Low Tide at Dún Laoghaire

******

I sit on the sea wall beneath the Roger Casement statue. I look out onto Dublin Bay toward Sandy Cove. I can see the James Joyce Martello Tower at the end of the curling shoreline about a quarter mile away. I think I see the Forty Foot, too. But I’m not sure.

It’s low tide today.

The waves rumble south to north.

Yesterday, the waves thundered east to west, crashing hard into the shore at high tide. It made for a very choppy, and often scary, swim. I’m not the strongest swimmer in the world. So I cut my swim short. Only twenty minutes or so of dog-paddling through three to five meter swells. I feared the water’s force would throw me into the wall, or worse, the nearby boulders.

I exited the turbulent waters and went for fish and chips at the SAY FISH trailer at the edge of the pier. The seaweed salted chips were divine. Oh yes. The black garlic truffle sauce. That was another universe.

******

Today, as usual for May, the water temp is 12.6°C/55°F. I watch the people on the steps below, testing the water. Some dive right in. Others ease their way in after several starts and stops.

I move to a different position on the wall and meditate on the sea’s horizon in the direction of Holyhead. I take numerous deep breaths to prepare myself for the water’s shock.

After more than ten minutes,

I stand up.

I belt up my orange buoy bag.

And head down the steps along the wall to the lip of the water.

There’s maybe 12 to 18 inches of clear water above the rocks bigger than bowling balls just off the steps.

******

I swam just last week in Scotland’s Loch Lomond. The water temp there was 9°C/48°F. Yes. Chilly.

I crawl into the shallow water of Dublin Bay. I use my hands to pull myself over the rocks as the rest of my body floats along the surface.

Maybe I’m wrong, but this feels just as cold as Loch Lomond.

Funny. This is my third swim here in Dun Laoghaire. I’ve had that very same thought every time I hit the water.

Maybe all water beneath a certain temperature (say, 60°F/15.6°C) is shocking once you get in. I know Barton Springs at 68°F/20°C can be a shock, especially on a boiling summer day in Austin. Maybe it comes down to the contrast between the air and water temp.

I don’t care how cold it is after a minute or two. My core adjusts. I only feel bliss as gentle waves lap the sea water into my face. I can taste the saltwater on my lips. Man. That’s salty.

I slip eastward toward a yellow buoy that reminds me of the Apollo 11 splashdown module. The water is much deeper there. The rocks gradually slope downward. Ah. I can finally swim without scraping my knees and finger tips on the rocks. This is heaven.

******

I swim out maybe 40 yards and turn around to look back toward the steps and the lounging Dun Laoghaire skyline. The buoy bag takes me by surprise.

Damn. I forgot it was back there. My phone, wallet, passport, and other important gear (clothes) .. and other effects are in there. Gosh. I hope I shut it tight. And no water seeps into my clothes like yesterday.

I love this thing. This bag I bought last week at Viking Marine just a couple of blocks away.

As I said. It is orange. You stuff your gear in it.. Fold up the end and snap it together.. Then you inflate two air chambers on either side to ensure it floats. Effects and all. You then take a nylon belt with a lead. You loop the lead through a hook on the bag, then put the belt around your waist so the bag follows you in the water.

Also, the bright orange announces your presence to any boats, jet skis, and other swimmers.

******

I turn back around and continue toward the buoy that is about 50-75 yards out from the Casement wall. I have no goggles or ear plugs .. no flippers.. this is the wildest.. rawest of swims.. well.. not that raw.. I am wearing blue trunks. No. No. Buck Naked Buck Mulligan here. This isn’t 1904.

Plus.. ol’ Buck swam Buck Naked at the Forty Foot.. which is too chaotic a scene for me.. too many pot smoking kids.. The Garda arresting people, telling people, mostly truant teens, to leave under Section 8 of the Public Order act or something like that.. There are Too many folks who look like they haven’t … well ..had a bath in years.. and would kill half the marine life in the Irish Sea if they even got close to the waters at Sandy Cove, much less dove into them.. No. No Forty Foot for me.. not today.. It makes a busy summer weekend at Barton Springs, with all its exhibitionist hippies and drug-addled drum circle dirtbags, look like a meeting of the choir.

The scene at the Casement statue is more copacetic to my taste. It’s adults. Older folks like myself. And a few young families. Kids splashing around where the steps hit the water.

******

Here in orderly Dun Laoghaire I put my head in the cold salty water. It’s always a shock to duck your head in the water after having it out in the sun as you tread water or dog paddle. It’s a very sunny day in the “DL”..The Fort of Mr. Leary… 72°F/22°C. It’s what the Irish consider a hot day. I consider it just right. It’s like a warm winter’s day in Texas. It’s like Christmas.

I swim another 20 yards eastward toward the buoy again. I raise my head back into the sunshine. Not five yards in front of me two black round eyes lock with mine. Whiskers wriggle as though the eyes’ owner is assessing the situation and whether this pale gray-bearded bi-ped is something to avoid. We stare at each other for a good ten seconds before the seal gets bored and plunges into the depths.

This is all quite the experience. especially.. yes.. .for a Texan who has never been within 100 yards of a seal, much less close enough to lock eyes with one.

I tell some of the Irish folks back at the wall about my encounter. They are astonished not by the encounter, but by my excitement. It’s no biggie to them. They swim along with the seals all the time. Well. I’m jealous of that.

******
7

******

I go in and out of the water over the next few hours. Alternating cold salty wet with warm sun and cool sea breeze.

I get that swimmers bliss. The best high in the world. A good cold water swim is better than the most potent Turkish hash or Acapulco gold. How do I know that? Well….. I was just a wee bit wilder in my younger days.

******
8

******

I talk to a lot of people while lounging along the wall. I don’t remember many details. It was mostly the same questions and answers.

Yes. I’m on holiday.

Yes. The United States.

No. Not Canada. Though that may not be such a bad option right now.

Oh. Yeah.

Yes. Because I just turned 62 and I decided I’d best do this 45 day barnstorming tour of the UK and the Republic of Ireland while I can still kinda think and kinda walk.

However, I do vividly remember a baby named Eamon smiling and cooing like mad in his pram as his mother makes faces at him.

He didn’t like the water.. his mom tells me. too cold. He prefers his pram in the sunshine.

I babysit the wee Eamon while his mom and dad take a quick dip.. They are gone for maybe ten minutes at most.. I love the Irish.. Not hesitating to ask a stranger; and a foreign one no less; to keep an eye on their wee one while they light off for a few minutes. Little Eamon never stops giggling or smiling.. even when a stranger’s gray bearded face… hovers above him… Everything is cool. Everything is right with the world. For the wee Eamon.

******
9

******

Back in the water..

I splash around where it is maybe a meter deep.. 3 feet.. but no more.

A French kid.. keeps acting like he is going to jump from the Casement Wall some 15-20 feet high.. into the low tide below. This would have been.. to put it mildly.. a very fucked up episode..

There is at most one meter (3 feet) of water, probably less, into which he wants to jump. To boot, as I’ve stated, the bottom is all rocks, many of them bigger than bowling balls.

He’s a teenager . Maybe 14 or 15 years old.. long blond hair. His friends scream at him in French from the water below. The Irish people around me yell that the water is too low. There is distress among the 20 or so swimmers around me .. yet the kid remains atop the wall, strongly considering a leap.

I for one, and I’m sure everyone else around me, don’t want to pull his mangled little French body out of the water then spend the next three hours explaining the whole thing to the Garda who will, without a doubt ask the question, “Why didn’t you try to stop him?”

So.

I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands -or rather- my own voice. I search the archive of my brain for what I learned in University French classes and navigating the streets of Paris more than three decades ago.. when I was a much younger, much fitter man.

Finally.. I yell up at the kid..

Monsier!!

The kid and all his friends look at me with perplexed expressions that seem to ask..

Why is this old man with a big gray beard calling this kid “sir”?

Well. That’s all I can think of at the moment.. So I rethink my terms..

Mon Ami!

I yell.

Si’l vous plait.

Arretez si’l plait..

C’est pas d’assez de l’eau.

C’est trop dangereuse..

Vous etes trop jeune pour le mort!

It is horrible broken french.. in the worst accent ever..

But… it gets the message across. The kid raises his hands and grows an embarrassed smile as he nods toward me. He steps off the wall.. then walks down the steps to join his friends in the water.

The French kids look at me with a mixture of bemusement and bewilderment…

Well. I say. I guess all those College French classes finally paid off.

They understand my English and laugh out loud.

The Irish ask me what I’d said in my horrible, mangled French.

I translate. Liberally.

Sir.

My friend.

Please.

Stop.

Please.

There is not enough water.

It is too dangerous.

You are too young to die.

******
10

******

Too young to die…

Aren’t we all?

But it happens anyway. It’s unavoidable. We ultimately have no say in the matter, though some of our choices may delay or hasten it. See, French kid.

As the ancient ARS MORIENDI (The Art of Dying) says, in order to have a good death, one must live a good life.

I remember this as I stand in thigh-deep water as the French kid leaps into the arms of his friends.

I think. I’m gonna live while I’m still alive. As should everyone. Yeah. I’m crazy at it now on this mad trip of a lifetime and possibly the last trip of a lifetime, but man, I’ve gotta turn up the volume on this thing.

So the buoy bag and I swim back into the depths of Dublin Bay and the Irish sea to seek out more seals.

******
11 / CODA

******

I find no more seals.

Yet. I realize how lucky I am to be alive as I gaze out toward Sandy Cove, enraptured by the sea and the historical heft of my surroundings.

I am truly high.

Splashing nearby are

ol’ Sunny Jim, himself,

And Nora.
Giorgio,

Lucia.

Sigh…

Poor Lucia.

Tragic Lucia.

Genius Lucia.

Ah. There are more:

The Bloom Family,

Hello Leo.
Hello Molly.

Hello Milly.

Is that Gertrude there reclining on the rocks?

the lost soul Stephen,

ol’ Blazes Boylan.

and yes.

Last

but not least

Buck Naked Buck Mulligan

Ah.

I hear a song..

A quiet song..

A whispered song..

A siren’s song..

Or is it just my head?

My seawater-exalted hallucinating head.

I can hear them sing.

I hear them sing.

An homage to their self, husband, father, and creator.

Respectively..

I hear them sing into the breeze

I hear them sing from Ulysses:

The sea. The sea.

The snot green sea.

The scrotum-tightening sea.

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