EMMA SOMERS is in week four of her triathlon training programme and is determined to ditch the pool and join the sea swimmers in Seapoint, Dublin – with barely a wetsuit in sight
DECLAN O’ROURKE lit a smoke up on a candle, and somewhere a sailor died. And despite the fresh sea air, the bright blue skies, the bustle of early-morning swimmers, it’s the Ballyfermot singer’s melancholy lyrics that lap into mind at the water’s edge in Seapoint.
Until this week, Seapoint meant nothing to me other than a stop on the Dart; a reminder that Dún Laoghaire would be along shortly. Who knew that at first tide each day, its Martello Tower attracts a band of brave Dubliners for a dip in the bay?
From around 9am, swimmers of all ages – although most of them are over 70 – gather in the lukewarm sun and ready themselves for the sea, barely a wetsuit in sight. One sprightly septuagenarian does push-ups on the pier after her swim. It would put you to shame, I can’t help thinking, forgetting the purpose of this early start.
It’s cold. There’s no getting away from it. Our proud gesture to forego wetsuits like the hardy regulars seems less inspired by the second. One, two, three... head under. Jesus wept.
And then you swim. Because it’s the only way to keep warm. And because there are two things in life you never regret doing: brushing your teeth, and going for a swim. So says a wise friend of mine with a sparkling smile.
Once you get moving, the cold becomes bracing, warming your cockles just enough to take in the view and mingle briefly at the blue railings – “sure it’s grand once you’re in, isn’t it?” – before swimming off to keep the blood flowing.
I say swimming. But in the sea, my fancy new moves from training evolve into more of a determined flailing. It doesn’t help that the goggles are buried at the bottom of my bag; without them, the tendency is to swim with gusto into people and walls. And so I’m up to my old tricks: head bobbing out of the water like a panicked otter; legs dipping and kicking wildly with no discernible purpose other than infuriating anyone caught in my wake; arms swinging like an angry monkey.
“Let’s head out to that buoy and back,” my new triathlon partner suggests. Not a hope in hell. To the next railing and back, maybe. But emerging from the water, the feeling is of elation – style and distance be damned. One dip in the great outdoors has washed away the tedium of the lessons, the stench of so much chlorine, the indignation of being asked to move aside in the casual (not even slow) lane, the grubby showers, the forgotten hairdryer/socks/moisturiser. Instead, our heads are filled with the nostalgia of summer days on Dollymount Strand, the delicious sensation of shivering back into dry clothes after splashing about in the water, those odd stripey chimneys looming in the distance.
The sea took us away.
LESSONS: WHERE TO GO
I didn’t sign up for this triathlon to slosh about in chlorine alongside grumpy office workers with no regard for the learner swimmer. But after a dip at Seapoint, there is hope that the means will justify the end. There are any number of group swimming lessons available around the country, particularly at this time of year. I’ve tried them, and failed. This time around, I’ve opted for private lessons and lots of practise, and it’s doing the trick. Sort of.
The Markievicz Centre on Townsend Street in Dublin offers half-hour lessons for €15, if your skin can handle the chlorine and distraction of a generally full pool. A little less central and a lot more expensive is the Mespil Pool, off Leeson Street. Lessons cost €45 for 45 minutes, with a discount if you book more than four. (I found Jenny very patient and helpful. And honest. “You just need to practise. Come back to me if you’re not getting the hang of it.”)
If you have any suggestions to make about Emma Somers’s training programme, send them to: esomers@irishtimes.com. See also Twitter.com/auldtriathlete