Inspiration for Jumping in the Water from an old favourite:
A Room With a View (E.M. Forster / Merchant & Ivory)
Inspiration for Jumping in the Water from an old favourite:
A Room With a View (E.M. Forster / Merchant & Ivory)
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
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?
“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…