I’ve been inside nearly four years. Just as my lawyer predicted, the first two weeks were the hardest, and when I reached my sentence jail at two months in, it was easier again. Once I started work the days passed much more quickly, and it has only sped up since. Months slip by like weeks. Christmas swings around again before I know it.

‍

That was, until I started monthly day leave. Now the weeks stretch out interminably until my next day out. I’d been looking forward to it, but I hadn’t realised just how much it would affect me. For one reason and another, my first day out was delayed a couple of weeks. In this place, a two week delay is nothing, they take that long just to read a form. But this hit me like a kick in the guts. That’s when I got an inkling of what this really means to me.

‍

In here, I get used to the daily indignities, being locked up each night, denied access to the gardens and the oval, searched each day, asking permission for anything beyond scratching my arse. Being disrespected by officers and inmates alike, taking a deep breath, walking away. I practise mindfulness, others pray, we keep ourselves occupied, distracted. “How are you mate?” “Going OK, same as yesterday.” Another day done.

‍

And then the possibility of release presents itself, even for just a day, and all that suppressed hurt, all the longing for life, for freedom, wells up inside me. My eyes water as I write these words and feel this ache afresh.

‍

My first day out was surreal. Just walking out the gate, I felt the weight slip from my shoulders. I told Mum with a smile, “I’m a free man, for today.” We spent the day, per the approved itinerary, at her apartment. She poured coffee. “Let’s have it on the balcony. It’s quiet on Sunday.” I puzzled, “What day is it? It was Sunday inside. Does that make it Sunday here?” That’s how dissociated I felt. Almost out-of-body.

Last Sunday, I swam at Coogee Beach! How I’ve missed the ocean. Till now I’ve only seen it from my friend’s cell window upstairs, sighing as I watch the waves crashing against Mistral Point.

‍

But on Sunday I swam, with a mask and snorkel. So many fish, blue groper, whiting, rock cod, amongst the rocks and seaweed. I was buffeted by the waves breaking into my rock-pool. I ran along the beach. I dived under the shore break and paused motionless beneath the water. I’ve dreamt of that moment for years. I floated on my back as the waves rocked me like a cradle.

‍

All these sensations I’d missed so badly. More than sensations, spiritual connections.

‍

Then a cold shower in the change rooms, donning casual shorts and a T-shirt (not green!). Walking barefoot along the causeway, my towel slung over my shoulder, revelling in the beach scene, both social and natural.

‍

The big breakfast at a nearby café, bustling with beachgoers. Bacon! Fried eggs! Mushrooms! Avocado! So many firsts since forever.

‍

I spoke to one or two strangers on the beach, perhaps from a need to affirm my humanity. The lifeguard asked if I was a local. I took a punt and pointed to my ankle bracelet. “Local to Long Bay. This is my first swim in four years.” It paid off. She didn’t judge me, but empathised with how that must feel for a fellow ocean-lover.

‍

Then snap! I’m back inside. On the surface I’m fine, but in my soul the shock jerks me like whiplash. To live free for a day, then back to this. A week later I’m feeling hollow, rattled to the point of questioning my own sanity. Then I remember why I feel this way: I was free for a day.

‍

Out there is reality. This place is a madhouse. But it’s temporary. Take a deep breath and repeat: this too shall pass.

‍

Now I’m planning my next day leave, three long weeks away.