Growing up amidst the monotony of suburban life, I never found a sense of belonging, not even in my own home. It seemed like there was no place for me. Our cramped home housed a total of 11 people, none of whom I could relate to. When every autumn rolled around, it ushered in a new academic year at a foreign school. At the age of 11, my older brother was my sole escort there. The schoolyard was akin to a concentration camp, encased by a chain-link fence and patrolled by stern men in religious attire adorned with crucifixes.
I had to mature alongside older boys; it was a ruthless transformation. Witnessing their pubescent bodies change in the locker rooms at the public baths, dark hair sprouting from every nook and cranny, offered a dread-filled preview of what awaited me. I felt myself being coerced into a world that did not feel natural, like being held prisoner.
It felt as if my aspirations were being stripped away. I felt misplaced in my tiny body. Conforming was never an aspiration for me. All I yearned for was to disintegrate, along with the rest of the dying year, only to be reborn. The return of autumn always calls to mind these visceral memories, linking the changing of the seasons to past joys and sorrows.
The new school was both exhilarating and unnerving, it instilled in me a godly fear. The aroma of the classrooms, the mud-streaked tiled floors, and the saturated green football pitches where my competency was expected were all part of this new world. The transition from child to a young boy demanded that I define myself and my future aspirations.
The public swimming pool felt like a judgmental arena, with its layers of discarded plasters and dead hair settling on the bottom, its insolent turquoise blue that felt almost derisive. Unlike Jacques Cousteau’s majestic portrayal of the underwater world on television, this was far from glorious. I would nervously observe the confident boys through the porthole-like windows, parading about, pressing their backsides up against the glass.
The irony was unmistakable, considering I was born in a harbour town on the southern coast of England, where the noises and scents of the sea were a constant presence. Yet, it’s likely this proximity that intensified my fear of water. The profound, unknown vastness, it was terribly near. The enigmatic enormity beneath the grey waves haunted me, as though it had the power to pull me away from my bed in my sleep.
Even a mere bath instilled discomfort. My mother’s story about the grand Victorian bathtub from her childhood home, where my grandad had crafted a massive, water-spouting whale along its side, only amplified my fear. It was as if a sea monster could manoeuvre its tentacle up the sinkhole and drag me down.
I would say my childhood imagination was certainly active, to put it mildly.
***
Fast forward twenty years, and I found myself living in the yet-to-be-renovated East End of London. Unemployed and with no promising prospects in sight, I was struggling to establish myself as a writer. Now in my thirties, I still couldn’t swim. Besieged by stupidity and incompetence, I decided to tackle my fear and began frequenting the neighbourhood swimming pool during off-peak hours.
The pool was hidden amidst the narrow alleys of my isolated Hackney residence, a place that, in my mind, was commonly visited by Krays and the Elephant Man. The entrance to the Edwardian baths, crowned by a terracotta archway, was an homage to the healthful potential of water. An elegant engraving of the words ‘MEN’ and ‘WOMEN’ hovered over the twin gateways, seemingly suggesting an immediate decision.
The inside resonated with murmurs and the distinct scent of chlorine, while the ceiling simulated the belly of the monstrous whale, reminiscent of one from biblical tales involving Jonah and the fateful encounter of Captain Ahab. The facility was an urban reality inverted, with the potential of swallowing another wrongdoer or stray and liberating them into its lukewarm embrace.
Walking through the footbath and shower, I found myself pondering over the sturdy, tiled channels beneath the Thames River. The possibility of them splintering under the river’s weight, unleashing all the forgotten rivers running beneath the city’s belly, unravelled due to bombings. I couldn’t help but recall the cellar in Soho I’d read about, housing a Dolphinarium, featuring two jovial bottlenose dolphins frolicking with bikini-clad “mermaids”.
I recalled the visage of Virginia Woolf, briskly passing by in her attire, picturing the Underground as a system powered by tides, overwhelmed by the human masses. It was as though London was perched upon itself. Maybe her lover, Vita Sackville-West, playfully referred to as “my porpoise,” crossed her mind.
But it was within this ancient, unpretentious, virtually subterranean pool where salvation finally emerged. She gracefully entered in a structured swimsuit, her silhouette reflected on the ceramic undersides as she smoothly swam back and forth. With a slim waist enveloped in the swimming outfit and silver hair cleverly tucked within a daisy adorned rubber cap, her freedom exceeded that of the marine mammals.
The woman, my personal Esther Williams from E8, perceived my struggle, my strive for elegance in the water. She metaphorically extended her swim wings to me, guiding me to breach the skin-like surface of the water, akin to the protective layer – a caul – that David Copperfield had been born with, which acted as a talisman against drowning.
My subsequent rebirth felt akin to keelhauling in that pool. Lengthen your arms, she instructed, demonstrating the movement whilst her voice bounced off the surrounding tiles. She was as much a part of that pool as the pool was a part of her, the octogenarian was perhaps an early inhabitant, a water nymph patiently awaiting my arrival, predating the Romans, Saxons, and Celts.
Each day, I’m filled with gratitude for this woman. What was initially a form of torment and humiliation, another instance for berating myself for my frail 8½-stone frame, had become my means to freedom. Through this process, both my body and mind experienced a reawakening. As a result of her teachings, my previously clumsy body learnt the art of graceful aquatic movement.
***
A decade later, I retreated from London, nursing a damaged heart, back to the south coast with the additional responsibility of caring for my now frail mother. I found myself drawn towards the vast body of water that once incited fear within me. I started swimming regularly, undeterred by the changing seasons. Eventually, I began night swims, challenging myself.
I’ve come to understand the impossibility of harbouring sadness within the ocean’s embrace. The sea’s realm renders everyone beautiful, echoing the sentiment expressed by the Cabaret master of ceremonies – despite the inherent reminder of our fleeting existence that each swim carries, it is still a celestial event.
For me, swimming has never been about style or athleticism. The sole ‘Wilde’ swimmer that resonates with me is Saint Oscar, immersed in Dublin Bay, observing devout Catholic lads adorn rosaries around their necks as they dived, their talismans warding off calamity.
Currently, the ebb and flow of the tides dictate my chronological record. Want a rendezvous? My response is subject to the tide timetable. Onlookers often enquire about the water temperature. The occasional humorous individual would quip, “Haven’t you a fridge at your dwelling?”
Although my location is but a short distance from a significant container harbour, I find myself submerged in the heart of nature, observing the seasonal transformations of the inhabiting wildlife. Soon, the diminishing day will herald the return of brent geese from Siberia – an ethereal Arctic sight in the sky, resembling a unique monochrome constellation.
These fading, rejuvenating months see the sea at its warmest. At dawn, I envision encountering my youthful avatar returning from an evening of revelry, while I, the mature version, head towards the sea’s nocturnal allure.
However, solitude doesn’t always dominate my sea excursions. Recently, a weekend saw me, Lilian (13), and Freddie (10) harvesting blackberries. We concurred that the bounty was exceptionally bountiful. Seamus Heaney’s bittersweet ode surfaced in my thoughts, “You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet/Like thickened wine…” Post-harvest, owing to their father’s instillation of their love for water, we dived into the gusty sea, churned up by Storm Lilian – a fact Lilian found amusing.
Today, the sea reached celestial heights, transforming into a dazzling star-studded riot. I experienced the season’s first real nippiness as Orion, a formidable figure, soars across the horizon from the east. Reflecting on John Berger’s belief that all narratives originate in the cosmic expanse, I look up at the skies.
Even beneath an overcast sky, one can still marvel at the stars shimmering in the ocean – the fantastical dinoflagellates that emanate their own light when touched, gathering into magnificent clusters resembling far-flung galaxies. I am keenly aware, as I venture further into the depths, of the boats drifting in the uncertain darkness nearby, brimming with individuals who share our common humanity.
The alternating brightness and darkness inherent in the transitioning seasons symbolises our ever-present freedom. Like the recurring arrival of autumn, it stands for the perpetuity of evolution, the anticipation of renewal and the chance for rebirth. It seems we are constantly keeping afloat, each and every moment. Time, however, is a luxury we can ill afford to waste, which is why I shed my garments anew and submerge myself, momentarily leaving behind the trivial concerns of domestic chores, such as an unattended refrigerator at home.
Author of The Leviathan, Philip Hoare, has scheduled a speech on the 15th of September. This forms part of The Shaking Bog Festival’s event lineup, unfurling in the Glencree Valley, County Wicklow, spanning the 14th and 15th of September.