In praise of swimming in the sea

I swim in the sea almost every day, usually around half four in the evening, and I love it. Yesterday I came home from the pier in a state of zen, utterly relaxed and refreshed by my swim in the clear Atlantic waters. Today there was rain, the water was choppy and my toes were cold and still I came home feeling mighty.

Yes, it’s cold. Yes, I’m often tempted to give it a miss because it’s cold. But I nearly always go because that time in the water – the serenity, the fortification, the exertion – is a high point in every day. When I come out of that water, I have the walk of one who has taken gold at the Olympics. I feel empowered, I feel hardy, I feel strong.

Not a bad result for an afternoon’s work.

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We swim at the sean chéibh, the old pier. The pier is large enough for the cargo boat so, from down in the water, it is a looming behemoth, but to the children it is merely something to leap from with abandon. The less experienced swimmers bob around the shallow end and tentatively embrace their comfort zones’ outer regions. The more confident swimmers do lengths in and out to the end of the pier – approx. a hundred metres a length.

For me, there is a prize at the end of the pier; wide open ocean space, with neighbouring Inis Oírr to one side and this island’s rugged edges to the other, Kerry to the south on a clear day and the coast of Galway coast behind me – all infinitesimal dots in the mammoth Atlantic Ocean. I’m constantly amazed that I’m here bobbing like a cork off the west coast of Ireland, but likely sharing this body of water with American kids or hardy Canadians thousands of miles away.

Some days the water is choppy and the only reward is a mouthful of seawater. Today there was little to see so I just swam back in. But in calmness, the sea is several different blues, with speckles of white foam or ripples. On such a day I let go of myself, embrace the weightlessness of floating, lying back, staring at the sky, thinking of nothing. The tide gently lifts and lowers me, I arch my body to rise and fall with it. I am deaf to all but the seagulls’ call. I savour this suaimhneas (serenity) but don’t want to exhaust it so I’ll make my way back in.

There’s a ‘we’ to this; a WhatsApp group of people of all ages. We gather every evening, and a few do the morning also. Some paddle, some swim, some tread water, some supervise. Everyone chats; our swimming group is two parts social to one part athletic.

The native islanders have little heed on swimming in the sea so our group is nearly all blow-ins. Everyone has some kind of an interesting story about their life or how they ended up here, and an appreciation for life here underpins much of the chat.

Indeed, I’d go as far as to say that many of us swim as a form of thanksgiving. We could, after all, just go for a good walk if it was exercise we were looking for, or take up running and cycling. We wouldn’t have to submerge ourselves in the cold Atlantic waters to run or cycle and still, it is this we choose to do. I think the sea swimming is an act of gratitude – gratitude perhaps for being alive, healthy and happy, and for being all those things here. Even on the cold days when the water is choppy, there is an awareness of the good fortune of being able to get in the sea when the working day is done.

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And it’s such a pure activity. There are no membership fees or required equipment or demanding schedules to adhere to. It’s free. Swimming in the sea may well be the most organic form of exercise going; we are literally immersing ourselves in the natural environment.

It’s not always graceful and one doesn’t have to listen too intently to hear mumbled f**ks and sweetsufferingJesuses as we enter and lower our shoulders to be properly under. But the body quickly adjusts, almost unbeknownst to itself, until it’s the thoughts of getting out that chills us.

And on top of all that, if we never swam a stroke the whole afternoon long, by even getting in we’re still doing wonders for our bodies and our well-being. It’s exercise even when little exercise is actually done!  

And the comfort of it. It is only as I write this that I realise that never once has it occurred to me to be body conscious, to suck in a belly, pull back shoulders, dash to get a towel around me. There is no such thing here. Hardy women don’t go in for vanity. And even if they did, the shores of the Atlantic on a Tuesday afternoon would hardly be the place for such preening.

When we’ve finished swimming, there’ll always be a few standing around a car in poncho towels (the pros in DryRobes) and woollen hats, chatting as they sip tea from a flask. In dribs and drabs we’ll go home. Giddy dogs will bound into back seats, there’ll be sand everywhere and we’ll pile into cars to head home to the other highlight of the day – a hot shower.

And therein lies my experience of swimming in the sea. Coming into the winter, I’ll continue to swim in the sea for as long as I can, for as long as anyone will come with me. I’ll be perished and I’ll be stuck to the radiator for the evening and someone will warn me I’ll catch my death of cold, and perhaps I will, and I’ll wonder what in God’s name I’m doing in the sea in November and I’ll decide that feck it, I’m not going today.

And yet, in I’ll go again. Thankful that I can.

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My latest post, ‘And in the Dark of Night’, a reflection on stepping out ‘neath a night sky, is ready to go here. For even more posts, nearly sixty, click on the homepage for ramblings on living in America, island life, rural lockdown, musings on history and current affairs, and schlepping through the United States. Or follow me on Twitter, sure I’m great craic.