Swim to Survive

Editorial Assistant Daniela De Vera sifts through the depths of death and its constant impending inevitability.

I used to think that I was an average swimmer, taking swimming lessons in the course of my adolescence and learning how to survive in the unprecedented nature of the waters. I thought that if I were in open water with waves towering over my body, I would have the instinct to automise my limbs to work.

This was not the case.

The assumption of my endurance in treacherous waters was diminished after a trip to the Figure Eight Pools in the Royal National Park. After a two hour hike down to a rock shelf nearby the Burning Palms Beach, the pools in the shape of an eight reside in between the jagged rocks of a cliff above the vast sea. My family and I took note of the signs warning swimmers of the water and the singular lifebuoy that hung on a rock. 

Other hikers and tourists had entered the pools, with their depth varying from one another and their edges either blunt or sharp; although the flat surface that encompassed the area unionised the pools. We had inspected the surroundings, taken photos and enjoyed the scenery nature had provided for us that day. As if to reinforce the sublimity of it all, waves the size I could not comprehend had washed over the area, dousing everything in its vicinity with a crisp slap and then nothing. All at a standstill—collecting ourselves—another wave came, and then another, and then another, and then another. Fear had proliferated every fibre of my being, I had succumbed to the emotion, enslaving myself to nothing but the terror of meeting death as the waves threatened to push me to the sharp indentations below the cliff and pull me in to be swallowed by an abysmal cavity.

In the midst of this rampage I somehow fell into one of the pools, though this one did not meet the title of the area with only being a circular hole. The pool was encircled with a sharp edge, concave walls below cushioned with sea moss. I remember gripping the edge with my body submerged, and forcing my head to remain still as the onslaught of water threatened injuries.

I had received minor injuries with bruises and scratches scattered on my body, a cut drawing blood from my brow. It was then that I remembered memento mori, a term I learned in my fine arts class in secondary schooling. This Latin phrase translates to “remember you will die”, a somber reminder of the inevitable end of mortality and the pursuit of time in our slow decay.

I vowed to never return, though I found myself a couple years later compelled to see the figure eight waters once more. I stood by the rock shelf whilst my friend was readying to enter the pools. The bruises and cuts have long faded and I stood anew in front of it; my reminder. Together, hand in hand, we tread the slippery surface edging towards one of the pools. A plethora of droplets from the sea scattered the sky as a small wave washed the surface. A shudder in my bones translated to fear and I retreated to the rocky terrain. 

Every now and then I remember those moments: the dread that overwhelmed and suffocated my lungs, the beauty and horror of the scenic view, the taking and giving of nature and the echo of memento mori as I clung to life. If I had not fallen into the pool, I do not think that any lesson of swimming that remained in my muscle memory would have aided in my survival.