If I find myself at an open beach, I approach big surf the same way I would an unfamiliar, large dog: excited, but slow and wary, hands up as if to say “easy there”, quietly hoping the beautiful thing in front of me doesn’t try to kill me.

My pace usually slows as the foam begins to wash over my knees and I lose sight of my feet. If I am there with friends, at this point they usually stride ahead into the deep, confidently slipping under waves. I, on the other hand, become ever more hesitant, busy doing a mental taxonomy of the slimy blobs brushing past my legs.

Australians are supposed to be at ease at the beach. But the reality is often very different

I war-game how I will navigate each wave coming towards me, never quite confident enough to dive under, so always trying to spring above them, usually copping a face full of foam in the process. I do this while trying to quiet the manic cellos of the Jaws theme in my head, guiltily reassuring myself there are plenty of people out further than me who would provide a tasty distraction to any lurking sharks.

In short, it can be an undignified and often stressful experience. If I can manage to get my whole body wet I feel a quiet sense of accomplishment and beat a hasty retreat. From the safety of my towel, I have watched many friends over the years, staring back at me bemusedly from beyond the breaks.

Australians are supposed to be at ease at the beach. We live mostly clustered on the coastline of an island continent, steeped in a national mythology that is tanned and salty-haired.

But the reality is often very different.

Even in a coastal city like Sydney, great swathes of the population migrate here from countries where people don’t necessarily swim – let alone surf. We live in inland suburbs rendered more remote from the beach by terrible public transport and even worse city traffic. From here, surf culture can feel foreign and exclusive. For many, finding confidence in the ocean can be a hard-won and dangerous battle.

I blame my own clumsiness and anxiety in the open ocean on a childhood spent in the safety of suburban council pools in Sydney’s inner west. My parents had no interest in long, hot drives to the beach, so virtually all my swimming as a kid was done in these oases of concrete and chlorine, all neat lines and smooth surfaces. There, the only real risk you contended with was another kid bombing in from overhead when the lifeguard’s back was turned.

But as an adult I’ve come to love being by the sea. And discovering Sydney’s ocean pools was something of a revelation.

I remember the first trip to McIver’s Ladies Baths in my early 20s. Just up the hill from the main beach at Coogee, away from the surfers and backpackers rolling in the waves, sits a small gate. Steps lead down the cliff into the pool, framed by lush plants that stretch out from the steep rock. Here you could plunge into salty water, surrounded by blue sky and open ocean, protected by a low concrete wall that tamed the surf. Small crabs ducked in and out from the rock and fish swam below. That the women-only space has the vibe of a secret, mermaid coven was a bonus.

After all the internal battles between wanting to be in the sea and being afraid of it, I had finally found a perfect detente.

Discovering more ocean pools over the years has opened up the city and the surrounding regions for a beach novice like myself. I have done laps in the wild, deserted pools along the Illawarra coast, with the looming escarpment on one side and the pounding Pacific on the other.

I have whiled away weekends at Bondi Icebergs, observing loving Instagram-boyfriends patiently strive for an acceptable shot of their girlfriends in one of the most picturesque spots in the world. Best of all though, ocean pools have made intimidating beaches like Bronte truly enjoyable for the first time.

Ocean pools are monuments to different ways of thinking about public space

Providing places to cool off and swim safe from sharks, riptides and waves, especially for a growing population unfamiliar with the surf, was of course a primary purpose of New South Wales’ abundant ocean pools when they were built throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Another purpose was providing work during the Depression – many of Sydney’s pools were funded by unemployment relief schemes. How lucky we are that past governments faced worrisome economic times by investing in infrastructure projects like this – spaces whose value lies in their ability to foster community for generations and generate enjoyment, rather than profit. Most of them are still free. Ocean pools are not just monuments to ingenuity and and the beauty of Australia’s coast, but to different ways of thinking about public space than we frequently do now.

Last weekend I joined some friends who wanted to swim at North Bondi and found myself performing the same old clumsy ritual, edging slowly out towards the surf as my mates ploughed in. Battered by waves and tired of dodging kids learning to surf I made a familiar, quick retreat.

But instead of returning straight to my towel I stopped to loll in the shallows of the Wally Weekes pool, the tiny bathing area surrounded by rocks that sits at the beach’s northernmost tip. For a moment I had it entirely to myself, and I lay back in the water, in the sea but out of it, where I felt like I belonged.



