My wife bought Jimmy for me. He's a portly, unsmiling man. On a sunless day he stands by the sea with his ample torso exposed, drying the back of his head with a towel. He may not be a real person; I know Jimmy only as a figure on a canvas that hangs on my wall. It's one of a series of paintings of Dublin Bay swimmers, and I like it because I'm a swimmer too, writes Conor Goodman
Some day I want to be Jimmy, but I've a long way to go. When people like him started swimming, the bay was far less hospitable - for humans anyway - than it is today. As Brendan Behan said: "People don't actually swim in Dublin Bay. They are merely going through the motions." Today the veterans of dirty old Dublin Bay sit at the Forty Foot in all weathers, passing the time of day and taking the odd dip in water now only slightly less pure than Ballygowan.
These are men with barnacles on their bottoms, whose hides can withstand jellyfish stings and seal bites, who could eat bowls of E.coli for breakfast and utter satisfied burps, who, like some freaks from Darwin's diary, have developed layers of Dublin Bay-repellent blubber that inures them to changes in temperature. They could wade through lava pools with only Speedos for protection, or camp out on glaciers wearing nothing at all, and declare either experience "only gorgeous". They are Dublin's Crocodile Dundees.
Farther up the coast, hale south-Dublin women are wise enough to take it a little easier, breaststroking serenely through the shallower waters of Seapoint. This is one of the few places in the capital that has been left unmolested by commercial Ireland; it is completely free of shops, cafes or pubs. And maybe it's the atmosphere, or maybe the bracing water affects the voice box somehow, but even the "Dart accent" seems to have passed it by. I hear only courtly tones and faded country accents. It's no Copacabana - one-piece swimsuits and sensible swimming caps seem to rule the waves here - but it has its own genteel glamour.
Into this venerable atmosphere come people like me, the new generation of swimmers, interlopers in Aussie board shorts and wetsuits. Play-acting, lepping off rocks and making pathetic attempts at the butterfly stroke. We reward ourselves with full Irish breakfasts or elaborate brunches after morning swims, and a slew of pints after evening ones.
In summer and autumn we little dippers flock to the sea. We'll drop everything to take a quick dip, even scheduling our meals around the changing tides. But from November to April, when the Jimmies of this world are still enjoying daily dunkings, some crucial task always seems to prevent us joining them. Only on Christmas Day, emboldened by festive hot whiskeys, might we brave the wintry waters. But most of us have yet to develop the seal-pelt skin or yogic mind-control required to become year-round swimmers.
Sometimes the generations connect in conversation. Any jelliers today? I've a good mind to ring the coastguard about those jet-skiers. A friend got a nip from a seal last week. I'm sure I saw dolphins out there the other day. And, of course, people on their way into the water ask those on the way out how they found it. The water's always either "lovely" (survivable) or "lovely when you get in" (polar).
Overt suggestions that it may be cold are strictly taboo, as are allusions to the Mediterranean, Indian Ocean or other warm waters in which you may have swum; references to naked swimming, either in the past or now (a number of men at the Forty Foot still swim au naturel, out of public view); and speculation about that brown stuff floating in the water.
But, mostly, you don't have to say anything. There's a silent bond between all who take to the sea. We are united in sympathy for the Muggles, those people who pass by, shake their heads and ask: "Are you mad?" We share a secret nobody else knows about. We know the shock of cold water on our bodies, but we also know it feels warm by the time you get out. We know the freedom of floating in the sunshine and looking back at the shore, with its passing traffic. We know what it is to be part of a classless society, where, for the half-hour you spend at the seaside, your house, car, job and education count for nothing. And we know the warm afterglow when you put your clothes back on and head for home.
It's a sneak preview of heaven. One day I'll enjoy it all day - and all year - long. I just can't wait to grow old.
Róisín Ingle returns next week