Dublin swimmers are well used to red flags. A regular indicator of our waste disposal shortcomings is that the water treatment system struggles to cope with heavy rain and gets overloaded. Persistent downfalls and land run-off can mean plentiful sewage in the water for days afterwards. Some take their chances, of course, but ingestion of sewage is not something most will gamble on. Warning signs for jellyfish that can give a nasty and potentially dangerous sting are also part of the swimmers’ lot, especially in more recent times.
So are rough seas; high waves and strong currents rightly set alarm bells ringing and red flags hoisted. There have been consistent warnings in recent years that more severe storms are likely to hit Ireland due to record ocean temperatures driven by climate change, fuelling the formation of hurricanes in the Atlantic Ocean. Unfortunately, they are likely to become the new normal.
Again, some will ignore the resultant warnings and if surfing, will even welcome the tumult, and there will always be clowns willing to leap off Salthill’s diving plank during an Atlantic storm, blithely ignoring the hazardous risks those involved in coastal rescue have to face.
Given the gravity of decisions about water safety, the footage of the Youghal Ironman sea swim last weekend was shocking and distressing. There are still many unanswered questions about whether the tragic deaths of two participants, Brendan Wall and Ivan Chittenden, could have been avoided.
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Historically, many islanders and those dependent on the sea for their livelihood never learned to swim. The logic they used was a powerful one, borne of harsh experience
We are living through an era when the narrative of sea swimming is inextricably linked with notions of freedom, redemption, bonding and healing; the sea as saviour. There are many sound reasons for this; it is good for just about everything, whatever the time of year. The combination of its mental and physical therapeutic values has been well documented and communal sea swimming has become almost a new religion, helped by the Covid pandemic. Even before that, its curative power was well captured in Ruth Fitzmaurice’s 2017 book, I Found My Tribe, the cold water helping her with grieving and the trauma caused by the death of her husband Simon. The sea induced a fearlessness in her: “where would I be without the dark, raging waves and the torture?” Another account, Amy Liptrop’s The Outrun (2016), documents her Atlantic swimming off Orkney island to help conquer her alcoholism.
[ Dr Muiris Houston: Ironman deaths highlight dangers of extreme sporting eventsOpens in new window ]
We are also part of an era of ultra-athletic challenges, and those involved must balance their courage and endurance with good judgment. It struck me, reading this summer’s series by Irish Times journalists on our offshore islands, that many of them highlighted the beautiful beaches on most of the islands. But historically, many islanders and those dependent on the sea for their livelihood never learned to swim. The logic they used was a powerful one, borne of harsh experience. Trying to read the sea required, and still requires, great precision and difficult calls.
In Mayo, Inishturk Islanders held the belief that ‘when one is mysteriously saved from drowning, he will at some future date when least expecting it become the victim of the sea’
In Eilís Dillon’s children’s book The Lost Island (1952), Mike, in search of his missing father, notes that “very few of the island men can swim. They say the sea may be all right for the fishes, but a Christian was meant to stay on dry land.” This was a common attitude; on the Blasket Islands, Gearóid Ó Catháin noted, “most of the fishermen never learned to swim, as they felt it would be better to drown quickly rather than put up a fight. The sea was viewed as a place of work, not of leisure.”
[ After the deaths of my father, my mother, my sister, I medicated with the seaOpens in new window ]
[ Youghal Ironman participants describe ‘chaos’ in swimming eventOpens in new window ]
Writers and artists have always been captivated by the raging sea; novelist Elizabeth Bowen found “in the sea’s roughness a form of miserable release”. English landscape Artist Derek Hill, perched on a cliff on Tory Island in the late 1950s, was also drawn towards the torrents (“the rougher the element, the more paintable I find the island”), but his art was grounded in a compassionate understanding of the hardships the sea created.
Always feared
Those most familiar with the sea have always feared it, and rightly so, as you cannot beat it if it turns fiercely against you. German folklorist Heinrich Becker, who visited Connemara for many years, was transfixed by “the constant anger of the jealous and hungry sea”. Ireland’s National Folklore Collection contains bountiful sea lore; tales of majestic and powerful waters that provided so many with a living but were never to be fully trusted. A common phrase in Irish about the sea was “caithfidh an fharraige a cuid féin a fháil” (“the sea must have its own”).
In Mayo, Inishturk Islanders held the belief that “when one is mysteriously saved from drowning, he will at some future date when least expecting it become the victim of the sea”. Their version of the old saying was that “the sea must have its share”.
Cruelly and tragically, as seen last week, it must still.