How I took the plunge into ocean swimming – and changed my life

Dub me un-Australian, if you like, but the truth is that I was never comfortable at the beach. So it was not an easy commitment in February 2022 to walk down the steps to the ocean pool.

Until a couple of years ago I would walk the ocean cliffs and beaches and observe the winter swimmers as though they were another species. Picture: istock

One sure-fire way to escape the deadeye misery of national or American politics is to stand in cold, drizzling rain and dive into seawater. In a bracing instant, only sucking in air and warming your limbs matters, and as your body sheds heat your neurons dispense with redundant thoughts on the politics of grubby rorts, fake news and grand strategic dilemmas.

Until a couple of years ago I would walk the ocean cliffs and beaches rugged up against the wind and observe the winter swimmers as though they were another species. They must share DNA with emperor penguins or dugongs.

Advised for decades that the low-impact workouts of swimming would be the ideal fitness regime for my rickety back and worn-down knees, I understood the rationale but figured it was like telling an emu to fly. Those year-round ocean-pool swimmers were plumb lucky to be that kind of person.

Then, splash, I made the decision to take the plunge, partly for fitness, because running was no longer possible and cycling in Sydney is deadly; partly because I could hardly swim and this was recklessly tardy given I sometimes take my boys to the beach; partly because I wanted to clear my head at the start of the day; and partly to take on the challenge of doing what I had always thought was beyond me.

As a child I was told I swam “like a stone” and was later dubbed “the whipcracker” for staying behind the sandhills in jeans and boots on a family beach trip practising with a stockwhip. Apart from a failed experiment with surfing in my teens – foiled only by a lack of aptitude, inability to swim and aversion to water – I had never been especially comfortable at the beach.

Dub me un-Australian, if you like, but that is the truth. So it was not an easy commitment in February 2022 to walk down the steps to the ocean pool at Bronte beach and begin – on that first attempt I could not swim one 30m lap without stopping and standing.

But I had made my decision. I would return every morning and improve.

Bondi Icebergs – a pool I avoided for the first year and a half of swimming.

I posted daily pictures to a social media account and most family and friends understood this trespass against their good nature was my way of enforcing public accountability – keeping myself honest. Now I am disappointed if I swim less than 1km each day, and I no longer need to account for myself on Facebook because I will never willingly miss a day – when I miss because of travel or work commitments I tense up, like a cat with an arched back.

Vitalising, challenging, therapeutic, meditative, the daily dip is as good for the mind as it is for the body – winter, spring, summer or fall. If Ariarne Titmus’s swimming is a gleaming Ferrari, mine is a rusty old Massey Ferguson, but I can swim laps in numbers I never dreamed of, and rain and cold do not stop me (well, not in Sydney’s benign climate).

Nowadays I do most of my swimming at Bondi Icebergs, a pool I avoided for the first year and a half. It is 50m long and too deep to stand in. (I kid you not, I was worried.)

It also is quite the hedonistic scene on warm weekends with bronzed young buttocks and biceps on display for selfies and all kinds of influencing which, you may be surprised to read, is not my comfort zone. But more tellingly, I kept away because it is home to a club that takes swimming seriously and I thought a scrubber like me would feel out of place, a fish out of water.

But Icebergs is more than a spectacular pool. It is a club, a community and a culture. It turns out that some Icebergs regulars are united by lifelong friendships, others by serious competitive swimming, but all bond through a shared desire just to be in the saltwater and sea breeze, and serenaded by the crash of the waves.

The kaleidoscope of characters drawn to this pool is the subject of a wonderful new documentary directed by Ian Darling, The Pool. “It’s about a pool of humanity,” Darling summarises. “No one really knows what anyone does here, but they’re brought together, you know, everyone’s equal in their swimsuits.”

Darling is a regular Icebergs swimmer and the film’s executive producer Margie Simpson-Lee is a fanatical swimming trainer and racer who is a constant presence. “It’s my every day,” she says, “it’s my champagne, some days I feel like I want to bottle it and take it home, it leaves me feeling so amazing, I can’t really get through my day unless I have been in.”

The pair came up with the idea for the film as they gathered to mourn the pool’s closure during Covid. “I was looking for a happy film and a film about community,” says Darling, “and it wasn’t until Margie said, well what about here? Often the great stories are under your nose.”

The Pool washes over you like the Bondi waves often wash over Icebergs. It is visually delightful, with an enticing 1960s soundtrack accompanied by mesmerising ocean sounds. It offers plenty of interludes for breathing and contemplation.

The real-life characters are endearing. I recognise many from my visits even though I haven’t met most. We learn of their trials and tribulations – one swims to remember dad, another dives in weighed down by tragedy, yet another swims through chemotherapy. The pool is solace, it is rhythm, it is people and place.

There are competitive swimmers pushing themselves through strenuous training sessions, there are eccentric regulars, and there are the influencers and Adonises prancing through the summer weekends. All welcome, all equal, and all drawn by the central character, the pool.

One man drew me in more than any other. Wanting to encourage my swimming, my wife gifted me lessons at Icebergs, the pool I had been shunning. I was given the instructor’s name and number, a bloke by the name of Neil Rogers.

Chris Kenny and his mate Neil Rogers.

He told me just to turn up, no meeting spot, he reckoned I would be able to find him. I paid my entry fee and asked after him, everyone knew him, and a couple looked to where he’d likely be, pointing out the bloke in a rashie propped up in the corner of the pool.

Neil pushed me hard on swim fitness but didn’t worry too much about my poor technique – it was probably beyond help. He seemed more intent on introducing me to people: I had found my way to the pool, and he wanted to immerse me in its community.

I’ll be forever grateful for how he scoffed at my impostor’s syndrome and opened my eyes to what it was all about. Neil was an elite swimmer and coach, a dual Olympian and Commonwealth Games gold medallist whose first Olympics were sabotaged by the horrors at Munich in 1972.

In The Pool we see Neil pushing his charges hard at daybreak. For his undoubted swimming expertise, his greatest value might have been his self-appointed role as the pool’s social convener.

“Most people that swim feel like we have a relationship, a rapport, anyway,” he told the filmmakers, explaining his welcoming attitude. “If we see someone with a cap from a different club or a different state or country we always ask them ‘How is it here?’ – you know, it might be their first time at the Icebergs, so as soon as you come into the Icebergs, whether you’re a member or you’re just coming as a casual visitor, you sort of already belong as a swimmer and it’s a good feeling to have.”

Sadly, Neil passed away from cancer before The Pool’s release, but he remains a central character in the film. And at Icebergs people still look up expecting to see him perched on the edge of the pool.

When you swim every day, you find yourself hoping for rain or blustery weather, just to keep the crowds down and the carpark manageable. It is beautiful to swim outdoors in the rain.

When I arrived one stormy midwinter morning this year the pool manager, Chuck, introduced me to a mate, saying “Chris is hard-core, he’s here every day, no matter what.”

It made my year. And it gave me a sense of belonging that would have made Neil proud, given I was one of his last and certainly one of his worst pupils.

Now I see people my age and older taking to the ocean from the rocks below Icebergs and swimming all the way across the bay and back every morning. I watch them with admiration and envy, sensing how good it must be for them but thinking they must be a different species …

The Pool (Shark Island Productions) opens at cinemas this weekend.
This column is dedicated to the memory of Neil Rogers.