Author Archives: sophiebwatson

Selkie Hits the Waves

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Disclaimer: This is a doozy of a long one, sorry folks. Think of it as two in one and by all means you don’t gots to read it in one go. It’ll probably be a while until my next update as I have a big deadline (on dry land) coming up.

Since I have my new buddies to swim with I’m swimming way more often, I’m part of a scene! I did several cold 5 minute swims in January. Quick visuals that stood out: pink fluffy clouds, a twinkling/flashing lighthouse, sweet little fishing boats out and about and loads of swimmers each time. It was often colder on land than in the water. On one of the swims it was 3 degrees outside and 8 degrees in the water. How do you know? I asked a dripping wet woman who was announcing the stats proudly on her way up the stairs out of the water. She pulled out a big clunky thermometer on a string from inside her swimsuit. No messing around.

Winter swimmers’ discussions of slight variations of cold by the seaside aren’t surprising. But I’m always amazed at how much nuance there is in the weather forecast in Ireland generally, for what is normally a wettish, grey state of play. What’s to say? It may rain a bit, a lot, for a while or in bursts. Drizzle. Fog. Mist. Wind, a lot or a little. Mostly variations of water in the air. Sometimes it gets colder and then, miraculously the sun comes out!!! But people can talk about it forever it seems. Is it what strangers talk about the world over? But surely nobody is more entitled to moan about it than Canadian prairie folk.

I grew up in buttf***freezing Alberta as it was known to some of us on those “with windchill -50 degrees Celsius” days. It’s so temperate over here in County Dublin that I find it hard to actually say it’s cold. But people really want me to. Everyday in the shop or wherever someone will say: Bitter out! I say it’s not so bad, it’s sunny at least. But bitter, the wind would bite ya! Is the reply. Yesterday picking up Mancub at crèche the woman said: Cold out today, something fierce. Ya but sunny I said. (My favourite winter weather, sunny and crisp.) I never get the last word in this kind of exchange.

Soon as the sun goes down, you’ll freeze! She finished triumphantly.

It was only 1 in the afternoon. (though it is true that the capricious sun might not stay out long)

Edmontonians snort at this idea of cold. It’s 8 degrees today as I write this. And in January it often got up to 13 degrees! I feel like I’m in a constant state of spring here, so deep is the memory of the insanely freezing temperatures of my childhood. And don’t even get me started on the damp cold versus dry cold topic, I could go for hours on that.

To set the record straight, now that I’m used to it, jumping in the Irish sea in winter doensn’t involve bravery like kind people have suggested. Proper cold in my view is when your eyelashes and nostril hairs are crunchy with frost and your toes are burning even though you are wearing three pairs of socks in proper winter furry boots. Waiting for the bus and your teeth ache and you want to cry and the only way you can walk is tense with a Quasimodo hunch. Cold is getting your tongue stuck to a fence and yes I think most Canadian children have done it. Cold is rushing home after school to lie with the cats in front of the heat vent, to eat cornflakes, waiting for the heat to blast out on the boiler’s trusty ten minute cycle. Cold is when you could actually die of cold if your car gets stuck on the highway.

Growing up in Alberta my friends and I used to joke that surely there had to be some advantage to surviving those inhuman weather conditions, it had to at least make you a hardy people. We never got snowed out from school. I swear to God I never once got to stay home on a snow day. You just kept going like those snow-clearing/sand-trucks did, and once you got inside the buildings they were so overheated lots of people actually wore flip-flops and t-shirts, like we were all surfer-dude Californians or something.

So ya I can do cold. Honestly I find heat more of a challenge. I love heat, bring on the hot sweaty tropics. But submerging myself into hot water I find tricky. Especially in Ireland. In E-town I never experienced a situation where you run out of hot water. It’s the land of plenty and the world’s biggest mall, still? But here, the plumbing is more complex and perhaps more environmentally friendly as it involves planning and timing and finite resources. It’s not uncommon for my husband to top up the bath with water from the kettle! It’s like Little House on the Prairies with a Gaelic twist. I often end up with trickily heated baths. So now to not run out of hot water I let the bath fill only with the hot and let the cold in later, if I try to blend it, it just runs out and I get a very disappointing warm bath. The balance is tough to get.  What usually happens is I get unbearably hot beginnings. Hot that burns your ass Roma tomato red. If I had to choose between lowering my butt into a scalding hot bath or the freezing water I would definitely choose icy cold.

Back to the adventures of the Selkie, the mythic seal-people of local folklore.

Since I bought my very expensive and super groovy wetsuit with my dad’s money I haven’t found anyone to go wetsuit swimming with. Mostly people on the scene here at Forty Foot and Sandycove spit on the ground in disgust at the mere mention of wetsuits. I haven’t seen my Elle McPherson lookalike buddy-to-be again since she goes swimming on Saturdays and Seadog works and I have Little Chief and Bearcub to mind.

But one day, one day waiting for C and friends to arrive, two people came out of the water in suits. All the other swimmers were frozen and cursing but they were warm as a pair of freshly toasted cinnamon buns, happily gearing down, chatting about the seal they’d just seen. I seized the chance, went over, sat down right beside them, and threw myself into the conversation. She told me their swimming schedule and that they go earlier at 845 a.m., right after the school run. Talked about water conditions and mosquitoes in Canada and County Cork and kayaking on Lough Hyne. I said how I started this cold water swimming lark in October. Apparently that’s a perfect time because all the jellyfish are gone. The jellyfish arrive in May and the water is coldest in April because it’s had all winter to chill.  A wealth of information and enthusiasm, she said I was welcome to join them any morning.

Wetsuit Baptism. January 17

This was a new experience. I was nervous and worried about being late and missing my new wetsuit friends. I had previously only worn a wetsuit rafting years ago and it had ended kind of badly with a very unladylike mishap. I decided it was best to put it on at home.  People do that right? I’d like to think that on any one morning there could be all sorts of drivers kitted out in rubber on their way to the water. Nice idea, the fish all returning to Joyce’s grey mother, the sea. I felt pretty goofy though driving in rush hour all geared up. What if I got in a crash, or had an emergency and had to go somewhere dressed like this…

My new mentor laughed when she saw me. Did you do the school run like that?

I hung up my bag and put my gloves on and pulled out a squeaky toy stuck inside my boot. She helped me zip up and Velcro the back. I was snug as a bug. Warm and toasty. Happy as a clam. We agreed on a swimming plan, around the rocks and the Point, past Cavanagh’s Bay to Sandycove or out to the buoys beyond if I was up for it. If it was too hard, I could just swim around to Cavanagh’s Bay and get out there. On land it seemed like not such a long distance really.

Arrah you’re a strong swimmer aren’t ya, she kept telling me. This was not going to be like my normal beloved frolicking I realized, this seemed altogether a more athletic venture.

I approached the water like mighty Selkie the seal, for once not shivering my ass off. I am Ondine. I am warm. I am warm?!

I climbed down the steps and slipped into the water and felt

very little

except the cold on my chin. A little water trickled in to my suit like it’s meant to, but I was still warm. Constricted and breathing less easily, but warm as a toasty apple fritter. I got tired after just a few strokes but I had to keep up to my new mentors who it occurred to me were probably triathletes.

Are you okay? she yelled back at me. You’d be a strong swimmer wouldn’t ya?! I loved it when she said that. Of course she didn’t actually know me. I think maybe I am strong swimmer. I hope so. Seadog said I was. I hadn’t really put it to the test. I remember almost beating my dad who is a strong swimmer fifteen years ago in a one lap race. Hmmm. And I did do a bunch of lifesaving courses when I was thirteen. That should help. I know I was thirteen because it was before I’d ever kissed a boy and me and a girl had to practice mouth to mouth on each other! So embarrassing.

I was amazed at how quickly I had become tired. It had only been two minutes surely. I felt constricted definitely and the whole thing seemed very laborious and challenging though the novelty of it made it fun in spite of all this. I’m not sure if it was a matter of not having enough puff, being out of shape or was it the restriction of the rubber? But, ladies and gentlemen, I was indeed warm which was lovely if incongruous.

We swam around the Point where the currents hit and then on past Cavanagh’s. This was a whole new gig. I was an adventure swimmer now. Jockdom here I come. I enjoyed seeing all the new sights on my swim, seeing Dun Laoghaire from this open sea vantage point.

But it was so tiring. And the fact of the fatigue made me feel a little scared. My mentors were busy swimming for Ireland, heads down in the water, doing the serious crawl. I hated the idea of being stuck in a current. Every now and then the woman would call out to me and see if I was okay. I was grateful.

I was also damn glad I had bought a new, neon pink bathing cap. C had told me about a lingerie shop that weirdly also sold bathing caps. You could probably see my pink hat from space it was so pink. That could save me.

How much to challenge oneself? Give up or persevere? I could get out at Cavanagh’s, there was a ladder and steps. I seemed to have to ponder this dilemma a lot lately. If I gave up was I just indulging a lazy streak or was I knowing my limits? I want to get the right answer because lately, out of the water, I keep f*****g up this very situation. Twice now in Pilates and yoga class I have screwed up my lower back wretchedly and been laid up for days on end because of just this issue. Trying to get stronger, I’ve pushed myself in the wrong direction with force.

I did a few more strokes, felt a little bit more fear but not too much, a soupçon—I wanted to keep going. I wanted to be able to do it. Feel the fear and do it anyway! Ha. I was just lacking in oomph, that was the problem.

But then I looked up to see guy mentor standing on rock. Standing on water like Jesus twenty metres in front of me which made me see how shallow the water now was in places. I knew I’d be okay then. And I was okay. I was totally relieved and swam around happily all the way to Sandycove while the mentor Selkies decided to swim all the way back around to the Forty Foot. I realized how much happier I am to be swimming by the shore. Should I try to conquer the fear of open sea swimming? It is good to test oneself but I’ve swum so many times in different spots in so many oceans and lakes to know that it’s probably okay to be this kind of swimmer, a relative shore hugger not an open sea Olympian.  I used to think I wanted to swim the English Chanel, but then I realized it was just the idea of it that I thought was so cool. Actually I get bored swimming long distances (in the pool). I just want to have fun. And that’s okay. Having said all that, I will probably aim to do that swim again, just to see.

When I got out, there was practically a brass band championing me. I walked back around to the Forty Foot in my dripping suit to all sorts of Well done yous!! and cheers from the old-timers around. I didn’t realize they had been paying attention. Maybe I had rookie fear on my face at the start and blessed relief on the way back. I went back into the water because I felt I hadn’t had my proper frolic at the Forty Foot and I splashed about warmly. Freestyling is just so much more fun.

Afterwards me and the Seals chatted as we got out of our gear. We gossiped about the early morning nudist swimmers (apparently one may work at the James Joyce centre around the corner).

At home in the driveway I dilly dallied in the car wanting to listen the end of Florence and the Machine’s Shake It Out.

Later that day at the school gates I saw C who had gone for a swim (without a wetsuit of course) and she said it was way colder than before. She doesn’t normally admit to the water being cold. A Forty Foot expert had told her that apparently an Easterly wind had come in and made the water ridiculously cold. I was chuffed I’d had my Selkie armour.

That whole day our bathroom smelled of drying rubber which was a mysteriously familiar smell and there was sand in the tub. I found that so pleasing, like I was a surfer dude or something, a Selkie dude. I could be a Californian yet.

Without my suit: January 19

Sunny blue sky, but only 7 degrees outside.

Swimmers going into the water joked about being insane, but were obviously hugely proud of themselves. Smug even.

Saw a Rasta man with big dreads swimming leisurely like he was in Jamaica. He must have been in for a while because his skin looked fairly red. A woman getting out of the water talked about how the cold the water had now become, shaking her head at her own masochism. Another said she’d stubbed her toe on the rocks but was too cold to really feel it.

I had a massive massive revelation. I got into the water in just my bathing suit but also with my gloves and rubber socks. It was crazy how much easier it was. Ten thousand times warmer than without those extremities being clothed. I tried to evangelise to the girls but they are attached to the ultimate freedom of no gear. But it was so much better! It took away at least 70 percent of the cold for me. I could swim and frolic forever!

When I managed to wrangle off my swimming booties my feet and lower calves were white in stark contrast to the rest of my skin which was red. I was Neapolitan ice cream.

Every swim I learn a little more about my new friends. C likes Anne Rice and Philip Pullman and toys that poop. Too cold to care we moon people as we get dressed and I learned all about Kindermusik for babies and toddlers and the grooviness of the Unitarian church from C and the delicious stuffed pork loin roast from Avoca. Turns out that S is a writer too and has a 3-year-old. J grew up right around the corner but never swam here growing up. Took it up this winter and has been swimming so much her swimsuit actually broke.

The more I go, the more I recognize the same faces, probably twenty or so people. A woman came up to offer us biscuits and another offered stem ginger chunks. I love the 40 Foot. I am verklempt over how wonderfully weird a scene it is, stem ginger chunks and all.

We are all ocean worshippers and it is such a ritual. People go through all the trouble of dressing and undressing for just a few minutes. People say it helps their immune systems. C is convinced it’s the cure-all for any malaise. Her cough. Her flu symptoms. It’s like a Lourdes. I don’t want to jinx myself but I haven’t had a cold since November. Is the sea building up my immune system? (I ended up getting a cold, literally minutes after typing that. But it was, in the world of my colds, a minor one.)

On the way back to the car I saw a school of snorkelers just by the rocks in Sandycove. I asked a man in full gear with a mask attached to his forehead standing by his car: What do you see out there?

Nothing. Not a thing, he laughed. It’s just a good spot to train people.

I asked him about the famous seals.

He gave me his rule, speaking firmly: they can play with you but you can’t play with them!

I sat in the car and listened to the new Feist album with my hair dripping wet, the heat blasting and the tea doing its job. Drove home with the hot water bottle on my lumbar.

Warning: louche ahead.

Came home and got Seadog to warm up my butt with his toasty hands. Testified to a very cold bum. Had hot shower with cup of tea inside the shower and then got out and blow-dried my body as well as my hairdo and then I was grand as the Irish say.

Little Chief says when she is a big lady she will drink tea and wear lipstick. Hopefully she’ll know too that alongside those great activities, there’s a whole world of marine pleasure out there. Already her and Mancub know how fun water is—bathtime is a universe of bubble-y good times.

My mom sends worried emails that I’m risking my life and I have so much to live for. Mom, I’m safe, honestly! C’s dad calls her on the phone to worry about her aquatic habits too.

As it turns out, I didn’t go in for another ten days or so as my back went dodgy and getting in and out of my clothes was too big a challenge to do more than once in my day.

Feb 1 I was due to get back in. And so the ritual: No way do I want to go swimming. Think about texting C to dodge. Now that C is involved I’m reluctant to bail. I don’t want to piss off my new buddies. It’s minus 2 degrees. Got the thermos ready, hot water bottle, extra clothes. Swimsuit on. Wedding ring off.

There was  a Siberian cold front sweeping west that ended the unseasonably warm January weather. Very sunny, 2 degrees outside. 7 degrees inside the water. 6 degrees last year in the water at the same time. Lots of discussion about water temperatures among the swimmers. One woman reckoned 5 degrees Celsius was the coldest it would go, ever. It was low tide at Sandycove and chaos around the corner, sometimes the ocean claims Forty Foot, changing area and all, and says mine mine mine and so all the swimmers respectfully go around the corner to Sandycove. I went down 10 steps in my booties. I can’t say enough about what a difference the booties and gloves make. Seadog suggested if I’d started with them I might not have gotten a whole suit. And that’s probably true. But I’m not ruling out my surfing/kayaking future.

Just a little clip to give you the flavour down at Sandycove (i didn’t want the other swimmers to think I was filming them so that’s why it’s short and wobbly). Note the guy doing vigorous exercises in his Speedo.

PS Apparently there is another Edmontonian who swims all the time at the 40 foot. He does 30 laps out and 30 laps back in on his lunchbreak.

PPS  A friend of mine posted a photo about swimming at a Lido in London. I’d love to do that or to have a go in the ponds at Hampstead Heath (just like Gary Oldman does in that movie Tinker Taylor Soldier Spy). I’m starting a swimming wish-list. Any suggestions?

To Wetsuit or Not to Wetsuit: December Swims

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I’ve done it! Actual winter swimming. Wednesday, December 13 it was only 3 degrees Celsius outside and the word around the waterfront was that the sea was 9 degrees. The day before, Ireland had experienced a force 10 storm across the Donegal coast and its biggest ever monster wave was recorded: a 67 footer. It was calmer that next morning but still choppy and cold.

I was feeling totally and utterly unmotivated and tired as I often do early in the day. No desire to run or swim or anything except sloth about, eating chocolate, surfing the internet. I’d already gotten dressed in slouching-about clothes and put lipstick on. I didn’t want to have to wrestle myself into workout gear.

Seadog stepped up and said he’d drop off Mancub at crèche and would drive me wherever I wanted to go for a run. I’d had sleep, I had some free time, a chauffeur, there were no excuses for laziness. It was a matter of forcing it. So I decided to go for a coastal run from Monkstown to Sandycove and possibly go for a swim instead of a nap. It was time to see if I could hack real ass-freezing winter swimming temperatures.

Sure enough once you actually gear up and get out there, you’re happy enough even if you have to drag your butt up the path. It’s always a great boost to the spirit to be outdoors and especially for me to see the boats and be on the seafront. The big open sky vista over the sea taps into my prairie need for space, lots of wonderful space. The yachts’ masts clanged musically in the wind. It was blustery but cheerful.

I had Hawksley on my ipod and it was good motivation to run myself along to his chorus of stay drunk and keep f*****g stay drunk and keep f*****g and on and on––a saucy and nihilistic running chorus on that frigid morning. Trying not to wipeout on the pavement I dodged half-frozen puddles and icy patches and dogs wearing little coats and sweaters.  With several walking breaks it only took 20 sweaty minutes to get to Sandycove. Seadog was there in the car reading Murakami’s latest giant novel. I gave him my water bottle and went to go see if I could see any swimmers. There was one white-haired woman drying herself off.

Then I saw other fresh happy older ladies, with their towels in plastic bags, smiling, coming down the path from around the corner. Water was lovely. It was the air that was cold they said. Just don’t stay in too long they advised.

Almost compulsively I find myself singing this song anytime I get near the sea. Another tune from my parents’ dj set list.

Groovy version: Oh I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

Kiddie one: Oh, I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside (once you get past the beginning it gets better)

There was a whole bunch of people at the 40 foot. But everyone was already leaving or drying off. I chatted with people about water temperature and the wind. I said I had been making it in twice a month. Oh you’ll find it very cold then, one guffawed. And mind the swell at the steps—it’ll try to take you.

There were three male pensioners drying themselves off, getting their clothes back on. One seemed to be doing a Riverdance-ish routine presumably to heat up. Whatever works! I was going to have to go in the busy frozen sea all alone. The first challenge was getting off my two jock bras discretely. I had to use my most Houdini like skills while Seadog acted as my curtain.

And then poof! Out of nowhere an Elle McPherson lookalike with long blond locks and honey-tanned skin showed up in knee-high, high-heel boots, jeans with a gold studded belt, a perfect physique and I couldn’t help but notice, lovely lingerie. I was astonished by her glamour. It was so incongruous with the shopping bag brigade and flip-flop scene of the regulars here. Her bathing suit though was relievingly sporty.

I was thrilled I wouldn’t be alone for my first (3 degrees Celsius outside) winter swim. She told me about her encounters with seals who apparently live around the corner by the rocks. I said how I wanted to swim for longer than just the dip people seem to do when the water gets to the winter lows and she said she did on Saturdays, in a wetsuit. Her and her friends swim around the buoys for twenty minutes and more. She told me I just needed a 55mm wetsuit. She was the first ever person who hadn’t baulked at even the idea of a wetsuit when I mentioned it before.

The icy pale green water sloshed up over the steps. I was ready before Elle and so I had to bravely go down the two steps that were there when the waves receded. The last time I’d been in at this spot the tide was much lower and I had to go down many steps. So I was a little scared getting in, thinking of the others’ warning about the swell that would try to take me. I held on tight to the rail, asked Seadog for reassurance. “Arrah you’ll be fine,” he said. Arrah is a new favourite Irish word of mine. It’s like a fancy Er…

I just glided in and swam about. It stung my skin and I remembered how that woman I’d met weeks before said it felt like you’ve been waxed. A strange feeling between hot and cold.  Lovely. Not too frozen. But very tingly. A bit like the burn from a swig of cognac or whiskey. Definitely too cold for head dunking. With the tide so high it felt like I was in a burstingly full splish-splashing bathtub.

Elle didn’t swim for very long and so I got out when she did (we’re talking two minutes). She had been doing this longer than me so I followed her lead. She encouraged me again to get a wetsuit. At long last the dilemma was over: To Wetsuit or not to wetsuit, I had my answer. Seadog like myself and most of these others feel somehow that wearing a wetsuit is cheating, but what I’ve come to realize is that while a quick dip is great, I truly want to have a proper swim in the winter, in the sea, and I don’t want to get hypothermia. Anytime I see water, in any situation, in any weather I have such a strong urge to get in and now I can.

On my way out a tall old dude was doing jumping jacks on the spot, trying to warm up no doubt, but bobbing up and down he really did look like an emperor penguin. And around the corner at Sandycove there was Redtrunks Smokey from previous weeks, this time wearing blue trunks but still recognizable with his simultaneous smoking and calisthenics routine.

Seadog and I had a nice cup of tea in the car with the heat on full blast. All very exciting for this prairie girl. Feels very cosmopolitan to be swimming in James Joyce’s swimming hole with women in high heels showing up for a dip.

Later that afternoon, totally inspired by 40 Foot Elle I went and bought a Christmas present for myself from my dad: a beautiful wetsuit, black with fuchsia-coloured arms and the word ANIMAL written on the chest. They laughed when I asked for a 55mm one, doing a demonstration of how thick that would actually be. No a 5 mm one was what I needed so I could still be flexible and actually swim but stay as warm as possible. If I wanted to do a triathlon I’d need a 3 mm. Steady on! It was quite a production trying it on in the store with Mancub in the buggy demanding moooore purple rice crackers and Little Chief impatient to get to the park and the notorious hard work of cramming oneself into the tight rubber sausage casing. And then I sweated like crazy waiting for the shopgirls’ advice.

Now I move it around the house like it’s my imaginary friend. Very looking forward to my first long wetsuit adventure.

Lately, I have been trying to explain what showing off means to Little Chief but sure enough I find myself doing a great round of it at the school gates to any parent that will listen: Guess what I did today!

Since the time of writing something amazing happened: I had my first swim-buddy date December 21! And a follow-up swim December 22. And then three more swims over the holidays including New Year’s Day.

My dream came true. A woman came up to me on the school grounds and said she recognized me from the 40 Foot and I realized she was one of the ones I talked to briefly last week. I so wanted swim buddies and poof here one was. We made plans to go together and she told me to bring a hot water bottle.

Left to my own noodely devices I probably wouldn’t have gone swimming so soon after that icy 2 minute dip in mid-December. My first swim with three of my new anti-wetsuit buddies was a mild morning, 12 degrees out, but damn windy. And there were loads of swimmers. Over the holidays it became much busier. There were hung-over college kids coming to cure their headaches and Dubliners who lived elsewhere but home for the holidays headed to their favourite swim place. There seemed to be mince pies every time I went.

While I waited for my swimfriends I talked to a few oldtimers. One guy having a cup of tea said he was going in for a second swim of the day, he’d swum an hour before further down the coast and now he was recovered he’d get in again. Another guy told me he was meant to stand guard while some women went in naked earlier. Worryingly people actually looked a bit purple coming out the water.

My new friends (2 Americans and 1 Irish woman) showed up, got undressed and in the water super fast, leaving me scrambling with my socks in their wake. I wasn’t expecting such speed. I guess I must normally turtle my way in. The leader C times us and unlike all the other swimmers who were just getting in and then straight out she reckoned we could stay in the water for 8 minutes. It’s true that after I’d flapped around the water for a few minutes and broke through the cold barrier it did feel manageable. My hands and feet were ice blocks but overall it was so profoundly refreshing and the sun was kind of poking through the layers of clouds. We swam in a circle and chatted about Christmas food and school stuff and whatever. This was a great way to start the day, a crazy bit of mum (me) time.

Standing on a hot water bottle while you get changed and dried up was a stroke of genius because standing on the wet cement after a swim with cold wet feet was punishing. I noticed other women seemed to have brought carpet patches to step on. I walked my new buddies back to their cars past the revelling older people doing jumping jacks and drinking hot drinks from thermoses. One man stopped us to offer us some cake with delicious maple-flavoured icing. It’s so heartwarming how friendly this 40 Foot scene is.

Looking at my friends post-swim, I have to say they actually had blue lips and a general blue hue in their cheeks, no joke. I told them this, but they weren’t worried, these chicks are hardy mermaids! I was definitely cold, even with all my clothes on (toque, cardigan, 2 coats etc.) But after two cups of hot tea in the car with the heat blasting I felt good. And all day through the little ups and downs I had this potent memory of that 8-minute supernaturalesque morning event.

Everyone said the 40 Foot on Christmas day was a big event. C wasn’t planning on going because it would be too mobbed. She’s a good leader and she was right. I couldn’t resist walking there though just to see what it was like. It was thronged and festive like a New Orleans swimming party. Hipsters. Families. Old and young. And lots of dogs too. Handfuls of young men trying to impress with their barefoot bravado walking home. People blocks away we’re putting on their socks, still dripping wet. People jumped in with their clothes on, screeching Sweet Jaysus. It was busy. I was glad to save my special day swim for New Years.

New Year’s morning was quiet. The grey sleepy streets were mostly empty. Opposite our house was parked a double-decker bus with the driver slumped over the wheel, trying no doubt to catch up on his sleep from partying the night before. I met C at 9:30 and the sun was trying to break through the clouds. It was another awesome swim, and a shocking way to start the day and year as I mean to go on: with a salty taste in my mouth and vigour in my soul.

Happy New Year everyone! Will try to get my wetsuit in the water for my next update.

Second November Splash

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“Dance Ti’ Thy Daddy Come here, maw little Jacky, Now aw’ve smok’d mi backy, Let’s hev a bit o’ cracky, Till the boat comes in.

Dance ti’ thy daddy, sing ti’ thy mammy,
Dance ti’ thy daddy, ti’ thy mammy sing;
Thou shall hev a fishy on a little dishy,
Thou shall hev a fishy when the boat comes in. Here’s thy mother humming, Like a canny woman; Yonder comes thy father, Drunk—he cannot stand…”  (sung by Alex Glasgow)

Isn’t that trumpet beautiful!!

We watched When the Boat Comes in when I was a little kid, though I don’t remember it at all, but I swear my parents sung the theme song on a loop everytime we went anywhere near the sea. It’s pretty damn catchy with the fishy dishy lyric.

Got up ready for some stressbusting and my second splash of the month, November 24. The morning post had brought no good news. Doctor had left cryptic message on my voicemail night before (turned out to be not so serious after all, but still when doctors phone, the imagination can go on a serious bender). My stress antennae these days detect the smallest signal and they like to go full out wing ding crazy. Plus, will my Mancub (new nickname for Monkey 2) always cry when I bring him to crèche in the mornings?

It was 12 degrees out, grey with a biting wind. Seadog was free and so he drove me to Sandycove, parked in what is designated as the icecream van’s casual trading spot, and waited in the car, reading his book. It’s my dad all over again: Have book, will travel.

There were loads of people changing etc and I couldn’t help but spot an unabashed big set of reddened Irish-sea boobs. Glad to see someone else’s nonchalance in the changing process. First off I went around the corner to see Forty Foot as I like to do. Water crashed up against the boulders, all the way up the stairs. There was a fit guy, dark haired, glowing face, very enthusiastic, drying himself up and finishing getting his gear together.

He said he’d just been in on the other side, the safe side and it was really really WARM for this time of year! Lovely water. He looked so refreshed. Hair still gleaming with wet. He had that born again look, like he’d just been baptized. Told me how last year it was the coldest in 20 years. In and out of the water real quick. But today it was warm. I’d never heard anyone use that adjective (in relation to the sea) in all the 8 years I’ve been in Ireland.

Around the corner it was a seniors’ social scene. Robust, full head of white-haired older folks. It felt like I’d gotten off at the 7½ floor in the Being John Malkovich movie and landed in an alternate universe of non-aging seniors. Three men and one woman smiled at me super welcomingly. A grinning Baba with a baboushka wrapped around her head and a thick Slavic accent said encouragingly: “Vind Cold! Vater Varm!!”

This was the first time I was shivering before even getting in the water. It was the damn wind. (I had by the way made sure my stuff wouldn’t blow in the water this time by putting my boots and thermos on top of my bag.)

I shivered my way down the steps. An oldtimer in the water, frowning a bit, cheered me on:  Warmer in than out, he said gruffly.

Meanwhile I could see there were a few dogs having a swim too. So I got in and swam like heck to get warm. Felt like my heart was working harder and I was gasping more because it was colder. I wondered if the water temperature had gone down since my last swim or was I just getting wimpy? It was true though like Baba said, that out of the wind, in the water it was cozier. I swam over to near where Seadog was in the car studying his book. He came out and took a crappy video on his phone. I miss my camera and its zoom.

I couldn’t believe how many older people were in the water without even bathing hats. These were freaky people who had maybe found the secret to eternal vitality/life? I have to say I enjoyed my swim but was the balance between thrill and pleasure now tipping towards thrilling? I was cold!

Speaking of thrilling I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. Was that swimmerman smoking? One of the oldies, the one who had told me it was warmer in than out, recently out of the water, wearing just his red trunks, seemed to have a long white thing sticking out of his mouth, could it actually be a smoke? I’m not sure why this delighted me so profoundly. I guess it was incongruous to this scene and a bit bad boy at the core and my rebellious soul/arrested-adolescent spirit was thrilled to the bone.

I swam hard and couldn’t resist doing three head dunks. Last once froze my forehead.

It was time to get out, I couldn’t keep Seadog waiting forever and I had to investigate if this guy was indeed smoking. I climbed up the stairs onto land and was mildly embarrassed as always by the way the swimsuit insists on clinging to the skin so I tried as I always do to discretely pull some material out from the tummy area which always backfires and creates a goofy vacuum balloon effect.

He was smoking! And it smelled heavenly. I’m ten years off the smokes, but sometimes, sometimes I sure fancy one. I breathed in gulps of the gorgeous tobacco smell as I started the job of getting back into clothes. It almost takes as long to dry up as it does to swim, what with all the awkwardness of leaning on one leg, drying the other, trying to preserve some modesty and stop things from blowing away, all with frozen fingers that don’t work so well and clothes that get stuck trying to rush them up not fully dry legs. Reminds me of when Little Chief (new nickname for Monkey 1) tries to go down the slide with her bare legs and the slide is too dry and she just squeaks her way down in starts and stops instead of the proper swoosh down.

Redtrunks seemed to be in no hurry getting clothes back on. He was going around the place, retrieving his bits and pieces and his plastic bag. And then, still smoking, he started doing his callisthenics.

Callisthenics, in wet red swimming togs with a smoke hanging out of his mouth. I love it!

Seadog says that the Royal Canadian Airforce Exercises were very in vogue in Ireland when he was growing up.

“Lovely tide,” Redtrunks said to me. It was the highest tide I’d swum in here and it’s true it filled up Sandycove like a big bathtub, the big drink.

“You’re better off changing around the corner with this wind,” he advised.

Younger mum-looking women showed up to change for their swims. They asked Redtrunks Smokey if he’s seen their friend Maggie lately. No he hadn’t. She’d been in hospital and they all agreed it’d be hard to get back into the water after that. It really was a scene of regulars here at Sandycove.

“Watch your clothes today ladies,” he told them

“Ah they’re blowing in today are they so…” one woman knowingly replied. I wish I knew about this last week! The wind was mighty and even with my steel water bottle and cocoa thermos my stuff had been blowing around this time. “Expecting gale force winds later today. Got the best of it we did,”  Redtrunks said.

My core didn’t cool down like last time, just my feet and hands were cold. I was literally chilled out, not worrying about anything at all and instead reveling in rediscovering the joy of my wool hat, cashmere cardigan and colourful thermos, thank you Stuart, full of hot chocolate. And Seadog chauffeuring.

Sitting in the car warming up we watched Sandycove waking up; what a great neighbourhood. Lots of dog walkers, dogs, moms, dads, grandparents with babies in buggies and in baby carriers. People stopping to chat with each other. New swimmers showing up, others leaving. The sounds of seagulls above and the odd oystercatcher and purple sandpiper about. I sat in the car all cozy and had a great cup of cocoa. Tried next to drink the hot chocolate from the flask directly instead of refilling the little cup and as warned it spilled all out and burned my chin, not terribly. Seadog said if he’d been filming we could have made millions on Youtube. Damn… 

I read an article about Carrie Fisher and her depression and how she goes for the odd bout of ECT. Not to trivialize the horribleness of serious depression or anything but it did occur to me I should write to her and tell her about dunking her head in the Irish sea, it could be a similar help. I also read recently that Dickens would feel so utterly scorched by the writing process that he needed to plunge his head in a cold pail of water periodically while writing Bleak House. Ten minutes doing this and I feel like I’ve had a major adventure for the day. It’s like riding a bike, it taps right into the inner kid zone. Sometimes I like to make Little Chief laugh when we walk home together and I skip a little in between normal walking to match her joyful style. Why walk when you can skip?

This whole wild swimming jag takes me back to the best part of being a kid, swimming with my parents in the oceans of the world, going ice skating and having frozen toes, and hot chocolate to warm up. All that was missing now was the smell and promise of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper for supper. I said to Seadog that I don’t really get how some swimmers just get in for a minute or two and he said, in typical Seadog wisdom: some people just want an espresso, whereas you want a big cappuccino.

Went home, had a shower and then got deuced: Two of everything, socks, pants, tops, cardigans and cups of tea and then I was sorted for the day.

Winter has finally properly hit and now it’s hovering above zero. Will be heading for my first December dip soon, and wondering if it will be enjoyable or just goofily cold making…

back on track

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Confessions first: I haven’t started reading Ulysses yet and somehow this blog isn’t shorter as promised. Will try to do better.

The nail-chewing anticipation of getting into the water again after a month grounded, made me feel like a nervous-nelly-wild-swimming virgin. Particularly as the week before last I had just gotten out our family’s winter coats and gloves for the season. That Monday it was frosty and only 3 degrees Celsius on the school run; I had to explain to the monkeys why the grass was crunchy and white. How on earth was I going to do winter swimming? And why?

So on the Tuesday, I went on a reconnaissance mission at 9:20 in the morning. It was 11 degrees and grey, much warmer than the day before, but not tropical that’s for sure. I headed to the Forty Foot. I had heard that in the winter there were more swimmers there than at Seapoint. I think my favourite bit of Dublin so far is the stretch from Dún Laoghaire pier all along the seafront walk, the promenade, Teddy’s ice-cream parlour, towards the mini Stanley Park and right around the corner to Sandycove, Forty Foot and on. It reminds me of my childhood summers in Worthing, the big Albertan sky too, and a dash of dreamy Vancouver. Geography is funny that way. When I was little I thought Alberta was the only place with big mountains and that the beef had to be the best in the world because everyone said it was and the rivers the prettiest. The obvious only hit me in adulthood, amazing geographical features occur all over the planet, they even have mountains in other countries. No wonder I botched my geography class….

I did a nice little walk up the park, looked at the old red brick club building, saw Mr. Heron on a rock. Went up to look at a flora and fauna tourist sign. Was surprised to see a picture of a common harbour porpoise (the dolphin’s cousin?/my totem animal perhaps?) and me and Monkey admired the pictures of whelks and seabirds, cormorants and sterns.

I went to look at Forty Foot proper. It was ferocious. No one was there and I wasn’t even sure if I should go down the steps and leave my monkey in his buggy what with the waves and water splashing about. You hear a lot about rogue waves sweeping you away in this part of the world.

I parked Monkey for a quick minute and walked down the first set of stairs only as far as I could keep him in view. The water was raging! Crashing up the stairs. Was it flooding? Surely no one goes in from here when it’s like this, you’d get smashed up against the boulder and jagged rocks, forget Smashing Pumpkins, Smashing Sophie!? I walked back up the stairs and went left down the hill to look at the James Joyce museum. Another time on this road, funny-man Father Jack from Father Ted had to screech to a halt as our monkey on a scooter careened too close to the curb. And just the other day I saw sexy/grumpy-looking Neil Jordan riding his bicycle down the road. Dead or alive this seemed to be a rich zone for celebrity spotting if that’s your thing. Bono and Enya live further down this coastal road. And let’s not forget my childhood hero Bob Geldof hails not far from here.

Went back to the right where it was much less blustery and gusty. There were people milling about. Were any of them the women I’d heard about who swam after the school run, the so-called Mermaid Mums? A blond woman with a salty look, carrying a towel walked towards me.

I asked if she was going in, she said she was and that everybody swam on this side when it was rough like today. I asked if she went in yesterday when the grass was frosty and it was only 3 degrees. Yes she did. Said it was a strange atmosphere and she felt as if she’d just had her legs waxed. You know what I mean she said. I thought about it. Yes I knew what she meant. The scorched earth/burnt feeling after a wax. Was it a good thing or a bad thing in this context? She was smiling. Wouldn’t wear a wetsuit, that’s not swimming she told me. I wish I had had my legs done she said and chuckled. Said last year she’d swum all year. I said that was what I was hoping to do. Told me where to get in the water. And then she introduced herself as we said bye! Of all the people I have talked to on my swims, no one had volunteered their names. Hurrah, would she be my first swim buddy?

Once back in my car, I looked over and there were now five in the water and four changing on the wall. It was a party. Not a wetsuit in sight. And it wiped out all my accumulated misgivings about winter swimming. Of course 11 degrees is a lot warmer than 3. In my time away from swimming I was pretty convinced that I had to go and get a wetsuit, but back in the scene I was reassured I didn’t have to go spend that cash I didn’t actually have. Gloves and booties though could be a good thing and Christmas is coming… Most importantly I was now looking forward to getting back in the water!

On Wednesday morning it was rainy and 12 degrees. I needed my stressbusting hydrotherapy more than ever. Our house sale was in the process of collapsing. School highlights: a lice outbreak. And on the school run I had a scraped a BMW 4×4 with the car and then when we were walking Monkey number 2 had grabbed a Mercedes hood ornament and bent it 360 degrees. You’d swear every third car in Ireland was a Mercedes or BMW or Jaguar.

My mood improved instantly when I got to the seaside. I saw a guy in the distance in full black gear with a snorkel, looking like a secret operative in a James Bond film coming in from  the open sea, back from a secret Welsh mission. Mr. Heron was there again, on the same rock, must be a local.

I’ve always loved the rain and find it kind of romantic which is a good thing living here in this rainy island. Growing up in the prairies there just wasn’t that much of it.

Today was a wet one. A gentle rain. Not lashing. But soggy making. I walked around the place, casing the joint. I took photos of Mr. Heron. Worried about the zoom lens on my camera getting wet, I put it snugly back in my pocket.

No one was in the water. There was a tubby man maybe in his fifties with gappy teeth and ruddy cheeks, heading away, having just been in.

Wild, he said.

Here?

No, around the corner. He gestured to the Forty Foot.

Was it cold?

Uh…well…he paused and then said: Yes!  (He wasn’t gonna bullshit me.)

I decided not to change around the corner with the proper changing stalls and to just leave my stuff on the wall like the man did. I struggled out of my clothes, mooned Sandycove neighbourhood behind me and got into my swimsuit. I stuffed my socks deep into my cozy Blundstone boots and cleverly placed my lime green raincoat over top of my bag to keep my towel and clothes from getting too wet in the drizzle. As usual I had my camera and phone and car key in the pockets. I worried a little bit about my clothes being stolen as I always did. And then I climbed down the steps, holding onto the rusted ladder railing. Not so inviting with no one in sight. Where were the other swimmers? My buddy from yesterday: nowhere to be seen.

I took my time on the rocky steps. It was cold but not terrible. Alone in the drizzle and wind with just my suit on, I felt foolish, eccentric even, self-conscious of my self.  What to do, but get in? I plunged in and swam around the corner. A little nervous being solo. The water was deep and full and I tried to remember what riptides were and what to do in one, perhaps being melodramatic imagining currents that weren’t there. I was amazed at how it wasn’t that shockingly cold really. I think maybe my body had stored up a good quota of cold shock and it was so vivid in my memory as to be familiar and therefore somehow okay.

Around the side I saw two people approaching in matching, floor-length, bulky, bright white coats and a black dog. Doctors was my first thought. Serious doctors in serious, floor length puffy white lab coats.

They walked over to the wall where I’d left my stuff and then surprisingly they disrobed (took off their bathrobes!) to their togs and jumped in with no fuss, one after another with their dog. A black lassie-ish type with a tennis ball in his mouth swam around the bend to the sandy shore. The man did the crawl right away, zooming past me and the woman noodled and swam near me.

We chatted. Said I was nervous. She said this was totally a fine spot for swimming in this little bay and around the bend in the sandy cove itself. Around the corner the other way, though,  you could have issues…. But Nothing ever happened here she emphasized.

What part of America are you from?

Canada I said.

Most people say something like: “Oh my God, I’m so so so sorry!” at this point, assuming major offense. Luckily she didn’t. I don’t mind being thought of as American anyway (though being Canadian can obviously be groovier.)  I’m so used to being culturally displaced with my immigrant parents and being an immigrant myself now I don’t know what nationality to cling to anymore. And truthfully I find it a bit tired how Canadians are so anxious to distinguish themselves from Americans, sure vive la différence and all but let’s not go nationalistic nutso. Though Irish people don’t like to be confused with English people either, but maybe they have more reason. Belgians with French etc. I’m sure to an African person, the differences between Canadians and Americans are barely noticeable. Just like Depeche Mode sang:  People Are People

All the way from Canada to swim here? Why?

I love it I say.

They do too and swim everyday with the dog, before it gets busy with people (they’ve had complainers apparently). Doesn’t use a wetsuit. She reckons the temperature is not that bad, except in January, but she still goes in then. Just in and then out. This happy trio didn’t stay in much longer this time either. Got out, put on their bathrobes again and walked away. Must live in the neighbourhood.

I think maybe there’s a superstitious element at work for some. I love how it seems to be a bit of an eccentric’s game. Maybe a little trainspotting-y… All this talk of temperatures and water quality. And the magic effect of it on the soul’s well-being.

I didn’t want to get out yet. It was my stress therapy and I was now feeling great. The woman had put me at ease and I could just enjoy frolicking in the beautifully refreshing water. Had wanted to cry before getting in, over stressful house-sale disaster, but now I was doing vigorous somersaults in the salty sea, profoundly exhilarated. What could be better?

Smiling and swimming along I thought I spotted some rubbish, a green sack floating by the wall?

I swam closer. Was it a bag, or a tarp?

Aw F************k!  it’s….MY COAT!

My coat, with my CAR KEYS, CAMERA, and PHONE and my kleenex in it. And my cheerful stainless steel water bottle bobbing along beside it, keeping it company.

I managed to retrieve it without banging too much on the boulders. It was way heavier sopping wet. I brought it back up to the bench, and once I made sure the pockets were zipped up and my car key was still there, I thought what the hell I still want to swim so I did, I got back in.

Two more oddballs were getting in when I eventually got out. I got dressed in a hurry, not bothering with underwear or my bra. It was still drizzling. I needed to blow my nose and so I used my towel; going all feral felt good and liberating. What else you gonna do when you’ve just blown 300 plus bucks in electronics on your swimming hobby? That is why there are no photos yet of Mr. Heron here.

I got in the car and cranked the heat. As I drove home I had the strangest feeling of my core, my chest, and abs and tummy, burning with cold even though I hadn’t felt that cold getting out of the water. Instead of warming up, I seemed to be cooling down. Would this lead to death? Worried about that for a while, while still revelling in the wonderful refreshingness of the swim until it started to sink in that my mobile and camera were pretty debauched looking and that holding them up against the heat vent was probably not so wise.

I relished my hot shower, 2 blueberry muffins and a cup of chamomile tea before the stress of more house angst resumed and the realization that rice was not going to save my electronics. (Sometimes submerging waterlogged electronics in rice can save the day; saltwater though I learned was the real killer). Goofily for the next day and a half I kept thinking my water bottle tasted peculiar until Seadog, my husband, pointed out it had been in the ocean. Had forgot to wash it! But it all could have been so much worse if I had managed to lose the car keys in the big wide open sea.

I have decided after all that 12 degrees is not too hardcore. Speaking of hardcore and reckless…

Breaking up and all, glorious R.E.M. have been on in my mind. Here’s a song they sing about the recklessness of water:  Nightswimming

PS:  Seadog has pointed out that many readers may ignore my blue song links (which is obviously fair enough). I told him though that it is endlessly pleasing for me to dj whenever possible, and that surely some readers may enjoy the tunes if so inclined.

More piscean rhapsody

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Since that last Forty Foot dip and before I started coughing for Ireland I had four more swims at Seapoint. This catch-up chronicle will be the last post before the real-time, big freezing November plunge which I have to say I’m a little queasy about. November can be the time when people sensibly hang up their togs. I’ve been googling health risks associated with cold water swimming and the good news is if you’re acclimatized it’s not a problem usually… My only preparation though this month is that moment or two before the hot water of the shower kicks in. And I’ve been dodging that cold spray bigtime.

Short version:

These are the highlights of my September morning splashes.

Sounds, Sights, Smells: seagulls, cormorants, pigeons, the smell of decomposing autumn leaves, the green DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit) train whizzing by, jack hammer hammering on the street above, water splashing, the morning dog walking brigade.

Didn’t think I would go in each time, but each time I saw the other swimmers and that did it. Arriving hot with stress beforehand, afterwards leaving delirious with my new porpoising purpose.

Longer Version:

Swim Number 1:

The sky was bruising as Monty says in Withnail and I and it was chilly out. But I felt charged up with my mantra: I am brave. I am brave. I am brave I chanted as I walked down the ramp, just barely avoiding sliding in a tidy little pile of dog crap. Good thing the singing council man bleaches the steps everyday. A few people were swimming. An older lady with very muscular arms and short boyish hair. I swam about, got a slurpee headache from the cold and instinctively found it helpful to bark through the first minutes of swimming. Wooof woooof woof. (Later on I found out this makes sense, according to the internet you are meant to exhale when you first get in to cold water.) After the cold passed I frolicked gladly about and managed to crash into the Hillier, scraped my knee but not badly. When I got out of the water the woman with the good pipes was busy drying herself off. She said she was turning white from the cold and I said better than blue. She said she has bad circulation. I thought that was supposed to be one of the benefits of cold water swimming. Ha, she said she’d been swimming forever and hers hadn’t gotten any better. Maybe though it would be worse without doing it… I asked how often she swam and she said she used to go everyday for two years but she had to quit because she was getting obsessed with it. So now she stops in November.

I got dressed and decided I would add speed walking après-swim on the seafront as part of the ritual. Helped enormously to warm up.

Swim Number 2:

Another cold morning, but it was sunny! I wasn’t sure if you could swim at Seapoint at low tide. I went down there and hung up my stuff and sure enough when I looked out to sea I did a double take and saw a woman walking on the water like Jesus far in the distance. She must have been out 200 yards into the open sea, walking on a sand bar. I got in and swam in the shallow water, getting up to stand when it was too shallow and my knees were grazing the bottom. It was uneven, there were deeper bits here and there. I followed the Jesus woman, assuming she must be following the depth. A few others got in. A dark-curly-haired man who I had often noticed sunbathing and reading his book was in the water. I basked in the sunshine and icy water. It was a welcome relief to the gong show at home. Monkey number 2 had turned a corner in toddlerhood, he was now being more adventurous and smashing plates like he was at a Greek wedding and frisbeeing bowls. I was in a different time zone out here in the middle of the sea on an ordinary September morning. Temporarily unavailable. In my own Atlantis universe I could do handstands, a low-tide bonus.

After the other swimmers got out I followed suit. I headed back to the ramp and thought I was on it, but stumbled on a rock. Nothing serious, I was able to grab the railing. The seaweed made the ramp a little slippy.

Drying off, the curly-haired man said to me, “You nearly went!”

“What?”

“You nearly went!”

Hmm, what does he mean? “I did get in!”

“No, you nearly went! If you miss the ramp, you can twist your ankle badly there, it’s full of rocks, you need to get on the ramp.”

Seadog told me later went meant died (or something really terrible) in this Dub-speak exchange.

I think this guy fancies himself a guardian of the place. One time when I was there with the family having a look-see he was going around the place telling everyone that he’d found something, never mind what it was, but if you’d lost something, come talk to him.

After I had done my little speed-walking strut I saw him reading his book, in his shorts, sunbathing. It wasn’t hot out that’s for sure. Still, a great way to spend your mornings if you’re not working. He was definitely getting his vitamin D.

Swim Number 3:

I was filled with no way am I gonna do this. I did it, all the while fantasizing about wetsuits wetsuit wetsuits. There were two youngins in them and they said they were toasty. The super skinny green-hatted woman I’d seen before arrived and walked in, dipped her toe and then went back to put on black sea gloves. Another oldtimer was doing jumping jacks beside the martello tower.

In the mornings I always wonder will I do this? I give myself permission not to. I put on mascara and perfume to confirm that I won’t. But I put the swimming bag in the car just in case, and sure enough the school run mania and other people swimming make it happen. Fear and a kind of positive masochism are a part of this. At night in my bed with my fuzzy socks and flannel bed sheets, I shiver thinking of the cold water. I think no way am I getting in again tomorrow. No way.

Swim Number 4: It was low tide again and a super sunny, blue sky Indian summer day: 18 degrees. There was the Jesus woman again swimming far out to sea, some big-bellied Sopranoes-looking guys standing in the shallow surf talking business. I was surprised given the temperature outside how cold the water still was when my toes hit the ramp.

A young guy with tattoos was getting in near me.

“Oof,” I said.

“Yes,”

“Amazing how cold it is!”

“Yes, imagine for me especially, I am a Spanish”

“Oh,” I said stupidly, “Is it much warmer in Spain?”

But he was off doing his determined crawl to the horizon. I got in and I felt the usual resistance. Why bother my body thought, just get out! But watching the Spaniard crawl and the Jesus woman swimming in the distance I knew that if I persisted, if I in fact surrendered to the cold something amazing would happen. I keep re-learning you have to surrender to the cold. Let go. Give in and then the bliss happens, your body relaxes. Break the cold barrier = bliss. Would rubber speed this process up?  And then suddenly the ecstasy happened and I was communing with nature first thing in the morning, in the middle of the city. And I’d tapped into the wonderful stillness of the morning before too much of the day’s hustle and bustle has kicked off. I imagined I was a synchronised swimmer, I swam on my back and splashed my feet vigorously, making delightful arcs of water spray up in the air. The drops almost in slow motion. This has got to be the most refreshing, zesty way to start the day.

Later I got out and I saw the muscular old woman showering topless and the sunbathing guardian ..guy reading his book, oblivious two feet from her. It’s great how jiggy it is here.

Song that sums up my general feeling of well-being following swims: The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)

I have been leaving my two pairs of goggles and bathing cap around the house to dry, on the radiator or counter or wherever. I especially like the aesthetic of the goggles. It gives me a thrill to see them out of the corner of my eye especially when I’m miles away from writing or adventuring and am elbow deep in the mind-numbing mountain of housework four humans can generate.

I was cheered to see two swimmers out in the bay at 10:30am on a rainy Halloween morning. Next blog update: prairie dolphin goes Hardcore in November…

PS I’m sure from now on, I promise, my updates are gonna be shorter!

PPS You know that game where people decide which vegetable they are? If I was a foodstuff after my swim, I’m pretty sure I would be a few scoops of lemon sorbet.

40 Foot/Just make a decision!

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October has been a full-blown write-off. That is to say, no writing, and no swimming; just coughing and some more coughing and then even more coughing. Our house has been taken down by the flu and the chicken pox.  I am desperately hoping this fourth week of the flu, armed with drugs and an inhaler, that I will be cough-free enough to get back into the sea soon. The only problem is: it’ll be November and I’m a month grounded and unacclimatized and I see barely any swimmers out anymore at my beloved Seapoint. Terrified though I am I think it may be a great antidote to my cabin-fever and lost month blues. Before this enforced dry sabbatical I had been on an invigorating roll of getting in the water at least once a week. Here is the story of my second September dip.

My first swim at the famous 40 Foot swimming hole was unplanned. I had read about it, gone to have a close up look at it and somehow managed to become a little intimidated by it. What if all the swimmers yelled: GO AWAY, YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED HERE, YOU’RE NOT A DUBLINER FOR JAYSUS’ SAKE! It’s a much loved and historic bathing hole in south Dublin bay with steps leading down in to a deep open sea pool protected by a horseshoe of rocks. The water is always deep no matter the tide. It used to be restricted to gentlemen, often nude apparently. Now it’s a free-for-all (though no longer nudists) and you hear about the various Forty Foot swimming groups and their all-season bravado. Compared to the wide, smile-shaped Seapoint, it feels like a much more intimate swimming nook and a harder place to be anonymous.

One cheeky sunny-ish September afternoon, first week of school, my husband, (an old Dublin seadog himself), our two monkeys and some friends spontaneously ended up meeting for a beach stooge down at gorgeous little Sandycove, exactly right around the corner to the Forty Foot. That little sandy cove is perfect for small children with their bucket and spade shenanigans.

Around the corner is a great landmark: the Martello tower where James Joyce once lived and where the opening of Ulysses takes place. Goofily, the one course I found most challenging in my English lit degree was Irish lit. All I remember are stories of fishermen dying and my professor telling us that Ireland was so green that even the postboxes were green! The notoriously difficult reputation of Ulysses had aligned with my laziness to make it so it never occurred to me, moving to Dublin, to read it. I had read Dubliners, no probs. But Ulysses, Finnegan’s Wake, no-way-hokey-pokey as my monkey likes to say. A good Canadian friend said to me recently he was reading Ulysses to his wife. How romantic! And the obvious hit me, I should bloody well read it too. Another challenge for the winter. Will let you know how that goes…

Seadog had a swim with our friends while I watched the kids and then it was my turn. Flip-flopping my way to the entry I passed a lifeguard board outlining the various kinds of jellyfish happenings in these waters. I blocked out jellyfish thoughts and walked on vaguely remembering an article about biting seals at the Forty Foot?

Looking out from this very vista, Joyce’s Buck Milligan described the sea as a grey sweet mother which sounded comforting until he added scrotumtightening and snotgreen.

I’d say it was more of a bottle green. I walked past the wildflowers at the entrance and all the changing swimmers, had a good look around at all the signs and the lay of the watery land. This looked a lot more like diving into the open sea. The water was crashing against the rocks in great big foamy white waves. On the left side there are rocks high enough to scale and jump off. On the right the rocks are more at sea level. And beyond this little area of 10 yards wide it’s the great open sea, next stop Wales! Or if you swam right and then right again at the bottom of Ireland: America!

Was it even safe? I wasn’t going to ask anyone and reveal myself as a newcomer. I loved how a good chunk of the gang here were skin-and-bone elderly people. Obviously hardy and veteran swimmers they toted around their swimming stuff in little plastic bags. They didn’t need high-tech gear. I think I might… In lieu of fancy gear though I had this song running through my mind:  Lust for Life

After stashing my towel and flip-flops, I joined the queue going down the path, everyone was clutching the railing, getting ready to pelt ourselves off into the great big sea like a bunch of penguins in the Falklands. A teenage young woman, wearing a bra and panties, rather than a swimsuit was coming out of the water, giggling with her friend. You forget how amazing young women’s bodies are! She had a perfect, seashell-shaped bra covering her young flesh and was busy laughing at the cold while everyone in the queue gawped at her beauty. Hope she knew her own fabulousness. With the onset of 40 coming my way, I’m finally having to acknowledge that I am not younger than everybody else like I somehow often still manage to think.

Once again, I felt the strong motivator of community helping to offset the anticipated assfreezingness of the swim ahead. In the queue I was behind a woman and her 10-ish-year-old-son. She was saying to him, “I don’t care what you do, just make a decision and don’t wreck my swim.” She was using a super stern mom voice. “I have to have my swim,” she told him, “It’s not fair otherwise!”

She jumped in, swam off and her boy stood there, not budging. He was wearing a wetsuit. She swam back towards him.
“Look you don’t have to swim! For heaven’s sakes, JUST MAKE A DECISION! In or out I need my swim!”

The boy moved aside so I could go in. I couldn’t very well waffle, I had to be a good role model too and make a decision, so in I jumped. After last week’s primeval shock, it was still astonishingly cold but it was also familiar. Thank God I didn’t have a scrotum! Time to flail about.

The friends we had come with were wearing wetsuits and were clambering up the rocks on the left side for some proper diving in. I swam about, feeling maybe it was a little dangerous, all this depth and cold open sea and strong current, but mostly safe because of the people around. Surely someone would save me if a wave swept me out. Deep-sea swimming feels different to being able to touch the bottom. You are fully submerged in another element with no roof or floor, suspended in a different molecular setup than air. And that it’s a group of fellow humans bobbing about in this alternate universe makes it distinctly cheerful.

A man dove off the rocks gliding deep beneath me. I could see far below my feet his neon yellow goggles. Glad he knew what he was doing and didn’t collide into me.

Doing my somersaults front and backwards, I was thoroughly enjoying my little time out from parenting and living my aquatic dream.

Let’s just talk degrees of coldness. The coldest water I ever swam in: Oregon coast stands out in my memory. The sea off Victoria, British Columbia and glacier lakes in the Rocky Mountains. The water temperature in those places really is a problem for your body parts and most importantly it chokes you and makes it actually really difficult to catch your breath again, technically breath-taking. I think the Irish Sea is warmer than that. You can still breathe just fine. Googling average water temperatures I found some vague stats. The coast of Oregon gets to 12 Celsius in high summer, Victoria 8-10 Celsius and I couldn’t find out about those glacier lakes, but the hint is surely in the adjective glacial. The Forty Foot temperature in November 2010 was 10 degrees Celsius but in summer it got up to 15 degrees. Hmmm, November 2011 might be challenging…

It’s time I paid homage to my bathing cap. These new silicone material hats are amazing: they keep your head warm in and out of the water. I never feel fully satisfied by a swim or a bath even unless I submerge my head and go under (all of me) and in these cold waters that can be a fast track to feeling too cold to stay in the water. The silicone, oh the wonderful silicone makes it possible for me to get that plunging under water high. Sure my forehead gets a little frozen but it’s doable. Maybe this is what a wetsuit feels like, all over the body?

Meanwhile the boy made his decision. He wasn’t in. Fair enough. Thank God his mom still got her swim though. Another harried mother, I swam until I reckoned it was time to resume my role as an Adult/Parent rather than Wild Thing at Sea. Getting out after 10 minutes, I felt again a strong post-swim euphoric delight. Wrapped a towel around myself and got my flip-flops on. A few rugby looking fellas were arriving. Maybe they were doing post-match medicinal cooling. Apparently it’s great for the muscles.

Post-swim recovery was dramatically better than the last time. I didn’t even bother with a hot shower. I had stiff fingers but I warmed up much easier.

First Dip

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I find this blog stuff a little tricky. You might want to read the intro section first (see menu bar) or you could dive right in, either way, thanks for coming!

The first of my September Swims chronicle was on a Wednesday morning. My husband had to go to work early and so I did nappies and breakfast and the dual Monkey school run solo which badly jangled my nerves, again. In between Monkey 1 and Monkey 2 drop off, I dashed home, ran upstairs, tore off my clothes and stuck on my swim suit. After Monkey number 2 was handed over, sobbing and all, I parked the car on Seafield Avenue. It was 9:08 a.m and 14 degrees Celsius according to my car.

Despite the wind, cold and greyness of the atmosphere, the water down at Seapoint was still oddly inviting. But I could actually feel the cold even before getting in. Your body never forgets the feeling of big chills. Seeing everyone else doing it though makes it the thing to do. Monkey see, monkey do et en Français: Singe qui voit, singe qui fait!

I stripped down to my suit and left my stuff on the bench in good faith, hoping to God my clothes would still be there when I got out and my car keys too, and I headed down the ramp into the sea. The sky was grey like an anteater’s coat and it was windy, making mini whitecaps on the water. It was kind of a beautifully miserable morning that matched the strain of my headspace. I needed to block out my crying babies in their new schools. I needed to lose the tension in my neck. Already in anticipation of the swim and now with my feet walking in icy water, I was forgetting and losing myself in another element.

But as my brave ten toes took me down the ramp, water slowly coming up to my knees, my toes yelled in chorus F*************k me, it’s cold!!!!!! But I was committed now I’d come this far and the other swimmers seemed to be coping just fine. Unlike the beach I’d recently moved away from where you could dillydally or shillyshally forever trying to acclimatize before actually making the plunge, here the ramp stopped and you just had to go for it and get in the goddamn water, which is probably better anyway.

I’m sure it helped my cause that any desire I’d had in the past few weeks to swim had been thwarted by being with my beautiful Monkeys at the beach. You can hardly get a good swim in when you’re minding a 3-year-old and a one-year-old. One’s sucking on stones and wearing seaweed like a headdress running headfirst into the sea while the other is examining broken glass and dog crap… Being alone is a luxury and I wasn’t going to faff about it with it.

Walking beside me down the ramp was a beautiful siren of the sea. Maybe in her forties she was wearing, peculiarly I thought, black elegant gloves along with her purple bathing suit. Auburn bits of hair poked through underneath her bathing cap. She was very fit and I wondered was swimming her solution. I asked her if she swam here often, I remembered seeing her and her gloves the last time I’d been here, monkeys in tow. She said she did, but she preferred the legendary Forty Foot swimming scene as it was more social and more encouraging to go in. Unlike me she walked in the water without fuss, like a model going down the catwalk into another world. She didn’t make a sound as she entered the clear water.

There was nothing for me to do now but make the move from vertical to horizontal. And so I did.

Oooooooooooooooooooof! Oooooooooooooof!

But I kept going and flailed around as much as possible, moving every single  bit of me. Moving fast and vigorously at the beginning I knew from experience is the way to make it enjoyable sooner. It was truly invigorating even if breath-taking and shocking. It felt like my body was releasing a giant, much-needed scream.  A bald, athletic looking man swam past me, on his way out, saying, “it gets better, the longer you’re in!” which was just what I needed to hear. Sure enough after a few minutes of behaving like a coked-up manatee I felt fantastic, totally exhilarated. Stiff fingers, fresh boobs. Now I know why that one swimmer wore gloves! It’s not your forearms that ache with cold or your thighs, it’s your toes and hands and other bits and bobs.

I swam and frolicked, porpoised and floated and watched the other swimmers. There were two very serious looking male swimmers; hard to tell ages when people have caps and goggles, but they looked like athletic men between 30-50. Both had yellow hats and were doing the crawl out into the open sea. Nearer to shore was an elderly woman coming down the ramp with a lime green, extra-large bathing cap that had kind of a 3D look to it, more astronaut’s helmut than swimmer’s gear. The hugeness of her green hat in contrast with her skinny little white body gave her a classic lollipop look.

And now swimming near me was a friendly, middle-aged woman. We exchanged pleasantries about the water temperature. She told me she swam instead of taking vitamins. Said there was iodine in the water this time of year. This seemed to be a good thing as she looked very pleased about it. Focussing on the temperature, I asked, sensing it was a touchy subject: “Would you ever wear a wetsuit?”

“Definitely not!” She said with conviction.

“Oh watch you don’t bump into the rock, there’s a huge rock right near here somewhere!” she told me.

“Thanks”

“I don’t have many goals in life, but to touch and climb on that rock everyday. Been doing it since I was eight. That’s it, that’s my goal,” she said, smiling as she paddled around me and stood up on a boulder I had had no idea was right there. “It’s got barnacles on the left side of it, watch out. But it’s smooth on top.”

I’m feeling positively verklempt at hearing this—what a great goal!! And it totally reinforces my own goal to keep swimming as much as I can and maybe, just maybe, become a winter swimmer this year?

“it’s called the Hillier; silly name I know,” she said, as she stood up and shallow dived off, swimming away.

The Hillier I thought, the Hillier, how sweet. Delirious with the cold I imagined her with her childhood friends coming up with names silly hill, sillier hillier?

I swam around. Had a relaxing pee. What’s a little more water, I justified. We’re all made up of water mostly, aren’t we? I swam in a lone sun beam, closed my eyes and blissed out in the feeling of the sun on my face.

Meanwhile I could see someone going all Jacques Cousteau, with full snorkel gear, going under right by the entry ramp, and wondered briefly if he was being a little pervy going underwater so close to shore, near the swimmers. Speaking of perverts, I caught a glimpse of someone’s willy by accident.  A swimmer out of the water was faced out to sea drying his back, probably forgetting his sea audience, he opened his arms wide like on a crucifix. I turned around quickly, following the unspoken code of not looking at someone while they are changing on the beach.

Out in the open sea I could see sailboats and a car ferry heading to Wales and a ferris wheel and glassy football stadium like a big steel swirl on the left. I used to think that industrial landscapes by the sea were ugly, unnatural. But now I see it as a city beach and think it’s beautiful in its fusion of natural and manmade.

I’ve never joined a club or group or team really but this strikes me as a scene I could be a part of. No major technical ability is required beyond being able to swim. And most importantly I think it’s super cool and life affirming. Like motorcycles, and live music, white water rafting and campfires…but it’s something I can do anytime I want.  I’ve always loved the idea of those Russian polar bear swimmers who swim in the ice in the middle of winter. That’s a bit extreme for me but it impresses me in a big way. For some people it’s parachuting out of airplanes, or back country skiing, me it’s water.

From the water I watched the various people in front of the Martello tower. There was an skinny, elderly man with lots of thick, white hair in street clothes doing mini sprints of 50 yards back and forth, obviously part of his regime. After a few minutes of this, a woman he was running in front of asked: “Getting ready for the day, Liam, are you?”

“I’m ready, Mary, I’m ready!!!” he replied, clearly chuffed with himself.

In my delirium I stayed in swimming too long. Maybe 30 minutes? I was reluctant to get out. Was that lackadaisical feeling a preamble to hypothermia? I was super relaxed. After the Hillier I had transcended the cold and I felt I could frolic around for ages. When I started actually shivering I reluctantly got out.

My senses were discombobulated. I was giddy with my achievement. But my fingers were majorly stiff and I had to try to peel off my suit while holding my towel as coverage. Sure enough the towel slipped and I karmically mooned the sea audience.

I eventually got the job done and was re-established in my warm clothes: velour trackies, fleecie zipped up to my chin. My fingers were so ridiculously stiff everything was challenging and undoing my knotted shoelaces was tricky. But I was filled with happiness. The experience had totally worked as a stress buster. Not only had it de-stressed me, it had me fantastically high! I was going to get my butt home and start a blog and call it prairie fish.

A cleaning man working for Dun Laoghaire Rathdown council was busy belting out Motown sounding songs with a huge soulful voice as he bleached and mopped the changing area. Singing about not letting the sun go down on him. It was all so lovely and cheerful that it was starting to seem like a Disney movie for chrissakes.

I raced up the hill to the car. The Canadian in me longed for an outdoor hot tub. Next time I would have the process more streamlined, better gear and a thermos for god’s sakes. I actually felt a little drunk driving home I was so giddy. Had I got a little hypothermic? This song went through my head on repeat:  Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll (click on it and you can hear it!)

I had a super long, long shower, 3 cups of tea, 2 half-eaten monkey apples, a turkey and Wensleydale-with-cranberry cheese sandwich and 2 pieces of 70% Lindt dark chocolate, my favourite. Swimming had given me a massive appetite. Later on that day I practically walked into a Nutella display. Big jars on sale for 2 bucks at the local store. Had to get some for my post-swimming, shark-like appetite. Or maybe I could coat myself in it for my next swim to keep warm…