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My parents were Cantonese migrants from Hong Kong who, in the 1970s, moved to Queensland’s Sunshine Coast, home to some of the country’s most beautiful beaches. It still strikes me as a slightly baffling decision, given neither of them could swim. Water compelled and terrified them and their five Australian-born kids. While other people saw stunning coastlines, we just saw a picturesque way to die. Were we missing something? Did they want to die? Weirdly, it was always white people who told us these things, the same white people who seemed to keep going to the beach. ‘You weren’t just expected to know how to swim you were expected to be good at it.’ Prince Alfred Park, Sydney pool. Photograph: Josef Nalevansky/City of SydneyĪ safer option was the public pool. Years of TV safety campaigns had convinced Mum we needed to know how to swim, because she sure as hell couldn’t save us if we were drowning.
Throughout summer, we’d wail as Mum drove us to the nearest suburban leisure centre for lessons.
I suspect we dreaded those lessons as much as our instructors dreaded teaching us, those hopeless Asian kids spluttering with anxiety inside the enclosed training pool, those stinking hothouses of chemicals, piss and wet togs (or cossies, or bathers, or swimmers – depending on your state).Īfter the nightmare was over, we’d be sedated with a treat – a Redskin (Australians veer towards racism even with our confectionary), an ice block or a packet of frogs – before falling asleep in the stuffy Ford Cortina, hair matted to our temples, seat belts twisted into our skin and fingers dusted orange from the Twisties we stole from each other.
The North Sydney Olympic Pool beside the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Photograph: kokkai/Getty ImagesĮven Sydney’s indoor pools – which I usually avoid because of the claustrophobic chlorine pong – are impressive.