It was a sunny weekday when I took a road trip to a place called Garie Beach in the Royal National Park with some friends. Garie was windy that day but like a bawdy temptress, the empty beach beckoned me to go in. I hadn’t gone swimming in a while and thought it would be nice to take a short dip, despite the fact that I was wearing what could only be described as ‘heavy lumberjack chic’.
As I went waist-deep into the water, Garie welcomed me with — well, what’s a nice way to put this? A warm b-tch slap. A violent shore dump left my very inappropriate-for-swimming attire twisted in body cavities I had no idea existed. I hastily tried to put myself back in order as the wind turned me into the embodiment of a Picasso painting. In short, Garie made a chump out of me.
There is no way I’ll ever go swimming at that beach again, I thought to myself. Hell no, no siree Bob, no chance. Sayonara Garie, it’s been swell. Literally.
There is no way I’ll ever go swimming at that beach again, I thought to myself.
But less than a year later, I was back at Garie. On patrol. As a surf lifesaver. As a hijabi surf lifesaver from Bankstown, no less. Wow, I thought to myself, that actually happened.
The road to becoming a surf lifesaver has not been not easy. And it wasn’t even because of the choppy seas.
I spent early 2019 in a hospital overseas fighting for my life after overdosing on prescription drugs. If you think getting a COVID test is uncomfortable, imagine having your stomach pumped by a tube violently shoved down your nose and into your stomach. Not to discount your pain, but I’m pretty sure this earns me the medical-items-being-shoved-down-your-nose-and-causing-great-discomfort bragging rights. Just sayin'.
I moved back to Australia to receive treatment and to be closer to my family. It was the year 2020 when COVID-19 gatecrashed the party and I decided to take on Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000 hours theory with vigour — with a couch potato twist.
I embarked on a journey to become an expert in watching Korean dramas. As I sat on my couch, feasting on endless hours of subtitled content and becoming a geriatric BTS stan, I got a call from my friend who told me about a swimming program via . Meh. I thought. I’m not interested in that! A line I wish I would’ve recited in fluent Korean, while I ate the leftover popcorn perched on my tummy.
My friend persisted and reminded me how much I used to love to swim. She was right, I did love swimming. I loved the feeling of being in the moment when you’re underwater and focusing on stroke correction instead of the failures of the past or the anxieties of the future. I love the serenity of the water which is in stark contrast to the constant busyness of my mind.
So I reluctantly joined the advanced program — and it sparked something in me. I began to use my government mandated exercise time to swim for half an hour a day. My doctor’s words — with his thick Scottish accent — insisting “exercise is just as important as taking medication” rang through my mind. Swimming became a lifeline. It energised me and it was the first step I took to learn to value myself. Damn those LÓreal ads were really onto something when they were telling us we were “worth it”. But it took more than a stick of mascara and a lot more introspection to find that worth.
When the opportunity to join the Garie Vanguard program came up, I initially dismissed it as ridiculous. Firstly, It’s very rare to see a Muslim woman surf lifesaver — let alone one in hijab. Secondly, the impact of the Cronulla riots has always left a bitter taste in my mouth. Images on the news of people wearing shirts emblazoned with “Ethnic Cleansing Unit” are seared into my memory. Thirdly, just being at a beach in hijab can elicit reactions akin to seeing a human in reptilian form. There’s always the “Aren’t you hot in that?” question. (I mean, who isn’t hot in an Australian summer?) At this point, I fantasise about shrieking the words “I’m melting!” like Wicked’s Elphaba — complete with evil laughter — until the questioner runs away. Fourthly, what the hell is a rip and how do I spot one? And lastly, sharks. Yeah, that's a big no from me.
In the end, after seeing some of my peers join the Garie Vanguard program, I decided representation and being visibly part of Australian beach culture is important not just for my own mental health, but for the people who never felt welcomed at the beach. Or never felt “white enough” to be a part of beach culture.
In the process of having a bunch of Muslims from southwest train at the Garie, all the volunteers became unlikely bedfellows. We were welcomed by the community with open arms and we’ve had the opportunity to form great bonds with people I would have otherwise probably never met. The program brought people from all walks of life together with a unified goal: to teach water literacy and bring safety back to our communities and protect our loved ones.
I decided representation and being visibly part of Australian beach culture is important. Source: LADbible Australia. (Via Asma's Amazon Prime doco)
And, I now know what a rip is.
When I’m at Garie Beach, sometimes I smirk to myself when I remember my first time there. I also remember how I nearly lost my life that day in hospital. And yet here I am — helping to save the lives of others. Yes, I did that.
