TURBINE | KAPOHAU

The scariest swims, she said to me, were the solo ones, in winter, with almost no one else on the beach. Just a man, walking his dog, stopping to stand near the small pile of her clothes on the beach to watch her.

Sometimes it would be late at night before she remembered the need to swim. If her swim crossed over midnight, she took the liberty of counting it on both days. During her best swim, she said, she went right into the middle of Wellington Harbour until she was too scared to keep going. She turned around and recounted the names of all the land-dwelling people in her life as she swam back to us.

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In October 1933, on a plateau in the Saharan Desert, Hungarian explorer Laszlo Almasy discovered a cave, now known as the Cave of Swimmers. The small red figures on the cave walls stretch out their arms and bend their legs. ‘Neolithic doggy paddle,’ writes Michael Schirber, but not everyone agrees. ‘They are clearly symbolic, with an unknown meaning,’ writes Andras Zboray. Of course it is hard for people to believe in swimmers in the Sahara. But if they are not swimming, then what? They could be flying, or falling from a great height. One figure’s arms are raised up and her hands are pressed together, ready to dive into the water. Maybe not, though. She could be praying.

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Can you remember a time before you knew how to swim? In those days, the beach was right across the road from the house we rented. It was very safe, because it was a wide bay, sheltered and shallow. That house and that beach were quiet, like just after an argument. The tide went out such a long way at that beach that you could barely see it, just a thin blue line wavering in the heat coming up off the sand. When it was coming or going the tide had long, thin fingers. There was a girl who liked to lie in the shallow pools and walk her hands along the sand at the bottom. ‘Look!’ she’d shout. ‘I’m swimming!’

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The water at Shark Bay is cold, dark blue and clear. The stones are all the size of thrush eggs and speckled with pieces of shell. Rachel, in the water next to me, asks me if I dream about my mother. ‘No,’ I say. Actually, that’s not true, I did once. We were laughing our faces off about something. Just laughing and laughing.

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De Arte Natandi, 1587. Everard Digby’s scientific treatise, the first book on swimming published in England, includes detailed rules on the art of swimming and practical advice for would-be swimmers. He writes of the specific weight of human bodies.

Woodblock prints of swimmers illustrate the book. They swim within a square, tightly lined like a barcode amidst the loose, vertical flow of the river. Digby’s swimmers put out fires, make snow angels, masturbate, and feed birds, all while in the water.

Digby is later expelled from St John’s College, Cambridge, for theological reasons, such as shouting and blowing his horn.

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For two years after I realised the backside of my swimsuit was see-through, I didn’t swim in public places. I made excuses to my friends. I sat on the beach and waved. I lamented my lack of decent swimwear, but I didn’t do anything about it. The truth was, the whole topic of swimwear made me grouchy. I don’t like baring my pale, freckled skin in front of strangers. I don’t like sunburn. I don’t like spending a lot of money on painful hair removal. And I don’t like removing my clothes in a changing room, just to remember the impossibility of feeling safe in a bikini.

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We walked along the waterfront one night, sweaty after a concert. There are one or maybe two nights a year that Wellington is so warm. ‘Shit,’ said Rachel. It was almost midnight and she hadn’t had her swim today. We laughed and stripped down. The water was dark as we swam out to the pontoon. Yes, I thought. I am a person who likes to swim.