Deep(er) Water

Recently, a friend of mine formed a local writers' group. Tonight was our first meeting. At the tavern, we did our awkward introductions and my friend kindly complimented my work when introducing me. I felt my heart surge. The other women were lovely, but I felt my interactions fall flat and noticed their gazes become curious.

Later, my friend mentioned that there's going to be an open mic for writers next month at a local surf club. There's a theme we have to write to, she said: 'deep water'.

"Ah, that's perfect." I said.

"Do you have anything that you think would work?" my friend asked.

"I don't think I've told anyone this, but I've named my memoir. It's called Drinking Salt Water".

One of the women smiled encouragingly: "is that a metaphor?"

Literal and metaphorical, I said. I explained some of the title's layers: about POTS and how I drink salty water to feel human; that's literal. But the title is also metaphorical - a meditation on the ways my life has passed through and drowned me, and the ways I've tried to sustain myself without benefit. It's about my dad dying when I was 16; about my mum dying when I was 27; about my autism diagnosis at 28; about making sense of my life's struggles and difference in retrospect.

And the 'Deep Water' theme is perfect in another way, I said. There's the Paul Kelly song 'Deeper Water': "My mum loved Paul Kelly. She had his album Deeper Water and I used to steal it off her to listen to it. This feels serendipitous."

"Oh wow, you just gave me goosebumps," one of the women said, rubbing her arms.

I smiled and the women told me that I definitely need to read something at the open mic night. That it was meant to be. They said they'd come just to support me, even if they didn't read anything themselves.

I drove home listening to Paul Kelly, and recorded a voice message for my writer friend in the U.S. She is also writing a memoir and we share our experiences with each other (she is, also, why I've joined Substack - hello and thank you Lillian Seidel 💖). I told her about my night, and added another layer: "I'm driving to my hometown, a coastal regional town. Growing up, everyone there surfed, or at the very least could swim." I can't swim, I clarified, and it's one of many differences I felt keenly growing up, yet couldn't quite explain.

Later, I reached my hometown and spent a few minutes on a headland, watching the moon cast white ripples on the black sea. I thought about my mum, watching me with sad concern as I flailed in the pool at swimming lessons. I thought about growing up around kids who just seemed to get it. Just seemed to fit. I thought about the teenagers flinging themselves into the sea with glee. The magnetic girls I couldn't even make eye contact with, their matching shell anklets emblems of a world I could never be part of. I thought about the adults who move their bodies with grace, strength, and confidence. And I thought about me, struggling in the shallows. Drinking salt water.