, and out in the actual surf is an ancient woman in a bikini doing actual laps. So I drop forward and begin to stroke. Instant, sheer headache as though someone had clamped blocks of ice on either side of my forehead. I struggle through the water a few more times until I begin to feel dizzy; panicking a little, I sit up, and the dizziness ceases. I look around and realize that the waves, washing over the top of the pool, are smacking the water violently back and forth; hence, dizzy swirling sensation.

So that was it. I went gamely on for half an hour, somehow, before climbing out with dignity (all the gymnastics girls were lined up watching the blue lady pose) and walking home. I was nearly dry by the time I got back, but I had brought no money, so I bought no coffee. I think I shall buy a wetsuit.