‘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.