“Straight down and in!”

Phyllis called out as if to no none as she descended the pebbly-paved boat ramp in swim togs and bare feet. She moved without hesitation—closing quickly on the point where the percussive air met the Irish Atlantic. The sun was largely obscured from the sky, but I knew it was just before 8am. Our arrival had been timed to coincide with the tide’s highest point.

Some of the best and worst decisions are made while breaking bread with trusted faces and passing around a bottle of something alcoholic. It is this unique combination that helps us to move beyond restrained table manners and ultimately exercise a bit more honesty and boldness.

And so it was during an unassuming dinner in County Galway that I found myself sharing a table with friends at the tail end of summer. I’m never a huge talker, but I enjoy hearing the tales of friends as they recount events in a detail that transports me to their very perspective. On this Sunday evening, an enticing bottle of white had been opened and Phyllis was telling the three of us about her latest evening swim in the ocean.

“I don’t go every day. I only go when then spirit takes me. But then, if I feel it, I know that I must go.”

I have several good friends who find an almost religious aspect to swimming. Be it south of Dublin or in southern Italy, I can tell that their minds have been recalibrated because they’ve found the chance to lift away from the land and have their thoughts carried off by salt water. As a runner, in some small way, I get this. But I’m not a swimmer. All the same, their practice does leave me somewhat intrigued.

As Phyllis continued chatting and we finished Clare’s vegetarian lasagna, I must have managed to work in a comment between the second and third glass of wine. “That swim sounds great, Phyllis. I’d love to go with you once and see what it’s like.”

And this is how I found myself the following morning stepping out of Phyllis’s car wearing a borrowed swimsuit and a dirty pair of running shorts.

While we were still in the month of August, the morning was not exactly pleasant. I could hear the wind knocking against the windows as soon as morning became apparent to me. I had packed nothing warm with me, so Phyllis dug out a black velour track suit to wear once I got out of the water. Get out of the water? I already felt a chill. To be honest, I couldn’t have been sure if Phyllis was going to follow up on our plan for a morning dip. It was a Monday morning. Maybe she wanted to sleep in.

But Phyllis herself is a Galway original, and her zest for life and overall energy reserves are such that she will be up for just about anything at any time. As we drove down to the water, she told me about how as a little girl she would ride her horse down here. You could tell that she loved this place with all her heart, and it was more than just the chop of the sea that kept her spirit moving.

I was not super excited to get into the water. It was a windy, steel grey morning, and as such I was happy that Phyllis had brought us to a protected harbor to swim. As I looked at the boats moored in the distance, I spied a Galway flag from one of the masts. The wind was strong enough that it made the flag look as if it was perpetually smoothed straight out. My hair whipped around as Phyllis stepped out of the car and unceremoniously shed her overclothes and shoes. Without pausing she walked straight past me and down the ramp. Straight down and in.

At first, my bare feet were stuck to the clammy pavement where I stood. I watched Phyllis with the same expression that my old greyhound use to have whenever she would be brought to the tub and realize that it was bath time. I’m not going in there. But here in Galway, no one was going to pick me up and dump me into the water. As Phyllis’s feet crossed the threshold between salt air and water, I had no choice but to follow.

I moved quickly to catch up as she immersed herself with ease and moved off away from the ramp. I wasn’t sure if I would glide out gracefully or ease my way in. As it happened, neither mattered because mid-ponder, my unfamiliar footing found the drop off at the side of the ramp and before I knew it, I was in. Dunk tank style.

Phyllis laughed in delight as I came up and immediately set to moving my limbs like an incredulous cat. The water wasn’t freezing (it was 15 °C), but it also wasn’t the water I had enjoyed only weeks ago at the Great Barrier Reef. As we made our way away towards the boats on their moorings, we laughed like small girls as I my brain and body enjoyed this new syncopation of existence. “Isn’t it gorgeous?!” Phyllis asked me. “It is!” I told her. And I really meant it.

This is of course, just a silly tale about a short swim on an Irish summer morning, and for such a small feat I expect no sort of accolade. What really made me grin, however, was that I got to do something that I hadn’t counted on—something intimidating (for me) that was ultimately immediately achievable. I got to do it not only because I had managed to speak up myself, but also because I could put my trust in the expertise and wardrobe of good friends.

We only stayed out in the water for about 10 minutes. I was content to follow my teacher’s lead, but I breathed a sigh of relief (in between the smacks of waves hitting my face) when Phyllis suddenly offered, “You will notice that we are heading back now.” I had noticed. The sun had started to come out, but our morning swim was coming to an end.

As we closed on the ramp, another car came into view along the curve of the harbor. “Oh, that’s Cyril!” said Phyllis. Another swimmer who was here for his morning dip. Introductions were made as we exited the water in order to change out of our suits while standing by the car. No fancy changing cabins, no protection from the elements or anything else. You just want to get dry.

“You can feel that the temperature is starting to drop now!” said Cyril to us as he swam circles in the same spot we had just traced. Phyllis, in her usual custom, commenced with morning banter about the highpoints of the weekend (the Pope had been in town). As is the way in Ireland, conversation ebbs and flows everywhere—you don’t only dig into conversation while gathered around a table. As for me, I stood by as my lips started to turn blue.

“You best get that girl back inside before she freezes to death,” said Cyril as he nodded to me from a sort of reclined position in the water. We bade him goodbye and in no time, Phyllis had the car’s heater turned up. Before heading home again, she showed me a bit more of the seaside road before heading home.

Back in the house, her partner was awake and dressed and we gathered in the bright kitchen. Whereas the morning had seemed so quiet and dark. All now seemed awake and renewed. The wine bottle from the night before now sat on the table empty, and I praised Phyllis to the heavens as she set to filling my hands with a cup of hot, black coffee. We chatted a bit longer, but we were both still in our drowned rat phase that wasn’t doing any of us any good. A long, hot shower was in my immediate future.I’m not sure if I will ever go swimming again in those north Atlantic waters that buffets Ireland. But on the other hand, I remain a Cape Codder, one who will gladly pass untold amounts of time gazing upon the choppy waters of a different North Atlantic. In whatever form, there’s something about the sea, and the people who understand. After that unassuming Monday in Galway, I indeed feel a bit more steadied. And ready to see what the next dinner party brings.