I WITNESSED THE Dry Robe wars, posing in my own off-brand towelled poncho like it meant something. I avoid dipping in July, knowing full well that the warmer waters lure the jellyfish out to dance.
Between March and November each year, skipping the depths of winter because I’m not totally insane, I earn my stripes as a seasoned sea swimmer.
But as a sea swimmer in a wheelchair, those stripes are visible on my arms and legs, cut and scratched by the sea walls and harbour steps that I bum my way down to reach the water. As an avid hater of sand, I know the texture of every pier from Howth to Shankill, but it would be nice to emerge from the water unscathed.
When it was first announced that the Dún Laoghaire baths were to be renovated, I wondered what that would mean for disabled people.
Surely, they’d get it right?
The optimist in me hoped it would include easy access routes from the pavilion down to the water for everyone to use, the cynic in me was ready to count the ways in which the developers would make a hames of it. The cynic was correct.
The €18 million refurbishment includes slopes that wheelchair users can’t use independently, which Sean O’Kelly, the co-founder of Access For All, demonstrates on video. Bernard Mulvany, also from Access For All, said of this major eff up, “We just can’t believe that in 2023, you would actually open a public amenity while at the same time, saying this is a public amenity, but it’s not accessible to everyone in the public”.
But in 2023, I believe anything is possible and massive oversights in inclusive design and public funding are among those possibilities. As the local council reviews the situation, with promises to improve the access facilities later this year, I hope that they go beyond the bare minimum so that disabled people can develop a stronger relationship with sea swimming.
My pals and I always say, “you never regret a swim”. We say that smugly because all sea swimmers are rather pleased with themselves once that sweet dopamine hits. Swimming is a huge part of our social lives, and when the high tide hits right, you wash off the working day and get a chipper on the way home, your salty hair almost outdone by the generous lashings in that brown bag.
The joy of the swim
My top swimming spot is Sandycove Harbour, around the corner from the Forty Foot, which is too busy with steps to consider. The harbour wall is less hectic, with no one egging you on to jump if you get cold feet before you even wet them. I enter the water from the farthest pier, beyond the lifeguard hut, and my friends tip my wheelchair down one step from the changing area.
On the uneven sandstone, we look at each other with glee, because we’ve snuck in a swim in on a day where the water is inseparable from the sky, or because the wind cuts through our skin, and we know that this one will be quick.
I descend the steps like a toddler – my poor arse protected by swim shorts – and submerge, knowing that the shock of the temperature will ease the faster I move. The yellow buoys are always the goal, the first buoy marking roughly 76 metres, so a return journey measures – well, double that, but also – a fine day’s work. When you sit in a wheelchair all day, being in the sea allows your hips to drop and your spine to stretch, allowing whatever ails you to exit through your toes and sail away to Holyhead.
With the exodus of stress comes the chill, and as everyone runs to fetch their towels, I drag my numbing body up the steps that have been sharpened by the tides and shells of barnacles and limpets. I check the damage. Worst case scenario, you cut yourself and bleed dramatically, but you had a great swim; best case, a playground scratch, but you had a great swim.
Open to all?
One DART stop away, Seapoint offers cinematic scenes on sunny afternoons, but the slopes from the road to the pavilion are so steep that a helping hand is necessary. Like Sandycove, the slipways and steps into the water cut like tiny switchblades, but still… you had a great swim. Five DART stops in the opposite direction, the Vico is a total no-go.
Across the bay in Clontarf, the steps at Bull Island and the slipway at the Yacht and Boat Club lead you to the water, but you’ll emerge with those bloody stripes. Clontarf’s Outdoor Pool, not to be confused with the Baths at Clontarf, which is a restaurant in the same location but with different owners, was a hugely anticipated public amenity that is now members only.
Last year, they briefly opened their doors to the public. When I visited in August, the wheelchair lift was out of order due to storm damage from the previous winter. For a tenner, I was lifted up one flight of stairs and down another, and then bummed my way into the water.
Thankfully, no blood was shed but what a price to pay.
The availability of beach wheelchairs is on the rise across the country – a full list of their locations is on the Disability Federation of Ireland’s website – but this service is seasonal or weekend-only in some locations.
So, when a multimillion opportunity comes along to redevelop a swimming spot, it should be designed with no restrictions – the only red flags determined by the wind and the waves.
Sea swimming is good for the body, the soul and the ‘gram. But how nice would it be to go for a swim, as a seasoned dipper or fair weather fan, at any time of the day, disabled or not?
When I heave myself out of the water, passersby compliment my upper arm strength, but my arms would want to be strong, pulling the weight that local councils forgot to carry.
Louise Bruton is a freelance journalist, specialising in the arts, pop culture and disability rights.
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