Ocean Pool

‘How is it?’, I typically ask as I drop my backpack on the bench in the female changeroom. ‘Maybe about three or four’, another woman might say, by which she means that it will take about three or four laps before my body adjusts to the organ-gripping coldness of the water.

Port Kembla Ocean Pool sits perpendicular to the coast, and I figure this is why the water temperature especially in the cooler months becomes colder at its eastern end. At Port Kembla my technique for getting into the water on cool or cold days is to gently climb in from a ladder at the western end of the pool, and then, having splashed some of the salty brine over my arms to do a few strokes of breaststroke with my head above the water before changing to freestyle and with it submerging my exploding head into the chilly brine.

During chemotherapy and radiotherapy treatment and surgery for colorectal cancer, the sensation was one of gloriously weightless relief from the nausea and the pain experienced when standing or sitting. So happy was I that I could still swim and that my body still worked I smiled while doing my laps. The first time I swam during the treatment I laughed with joy at the painless and empowering experience of being able to move my body through the salty ocean water. But laughing while swimming isn’t a good idea, so I swallowed some sea water and had to stop to clear my throat.

Today I’ve got just enough time to do my 20 laps before my art session starts at nearby Red Point so even though it’s a moderately cold 17 degrees outside, I can’t afford to dither when getting into the chilly water. As I rush into the change rooms I am met by a bevy of bodies – boobs and bottoms and fannies in various states of nakedness. A dozen or more women are joyously chatting as they dry off, pull on knickers, pour themselves into tiny or generous cupped bras and return to shirts and trousers or shorts, and thongs, sandals or runners. Sitting on one of the benches, with her back against the wall, legs astride, is one very large woman, probably in her sixties, her dark, greying wet hair hanging in strips over her shoulders, boobs happily swinging in time with her arms as she loudly laughs at something another woman is sharing with her.

I don’t want to stare so I focus on changing into my swimmers but I’m rejoicing at her comfort in this beautiful chaotic buzzing forum of female chatter. Sitting on an adjacent bench with my back to her, I put on my stretchy short-sleeved top first because it is long enough to cover most of my belly before I slip off my knickers and replace them with my elasticised swimming shorts, aiming to minimise revealing the flesh-coloured stoma bag that hangs from my belly.

Half an hour later, when I return from the pool to the change room, there she is sitting on the bench and still chatting to a couple of others. They are all dressed now, complete with their hijabs.

Urdu Uber – Tuesday 14 July 2026

At 6.30 this morning an Uber driver arrived to take us to Melbourne Airport. Within minutes of settling into the car, a smooth electric vehicle, Omer asked us where we were travelling to. A little wary of explaining that we were going to Perth for my 99-year-old mum’s funeral, Steve explained that we were visiting family there and no we don’t live in Melbourne, we are just visiting our daughters. Instead, we explained, we live in Wollongong.

As usual I asked whether he was familiar with our city. With enthusiastic delight in his voice Omer told us that he knows the place well because he lived there for 7 years, studying at Wollongong uni. On the 27^th May 2007, the day that he landed in Australia and arrived in Wollongong from Pakistan, he and his friends made their way to North Beach and had a dip in North Wollongong Rock Pool. But the 27^th May has acquired even more significance for Omer as it also the birthday of his now three-year-old son.

That the birth of Omer’s child has become wedded to his first day in Australia and in the city that has been our beloved home for more than half our lives, established an immediate emotional connection between the three of us. And that this arrival was celebrated by a dip in the Rock Pool just added to our shared delight. Not only do I love swimming in any one of the many ocean pools that dot the NSW coastline, but as Steve shared with Omer, he calls me ‘the Minister for the Illawarra’ very largely because of the way that I boast to anybody that doesn’t live in Wollongong about the many wonderful natural and cultural attributes of the place including our beautiful ocean pools.

In keeping with my ambassadorial role, I explained to Omer that when the pool was built in 1870, it was exclusively for men and called the Gentleman’s Pool. At the time it was considered inappropriate for women to swim in the company of men. However, some years later, as conventions relaxed a little, a publican from just across the road from the pool built a little cabin with a door at each end. Sitting on wheels, the cabin was towed by a horse down to the water’s edge from where ladies would enter it from the land side full clad, change into neck to knees swimming togs, and discretely exit the cabin from the other end and slip into the water for a ladies only swim.

It soon became evident that Omer’s fondness for Wollongong is deeply personal. Not only has his band of uni friends maintained a strong bond; now living either in Melbourne or Sydney they will shortly be catching up for a few days in Thredbo. But he explained his ‘missus’ comes from the coastal town of Batemans’s Bay about a two hour drive south of Wollongong, and her grandparents were from Shellharbour a council area immediately to the south of the City of Wollongong.

‘So, are you both retired?’ Omer asked. Our response to this question is typically a mix of yes and no. I explained that Steve runs a poetry publishing company, 5 Islands Press. Steve added with a wry smile that this was definitely a not-for-profit project of love. The conversation that followed was as culturally rich as it was intimate. Omer explained that poetry is very special to him: that he has a book of poems that he frequently reads written in his native tongue, Urdu, which he explained is a mixture of Persian, Arabic, and Turkik, as well as a smattering of Sanskrit. He also told us that Urdu is the preferred language that is sung in Bollywood films. Then with joy in his voice, Omer shared that his wife fell in love with him when he translated his favourite poems into English for her.

With such a beautiful connection having been established, it seemed fitting that Steve let Omer know that 5 Islands Press is hoping to publish a collection of poems written in the different native tongues of poets living in Western Sydney, and invited Omer to contact him via the press website if he is interested in the collection.

When we stepped out of the car at Melbourne Airport, we farewelled each other and expressed our mutual gratitude for the serendipitous opportunity to share such a precious exchange. While Steve and Omer enthusiastically shook hands, I stood back, wishing I could throw my arms around him.

My Mum’s Eulogy – 15 July 2026

From a number of perspectives, it is amazing – or according to Mum, ‘ridiculous’ – that she had such a long life. Born in 1927, four and half years later, the WA Govt deemed the family to be destitute and declared Mum and her older brother Joe, Wards of the State, and placed them in St Vincent’s Foundling Home, a Catholic orphanage in Subiaco, (now Catherine McAuley Centre). At the same time, Mum’s mother Vera (Veronica) was placed in the neighbouring Good Shepherd Convent, a refuge for troubled women and troubling young girls. According to State Government records, Vera was suffering from a nervous breakdown, and I believe that she was almost certainly pregnant, and our grandfather, Joseph was described as an ‘unemployed farm hand’ who was of ‘good character’, ‘poor’ but ‘sober’. He was attempting to survive the Great Depression by rabbit trapping somewhere on the outskirts of Perth.

Mum and Joe lived in the orphanage for three years.

The single most telling memory of her time in St Vincent’s foundling home and orphanage is of frequently climbing onto a ledge from where she would look through a window in an attempt to see her mother. These exercises were in vain because she never saw her mother during this period. How confusing and painful this must have been for Mum and Joe.

Fortunately, just in time for Christmas in 1934, the family was reunited and a period of relative normality followed for the next 8 years.

In December 1943 aged just 43, Mum’s mother died. Mum had just returned to live with the family in Toodyay after spending three years as a boarder in St Joesphs College in Victoria Square, her fees paid for by her uncle Johnny Corry. Mum passed her Junior Certificate with flying colours and went on to work as a bookkeeping clerk for Dalgety’s.

In 1946, aged 19 and 22, Mum and Dad married. They parented six children and there were also two miscarriages and a still born. Theirs was a solid partnership. There were the innovative meals that they both produced: Mum’s favourite was Mexican rice and Dad’s was mutton curry. Mum sewed all of my clothes and many of my brothers’ when they were little. Then there were the jumpers that dad produced on a huge knitting machine, and the fancy dress ball costumes that they produced together, not just for Peter, Phil, Tony and me, but also for the other 7 kids that made up our sets at St Mary’s and CBC Leederville annual fancy dress balls. For many years they played tennis together and sang in a choir led by renowned WA musical educator and choral leader John Christmass OAM. And of course, there was our place at Mandurah which, with the help of Peter and Phil and a couple of rellies, Dad built and Mum fitted out with curtains that she made on her Necchi sewing machine. This was our other home – where we spent all of our school holidays and many more weekends.

Perhaps because of her very frugal childhood, Mum and Dad were always on the lookout for a bargain. One of the central elements of this thriftiness was Mum’s fortnightly grocery shopping expeditions. Carried out for many years with her close friend Doreen Beeson who would drive (Mum only got her driver’s licence when I was about 17 and my boyfriend Steve Meyrick taught her to drive) the two of them from one supermarket to another armed with a shopping list that circled the specials advertised in the West Australian by shops such as Matheson’s, Charlie Carter’s, Tom the Cheap Grocer and Freecorns.

When Mum was in her early forties the ravages of nine pregnancies left her seriously ill and culminated in her nearly losing her life to a massive haemorrhage. That she accepted this as her lot was a consequence in part of her tough no-nonsense upbringing and also sadly in keeping at the time with societal and church attitudes to women’s health. But quite fortuitously, the doctor on duty in the hospital was unusually sympathetic and insisted on a hysterectomy. Apart from saving Mum’s life, he also unknowingly unleashed in Mum a huge change in direction.

First, she completed her Leaving Certificate at night school at Perth Modern. One teacher in particular really left his mark on Mum; my brothers will recall her oft repeated refrain, ‘Mr Tomlinson said’ as an endorsement of an argument or a point she would make about an issue.

Three years later she had completed a teaching degree at Churchlands Teachers College (aka Edith Cowan University). And while this is truly remarkable, our tough no-nonsense mum who couldn’t draw for nuts (Dad was our clever craftsperson and watercolourist) blew us out of the water by becoming an accomplished artist. Under the tutelage of her college lecturer, the famous WA impressionist artist Elizabeth Ford, with whom Mum made many trips to WA’s outback, our Mum produced outstanding abstract and impressionist paintings that depicted landscapes and beach scenes, industrial and mining sites, sacred images, and a wonderful composition showing five well rounded women sitting on the retaining wall outside the Scarborough Hotel at the Sunday session. Many of these grace the walls of homes including throughout WA and are proudly displayed in our homes both here and in the eastern states.

Mum faced another tough challenge when Dad passed away in 1979, aged just 55. But, not long after, one of the ways that she moved through her grief was to embark on her first overseas trip. It was just an easy little tour – to India where among her adventures, she collided with a cow while riding a bike – almost certainly her first and I am pretty sure her last time on a two wheeled vehicle. Many trips followed to the Seychelles, Europe, the UK and Ireland – including with her beloved friend Sheila Doran.

After working for many years teaching young boys at Aranmore College, Mum’s retirement years were not spent in a rocking chair. This inspirational woman continued with her art, tutored many young people, volunteered for charities including by teaching refugees, and sang in the Spirit of the Streets Choir until well into her 80s.

I’m sure that many among Mum’s family and friends will have memories that they cherish. Three come to mind that I think capture Mum’s sense of fun and love of life. When our three girls, Dom, Bron and Tess were very little, one of Mum’s favourite tricks was to chase them around the house, usually on all fours, and always with her false teeth suspended outside her mouth, shouting ‘I’m goin catch ya and I’m goin to eat ya’. And of course, they would scream in a combination of fear and delight as they ran ahead of her. Twenty plus years later, the same scenario was then played out with our grandchildren in Melbourne.

When Mum was in her early 80s, and at a family wedding, she could not handle sitting out while other guests, all much younger than her, were dancing. There was nothing subdued about the music or the dancing. It was pumping. But, this was precisely what was making her feet itch and the desire to join the crowd irresistible. She jumped to her feet, joining a huddle of younger women that were already on the floor, and danced as if she was doing an aerobics session for the next 15 minutes or more.

Just as Mum loved to dance, so too she also loved to swim.

Also in her 80s, at the end of a hot day in the Hunter Valley where Mum was holidaying with Sue and Steve, Tessa and me, she was enviously watching us cool off in the pool. Unfortunately, she had not brought her bathers. No more than five minutes passed before she had stripped to her underclothing and was in the pool.

The next day was just as hot and so we all made use of the pool again to cool off. This time Mum borrowed shorts and a T shirt, so we were deprived of the novelty of her outfit of the previous day. However, we were not disappointed. Steve was adjudicating a mock display of ‘Olympic standard’ synchronised swimming that Tessa and I were practising. Mum decided to join us by copying the routine. This involved her fearlessly duck diving to the bottom of the pool and doing a handstand. The challenge was to keep her legs straight for a few seconds and then move them in a series of three scissor kicks. Worried that she was under the water for an inordinately long period of time, I encouraged Steve to pull her up. With hair and water streaming down her face, she asked ‘did I keep straight?’. All we could do was laugh because she is so short that we could not see her legs at all beneath the water.

No doubt you will have your stories and cherished memories about Pat; Mum; or Nana. Please do not hesitate to share them. That’s a good way of honouring her memory. But perhaps an even better way is to recognise in yourself those life engaging characteristics that you may have in common with Mum and grab hold of life with the tenacity, courage, quirkiness and love that she displayed during her 99 years.

Cappuccino

I had been halfway up the hill to my place after a low-key, pleasant but tiring afternoon attending a mixed media painting workshop, when I talked myself into doing a U-turn back to the shopping centre to pick up some groceries. I rarely stop for a coffee but as it happens, because I was tired, and my brain was still trying to make sense of the confused process of bringing glued paper together with ink, acrylic and oil pastel, I decided that I would grab a coffee and spend a few minutes working out what I needed to buy before proceeding to Coles.

‘Can you spare me a coffee?’, I heard to my left as I approached the entrance to the shopping centre. I turned and placed my hand on his arm: ‘Sure’, I said, ‘What would you like?’

‘Cappuccino’, he answered, and trailing a small bright red wheelie bag, led the way to Oliver Brown’s, a café conveniently located within about 10 metres of the entrance. By the time I reached the cafe he was already asking the young woman behind the counter for his preferred coffee. So, not surprisingly she was a tad confused when I said I was paying for the drink and added my skinny flat white to the order. ‘Would you like something to eat?’ I asked and proceeded to order his choice: a passionfruit topped cheesecake and a muffin for me. By the time I had paid for our order, he had made his way to a nearby table.

Finely built, with grisly grey hair and an angry dark-skinned face, he was a picture of dark on dark: navy blue hoody, navy blue jeans and black runners. I reckon he was in his early 50s.

I sat opposite him but on the chair to his left.

As soon as the coffee and food landed, he used the wooden take-away fork to tackle the cheesecake with great gusto. A few mouthfuls later, he extracted coffee sachets from his red bag, opened a couple and poured the contents into his cappuccino and stirred the stuff briskly into his drink.

‘Wow, that’s a heap of coffee’.

‘Yeh, bought it earlier today’.

‘By the way, what’s your name?’, I quietly asked.

‘Denis’.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Denis.’

‘So, what brings you here?’, I asked.

‘Just out of fuckin Long Bay. Nine months. Hit the fuckin missus’.

‘That’s not ok, you know’.

‘Yeh but I just smacked her’.

‘Ah ha’, I quietly responded, realising that pursuing the topic was pointless and perhaps a tad risky.

‘Where do you hail from Denis?’. He jerked his head towards the southern entrance, ‘South Coast’ he said. ‘Fuckin Eden’.

‘Do you have any kids?’.

‘Yeh six. But they’ve all gone. Moved on. Fuckin cunts. Spent time in … and did isolation in … for a bit too’.

I think I heard Grafton and Goulburn, but it was difficult to decipher what he was saying, and for some vague reason – perhaps fear of what he would tell me – I didn’t think it was a good idea to ask him to clarify.

‘Denis, what sort of work do you do?’

‘Labourer, factories, always worked in factories.’

‘Ok, terrific’, I answered feebly.

‘So where are you staying?’

‘Suppose I’ll sleep on the, on me sister’s what do you call it, on me sister’s bloody front ..’.

‘Verandah?’, I offered.

‘Yeh, her front verandah.’

I think he told me that she lives in Eden. As he told me this, I realised that my question was a tad rash, and my shoulders imperceptibly dropped with relief that he wasn’t asking to stay at my place.

At this point I offered him my partially eaten berry muffin. I wasn’t really hungry and had taken only a couple of mouthfuls. He grabbed the muffin and demolished it within seconds.

Placing his Opal card on the table he said, ‘Can you spare me $20? Need it to top up me bloody card. Need to get to me sister’s’. As I fumbled in the top pocket of my backpack, I wondered whether public transport would get him to Eden. Hadn’t he said his sister was in Eden or did I get that wrong? He stood up, in readiness to go. I quietly handed over $30 which he slid into his jeans pocket and left the café, making his way speedily along the shopping arcade, his red wheelie bag rolling behind him.

May 2026