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.
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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
