The Shannon at Corbally was edged with a lace of ice. Frosted grass crunched beneath my bare feet as I made my way towards the water. A cold silvery sun spotlighted the cloud of steaming breath rising above the spectators. Women tugged coat sleeves down over fur-lined gloves. Men pulled woollen scarves up around their ears.
It seemed like a good idea in September when I entered my name for the Christmas morning swim. The weather then was mild enough and we, the members of Shannon Swimming Club, were still swimming in the river. Thus a few hardy souls like myself signed the forms and agreed to do whatever was expected of us on Christmas morning.
There was a tradition of water-sports in our parish. The Abbey River was the base of Athlunkard Boat Club and every Christmas morning, as long as I can remember, there was a race between whatever crews they could muster up on the day. But that was for the men. There were no women whatsoever involved.
Farther upriver where the Abbey River joined the Shannon at Corbally the same rule didn’t apply to the Christmas Swim. It was for all comers of both sexes. Those brave enough to take up the challenge of the petrifying December temperature of the Shannon at Limerick. A fact that did not enter the equation when I blithely signed up in September.
Now it was my worst nightmare. Talk about sacrificial lambs!
Goose bumps
My mother was convinced that I was doing this in order to escape the huge amount of housework she had to tackle. And in a way she was right. I hated any kind of domestic chores and avoiding them had become my life’s work. But a warm kitchen was suddenly a very desirable alternative to an icy river. Robert Service’s
The Cremation of Sam McGee
couldn’t have put it better.
“On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail . . . “
It sure was cold that Christmas morning and getting colder by the minute, but I had signed up to swim and swim I would. So, with all the nonchalance I could muster, I removed my fur-lined anorak and two large towels and handed them to the coat-holder. Goose bumps formed on my skin. I dipped my big toe into the river and gasped. My lips fixed into a frozen “O”.
A whistle screeched for attention and there was much arm swinging and muscle loosening. I looked again at river. Were we expected to actually dive into its icy depths? I mean, couldn’t we just sort of ease our way in as painlessly as possible? If not, could I just sort of sneak away without being noticed and run all the way home?
Splash!
I glanced at the gathered crowd. They were all wrapped up but every one of them was shivering. There wasn’t even a smile on their faces. I felt they were telling us to get in and get it over with so that we can go home for hot turkey. I felt like a gladiator at the Coliseum in Ancient Rome. They wanted me to do or die!
The starter took up his position and called the dreaded “Take your marks” and I promised every saint in heaven that I would be a kitchen slave for my mother if they got me through this ordeal. He blew the whistle and there was only one thing to do then – Go or my swimming career would end in ridicule.
Splash! A thousand water demons attacked me. Pins and needles shot through my lily-white body. My one and only thought then was survival. I swam faster than I had every done in my swimming life and when I finally leaped out of the water that chilly Christmas air felt so warm it seemed as if I had stepped into a furnace.
Hands reached out to rewrap me in towels and blankets and there was a trophy and press photographs but all I wanted to do was to get back home into my mother’s warm kitchen and scrub pots forever and ever, amen.
On Christmas mornings at home in my own warm kitchen now I peel the vegetables, cook the turkey and set the table with all the festive fare but sometimes I wish that I could do it again. The Christmas Morning Swim keeps calling me back – but only as a fur-wrapped spectator.