An eternal present

So far, the wettest thing (other than the Irish Sea – more on that in a minute), has been my cheeks. There’s something about being in Ireland, regardless of the number of times I’ve visited, that makes me weepy. When I visited Ireland the very first time, all flights from the states stopped at Shannon Airport before proceeding to Dublin. I remember my early morning arrival, as the unrelenting shade of green that was the grass drew closer, and my eyes began to leak. 

There’s a connection, a sense of belonging and home, that is undeniable.

The first day of my current trip was quite full and a bit of a mad dash. I arrived in Dublin at an ungodly hour and, after having successfully slept through each meal and snack service on my flight, took my time at the airport to have some breakfast and freshening up. Finally, I made my way to my Dublin “home,” the Airbnb where I’ve stayed my last three times in Ireland and ditched my bag, pausing only to pull my swimsuit out.

Today was the day. 

Unfortunately, my planned mode of transportation, the light rail system known as the DART, wasn’t running for the weekend due to maintenance. I checked the distance to my destination on foot and made the decision to walk it rather than take a bus. It was a beautiful day, with a faintly blue and dry sky. I figured the walk would do me well and keep me awake. Off I went.

As I walked, I took in the spring flowers already with heads swaying in the light breeze, vaguely familiar shops and the road sign directing towards Deans Grange, the cemetery which is my father’s, along with other family member’s, final resting place. It was only later in the evening when I realized that the previous day, the very day I flew out of Newark, marked the fortieth anniversary of my father’s death. 

I don’t believe in coincidences.  

I arrived at the Joyce Tower with a few minutes to spare, despite my leisurely pace over the 5+ miles I walked. I was meeting a family member for the first time and weeks ago I had impulsively suggested we baptize our biological bond with a dip in the Irish Sea where the water was running at about 46°.   

S, like myself, was a bonus family member, one whom the McMenamins were unaware of until just last year. Thanks to the wonders of dna and the internet he had found his way to the family and having been a part of making the connection, as well as being in a similar position to his own as the surprise child, I knew I wanted to meet him in person on my brief trip to Ireland.  

He arrived with a wave that became a hug. I told him I was a bit afraid to immerse myself in the water – would I have a heart attack? What would happen once I came out of the water since I lacked one of the swimming robes and a thermos of something hot that so many other swimmers seemed to possess? None of it mattered, he said.  I’d be fine. 

After finding a way to undress with only a towel and politely averted eyes to protect my modesty, I was ready. The pebbly concrete didn’t feel shockingly cold beneath my feet and I did my best to absorb the energy radiating from the elated swimmers who had already emerged from the cold sea, as I purposefully walked towards the steps to enter the water. 

It was now or never. 

Holding the railing in my hand, I stepped into the snotgreen water with barely a gasp. It was cold, but somehow not breathtakingly so. As has been my experience in previous weeks as I tried to prepare myself for this icy dip, the worst part of the cold was how much it hurt my ankles. Perhaps it’s their boniness and lack of any meat on them, but the cold water literally made me nauseous and a bit lightheaded. I treaded water for a few moments, submerged up to my shoulders, and then made my way back to the steps and onto land. 

I had expected to be teeth chattering and shiveringly cold, but I wasn’t. In part, I’d say because the day was beautiful, but it was also because my own sense of accomplishment for the 60 some odd seconds I spent in the frigid Irish Sea warmed me from the inside out. I faced the sun and dried my cheeks.