Embracing the Depths: Finding Connection in Loss Through Water’s Embrace

Last week, I swam in the ocean, gradually entering until the water soared to my hips, and then plunging beneath the gently undulating waves. Transparent jellyfish sparkled against the sand. Rolling over to float on my back, I allowed my limbs and hair to flow freely, and I pondered the ghostly absence-presence of my father and brother, who perished on an extraordinarily hot summer day over three decades ago.

My recollections of the day they drowned emerge vividly during summer, particularly on certain sweltering days concluding with thunderstorms. Anyone who’s experienced a summer in Victoria understands the kind of day that signifies the conclusion of a heatwave. It begins sweltering, everyone tossing off their bedcovers before it’s time to arise. The temperature has remained above 30°C throughout the night, perhaps throughout the week. The sky is a stark blue at noon, making it seem as though nothing can alleviate the heat, regardless of the meteorologist’s assurances. Then the winds commence. By late afternoon, the sky darkens as if dusk has arrived prematurely. The breeze rushes through trees, fire alarms sound, and thunder rumbles ominously. Soon, the rain begins to fall, and we swing open our windows to welcome the refreshing air as the temperature cools.

My father and brother drowned on a day just like that. The sky must have still been blue when they entered the water. By the time I learned of their tragic fate, the sky was changing to a hue of violet tinged with dark.

A day of that nature can still unsettle me, yet it also exhilarates me. My father adored thunderstorms.

During my childhood, my family resided in a small town in northern Victoria where summers were unforgivingly hot and rainfall was a rare occurrence. The asphalt on the roads melted and adhered to our sandals as we walked to the public swimming facility. I don’t recall acquiring the skill to swim. It felt as though I was born with the ability. Our family vacations always included water, my siblings splashing nearby in some brown lake or river. Mother joined in only occasionally, while Father frequently mingled with us, his slender legs akimbo as he performed handstands or leaped in to splash us. We hardly ever swam in the ocean. That was distant both in geography and mentality, a mindset challenging for me to remember now that I reside in a bayside metropolis, but back then we were landlocked individuals, and in 1993, two of us drowned in the murky brown waters of an irrigation channel. My father was 45 and my brother 25. I wasn’t present. By that time, I was living in the city.

You might assume that my pleasure in swimming would have transformed after the drownings, yet it did not.

I took a swim just over a week following the funeral. A beach getaway had been arranged months prior and I considered cancelling, but no place felt comfortable or suitable anyway, so I proceeded. I perched on a rock by the shore, my brother’s shirt fastened around me and resolved to step in and discover what being in water felt like now. I don’t know exactly what I anticipated, but what I encountered was relief. I appreciate how swimming clears my mind and allows me to be present in the moment. On that day, for the first time since receiving the news of the drownings, I felt connected to the two men we had lost. I heard their voices and envisioned their faces in my mind. My grief was fresh and intense, yet feeling it was preferable to the distant numbness that had settled in me since we buried them.

Until last week, I hadn’t swum for a considerable time. My neighborhood isn’t near the bay, and life has been hectic. I could step outside, catch a tram, and reach a beach within the hour, but it’s simpler to collapse under the air conditioner on a hot day or open the doors and hope for a breeze once the sun has set.

As I floated in the ocean, observing the jellyfish glide and sway with the waves, I reflected on the enduring nature of my grief for this profound loss and how it evolves over time, fluctuating in intensity and closeness. I’ve found some tranquility in its persistent presence.

The ocean was tranquil. I swam out a bit further, realizing once again that immersing myself in water, particularly the chilly saltwater of the ocean, and allowing my mind to clear and my body temperature to gradually cool brings me comfort as summer returns, marking this time 32 years since I last saw my father and brother.