The Water Will Always Be There

Author Catherine Talbot’s love of wild swimming stems from childhood growing up by the sea, more recently, walks to the beach and  slipping beneath the waters on moonlight nights inspired the opening scene of her acclaimed debut novel, A Good Father. 

Like all parents, I check on my children every night before going to bed. Asleep, their faces still seem to hold a smile as they drift into their childish dreams, reliving the day of play that they have had. Watching them in this state gives me a rush of love and a fierce sense of wanting to protect them for always.

As a child, growing up in Greystones Co Wicklow, the beach was my playground of choice. There is no doubt that I attribute my love of sea swimming to this time. All summer long, my friends and I would divide our time between the tennis club and the South Beach. The days seemed to go on forever. We would often go back to the beach in the evenings, staying in the water until our fingers were numb and white from the cold. If it was raining that was particularly exciting. Our favourite spot, the old Men’s swimming point, sadly no longer exists. I remember a significant storm hit. Overnight the sand had come up to meet the diving board beside the outcrop of rocks that we had mastered how to avoid when we were brought in on the spring tides. The old Men’s was gone forever. I was devastated. 

Bringing up children is not child’s play of course. It can be trying, especially in our current climate of rolling COVID lockdowns. The pre-pandemic days of ferrying them around to endless activities is, for the moment, lost, replaced instead with overseeing a diary of Microsoft Teams school lessons. Like all children across Ireland, our two are missing the companionship of friends and the interaction with their teachers.

As a way to escape lockdown claustrophobia, the first thing I do each morning with my daughter is to walk down to Killiney beach for a swim before she starts online school. A ten minute walk from our home in Ballybrack, Killiney beach is probably my favourite place in the world. I have swum here every day for almost fifteen years and it directly inspired the opening part of my debut novel A Good Father.

Once there, I’ll see Dalkey Island set majestically, frozen to my left, and the long sweep of Killiney beach on my right. I’ll squint and make out the shaft of light that marks the beginning of the tunnel through Bray Head to Greystones. I’ll allow myself a moment to consider the similarity between the beaches in Killiney and Greystones. And wonder, as I always do, why I have never set foot on Dalkey Island, despite its proximity.

Regardless of wave patterns or the temperature of the water, swimming brings a sense of peace. It calms me. I am always a different person when I come out of the water. There is a sense of euphoria, as if I can tackle anything that the day will throw at me. Even in the depth of winter, afterwards, walking barefoot on the cold grey stones, it seems worth it. 

My son reluctantly swims with me in the summer and only after a lot of persuasion. I don’t mind this however, as we have other ways to bond, like staying up late watching the Champions League while he informs my husband and I of the transfer history of every player on the pitch. I always enjoyed watching football with my sister when we were growing up (we adored Ryan Giggs really) but back then I never envisaged that I would derive so much pleasure from football chats with a son of mine. Unfortunately I am still not sure that I can spot an offside position with any real conviction. 

Thankfully, my daughter loves to swim in the sea as much as I do. I relish that somehow I seem to have passed on this passion to her. All through the summer holidays, every morning, she is there beside me in the water. And it doesn’t stop there; we take advantage of every opportunity throughout the year, during Halloween, Christmas and Easter breaks, to head down to the sea. 

The very idea of submergence in the water is beautiful to me. The same is true for my daughter too, it seems, as she loves to read stories set in oceanic worlds. When I was pregnant with her I swam every day and I remember being worried that she could feel the cold water. I recall asking my doctor about this and he told me not to worry, that she was safe in her own temperature-perfect amniotic fluid. 

All that early exposure to the water seems to have rubbed off on her somehow. When she was very young she imagined herself as a mermaid. Even though she is growing up now, to me she is still that mermaid, swimming, full of her childish happiness. I love watching the way she always relaxes once her eyes are set on the sea. 

Yet the sea is the boss, and we are all its subordinates. My daughter and I understand the inherent treachery of the sea but still enjoy the thrill of it. We have swum together in rough waters and I am amazed by her bravery. It was not a surprise when she decided to train to become a lifeguard.

We have swum alongside dolphins, we have seen a seal beached on the shore. Together, last November, we braved a full moon night swim at White Rock beach. It was a cold night and I was almost considering not bothering but she had got the notion in her head, and so off we went. The beach was like an outdoor theatre: the sea was the stage, the moon was the lighting rig and my daughter and I the actors. Afterwards we made s’mores with biscuits and marshmallows over a fire, a recipe she had learned at Girl Guides. 

These kinds of memories sound idyllic and this one at White Rock certainly was. I am lucky. My daughter hasn’t quite reached that stage in her life where she doesn’t want anything to do with me. I am not yet a mortal embarrassment. 

But it won’t last. What I hope will survive however, is our bond, our shared love of the freedom of ocean swimming. We have our understanding that this is a special thing that we do together. Despite this knowledge we still do our best to coax my son in, and my husband. Sometimes it works, but mostly it doesn’t and we laugh about this in the water, together. We know that the water will always be there, and that we will not. And to have this shared understanding with her is the greatest thing.

It is so gratifying to see the amount of new people who have taken to sea swimming during the lockdowns. Ignore the dryrobe controversies. There is a sense of being in this together. COVID will eventually be gone, and the sea will remain. 

Catherine Talbot’s debut novel, A Good Father, published by Penguin Ireland, out now, €14.99, visit dubraybooks.ie