After hitting rock bottom, a women-only ocean pool led me to safety

The phrase “nature is healing” gets thrown around a lot in this wellness-obsessed, post-lockdown era, though largely in jest. I often use it myself, also largely in jest. But a few years ago I learnt in earnest what those three words genuinely mean.

It was early 2015 and I was in a bad way. A tangled break-up, a close friend’s suicide and some poor life choices were playing stacks-on with my feelings, heaping one after another atop a pre-existing pile of immovable grief and major depressive disorder.

I was also struggling to process Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton’s fresh split. What went wrong? They seemed so perfect for each other.

I was a mess: barely eating, rarely bathing and terrified of leaving the house. I even tried to feed my cat tinned lentils and four-bean mix when her food supply dwindled. Turns out she’s not partial to legumes. Her loss, really.

If rock bottom is a destination, I had arrived. Picture the Kim Kardashian cry-face meme. Picture Weird Barbie. Picture every portrayal of women experiencing mental health issues in art and culture ever. Actually, scrap that last one; I was fully clothed and without make-up. And my hair was falling out.

I didn’t fully understand what was happening but I knew I had to hide it. Living alone and working from home made that somewhat easy but my excuses grew increasingly flimsy. When the truth finally came out, I took indefinite leave from a job I would never return to and started intensive outpatient treatment, grateful to be able to stay home with the lentil-hater.

With little to do but watch Gilmore Girls and cry, and strict instructions to minimise my time at home, I found myself drawn almost daily to Coogee’s women’s baths.

When I’m there, I feel calm. When I’m there, I feel free. When I’m there, I feel safe. It’s like a pair of giant, rocky arms are wrapped around me.

Nadine J. Cohen

Built deep into a cliff face on Bidjigal and Gadigal land, and cleverly hidden from all but sea and sky, McIver’s Ladies Baths are Australia’s only ocean pool legally restricted to women and children. I fell in love the moment I first entered, regrettably late in life for a Sydney eastern suburbs native. It was the seaside oestrogen oasis I didn’t know I needed.

With nothing but women and water as far as the eye can see, the baths have an energy unlike anywhere I’ve experienced, at once peaceful and pulsating, wholesome and sensual. When I’m there, I feel calm. When I’m there, I feel free. When I’m there, I feel safe. It’s like a pair of giant, rocky arms are wrapped around me, hugging me to Mother Nature’s heaving bosom, softly singing Rihanna’s Umbrella in my ear.

I’ve tried to explain this feeling to some of the men in my life and, bless them, they’ve tried to understand, but I don’t think they ever truly can. It’s the word “safe” that stumps them the most. “Don’t you feel safe at normal beaches?” they ask. The answer is complicated but in short: yes and no. Safety means different things to different people. Ask a woman in your life to elaborate.

Loading

Summer weekends are hectic at the baths – not recommended if you don’t do well with crowds or your recent nervous breakdown has permanently triggered your fight-or-flight response. But on weekdays it’s pretty chill. Back then I could lay my towel on a rock or in a grassy corner and while away the day, swimming, reading, staring blankly out to sea, without having to talk to anyone but the volunteers collecting entry fees – one dollar at the time; two dollars now (nothing has escaped inflation’s grubby tentacles).

Slowly, I started chatting with other regulars, mostly older women, many of whom had been frequenting the joint since before I was born. I loved hearing about how the place had changed and sat in awe of their dedication to the ocean, many swimming every day of the year come rain, hail or climate change. It had been a long time since I’d had maternal figures in my life and I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed them.

I struck up fleeting friendships with women of all ages, most of whom I never crossed paths with again. It became clear that it wasn’t just me, that the baths are a place of healing and sanctuary for many. A place rich in stories, happy and sad. For some, it’s simply a place to swim, sun and go topless in peace; but for many, from devout Muslims and Orthodox Jews to trans women and family-violence survivors, it’s so much more.

Recovering from a severe mental health episode isn’t a linear process. It’s messy and for every bit of progress there are 10 setbacks. Gradually, I got better, stronger. I stopped dissociating and the panic attacks became less frequent. I saw my friends. My hair grew back. But there were still days when even brushing my teeth was a struggle. There still are now.

It’s more than eight years later and the women’s baths still play a big part in my life, especially the down times. I’m not a hardcore year-round swimmer like some of the regulars I befriended but I’ll brave the cold on a sunny July day with enough encouragement. And with spring peeking out from behind winter, most days you’ll find me topless on a rock and looking out at the ocean, wondering how Helena Bonham Carter is doing and thanking nature for healing me.

Everyone and Everything (Pantera Press) by Nadine J. Cohen is out now.

Lifeline: 13 11 14

Make the most of your health, relationships, fitness and nutrition with our Live Well newsletter. Get it in your inbox every Monday.