ode to an ovaArmer

Artwork credit: Fran Lynch.

 Once upon a time, I found myself settling into a new town; a small Australian country community by the Pacific Ocean. Fledgling connections with kind people had me walking the break-wall at sunrise, pretending to like early mornings in order to forge a friendship. From my vantage on the pathway, I observed a group of swimmers lapping the shoreline, two kids playing and strolling the sand as they tracked them. There, I thought to myself, must be a Mum amongst those swimmers. And how incredibly rad that her kids came along while she got to have a swim. That’s my kind of group, I mused. There’s nothing like a Mum who somewhat neglects her children to pursue her own bliss, to float my boat.

 

Through a bit of sleuthing I learned of their weekly meeting time and location, and vicariously observed them swimming the length of our local beach whatever the weather. It was winter by the time I mustered my scant courage to join them one chill Saturday morning. Just as I’d seen them do, I donned my very old and not-for-swimming-but-instead-for-surfing wetsuit and waddled down to the beach to meet them for my maiden swim. I found I was ill-equipped and ill-timed; they were finishing their dip and leaving the water as I hastened to join them. Black clad and bemused, introductions were made and I was the centre of a warm circle of smiles and welcome. Pretending a nonchalance that is far from my truth, I traded WhatsApp details and gave them a confident nod as they moved off for their post-swim coffee and I blithely said I’d just ‘pop in the ocean’ for a quick dip. I floundered into the surf and had to fight off panic as I attempted to swim in my stiff wetsuit. The surf pushed me around. I was out of breath within seconds. All I could think of was sharks and how ridiculous I must look to that group of cool women that I’d just left.  

 

Little did I know what they would come to mean to me.

 

It was summer again, by the time I managed to actually swim with this group of diverse humans. Most every Saturday has it’s same rhythm. Meet at Lexies. Swim to the break-wall. Have a chat while we regroup. Then with intermittent sprints, return to our starting point. And so we swim.

 

Slowly, the Saturday morning ritual came to be something that I planned around, instead of just swinging by. The women came into focus, sharpened from a general blur of swimmer-clad bodies, into distinct personalities and swimming styles. Of all ages and ability, backgrounds and bodies. So we swim. 

 

 It’s difficult to articulate what it means to be an OvaArmer. Legend has it that the only prerequisite of the group is that you must have an ovary, or have come from one. However, there is something that draws and binds; connects a certain kind of (mostly) women who love to swim, love the wildness of the ocean and who bring an openness of heart to this most bonded of groups. An OvaArmer is welcoming to all who want to swim. She will happily chat while strolling to the ocean’s edge and loves to converse about the clarity (or lack thereof) of the Stockton water. She knows that summer warmth brings the itchy bites of sea lice. She has a spare pair of goggles, just in case, and will drown herself helping you put on your flippers, if need be. She might just be talked into taking her swimmers off for a bit of a nudie swim (but only if you are). She relishes swimming in the sea with a group of like-minded individuals. She is partial to a good poo-story over coffee.

 

Last year, when I was told that I must have my nipple removed because the sore that was on it was a breast cancer, not just a sore, I struggled to navigate sharing this very un-fun news. It wasn’t a particularly big deal in our vast world of war and climate scares and injustice, but it was significant to me. And I dithered over how to share it with this social group of mine, not yet friends, but something harder to define. Something, somehow, very important to me. Eventually, I posted a statement of some kind on the WhatsApp group and within a heartbeat, there were women bringing cakes and tea to my house, to sit with me beneath a tree in my backyard and to talk. To support. 

 

Once before in my life, something like this had happened. When breast cancer hit for the first time and the women in my life banded together, across provinces and countries to knit me a blanket of love. A blanket that I shipped to Australia with me and is currently somewhere again on a ship, crossing the Pacific Ocean for the second time, journeying back to Canada. A blanket of support and warmth that I still wrap around myself in dark and lonely moments. 

 

And it makes me wonder, maybe we’re all OvaArmers? Because we all love a bit of the wild and we all love to stretch and use our bodies? We band together in times of crisis or need; to support and lean into the care of community. We all love a good chat and guffaw over a quality poo-escapade. It’s that human connection, however you find it, that makes this good, dear old world, such a gift to experience.