Saving Lives from drowning

Saving Lives from drowning

 

 

Before I finish the chapter, I will turn to the people I have saved from the sea and in the swimming pool. I mentioned our family sentimental journey in 1969 just before I joined the mysterious Legionaries. As always, we spent a few days in Sligo where we had the use of my Uncle Bernie’s house on the Strandhill Road. Strandhill Beach was famous in Sligo for its beauty and its danger. My grandmother absolutely forbade her children swimming there. There had been numerous tragedies in the first half of the 20^th century. However on a sunny afternoon the temptation proved just too much and my two sisters and I accompanied our parents to Strandhill. We were under strict instructions not to go beyond knee deep. I wandered out to waist deep. A sunny day. No wind. Calm sea. And then disaster struck. I became aware of someone further out to sea calling. It was the life guard who had rescued a young lad, aged about five and he was tiring and asked for my help. Fortunately the water did not go beyond my chest and I was able to grasp the boy and bring him towards the beach. 

When we were in very shallow water he scampered off like a scalded lobster without so much as a thank you. Then to my amazement I became aware of a chaotic scene to my right, where the water should have been 6 to 12 inches. It seems as if a rogue current had swept out the sand leaving mostly young children who had been paddling in trouble. I spotted my younger sister a few feet away. I took a calculated risk that someone else would help my elder sister. I grabbed Margaret and brought her ashore without difficulty. Bu this time Kate had also been rescued. A little bit startled but fine. We clambered up the dunes to where my father and mother had been resting, totally unaware of the drama fifty yards below. Everyone descended to the beach to check if everything was ok. We learned that everyone was alive and accounted for. We made our way to my granny in Castle St who whistled through her gaping teeth and expressed astonishment at the  foolishness of the  parents. The next day we rose to hear the sad news that in fact a child had been lost. He was in the care of his grandmother. Strandhill had bared her teeth again. If you return to Strandhill today you will see signs the height of sky scrapers warning of the risks. But there are more people than ever in the sea. The wind surfing community have taken over. The strand is littered with shops selling surf gear and lessons and yoga and health drink. The sand has been scraped away by the cruel sea and only stones form the once pristine beach.

A few years intervened before I had to turn to saving more lives. Again, a lovely autumn afternoon. This time in Dublin. I persuaded Lorraine to join me in the 40 ft bathing place, mentioned before. This was 1983 and women had only started swimming in the forty foot. Traditionally it was men only, who often swam nude. A group of hardy women braved cold water, cold welcome and tiny appendages to swim. However we were stopped at the entrance to the forty foot by one of the old guard who explained it was for (nude) men only. He suggested she might swim around the other side of the harbour - at the beach where she had played with her mother in the late fifties. Not one to miss an offence, Lorraine huffily decided she wouldn’t go for a swim there. So I suggested the scenic bathing place at White Rock, in Killiney Bay. We arrived to find we were not the only ones with that idea. We dived into fabulous clear fresh water. However out of nowhere  the waters grew choppy and quite a number of swimmers got into difficulty including Lorraine who was three months pregnant with Claire. Unceremoniously I grabbed Lorraine by her long hair and dragged ashore where there many helping hands pulling bodies out of the sea. No one was drowned or injured. Lorraine spent the next six months worrying that the water might have done the child some damage. That her child might have green skin. None of this happened and all was fine, other than the poor sleeping.

 

 

 

The third and final soul to receive my life saving ministry was a young boy aged five or six. We were staying in the Gleneagles Hotel in Killarney. I had financed an extension to the hotel including a spanking new health complex that included a massive swimming pool. It was about 8.00 on a Sunday morning and most Christians were still asleep in their upgraded hotel beds. I was just about  on my own in the swimming pool. The life guard was busy cleaning the showers in the vestibule behind a wall from the pool. I had been vaguely aware of an annoying creature and paid not much heed until I turned to see the creature well out of his depth and beneath the surface. I realised immediately this was not a game but an emergency. I caught him and put him on the side of the pool where he upchucked water. And then made off like a scolded lobster. A pattern is emerging. The mother who was twenty-five yards away was deeply ensconced in one of the four newspapers she had purloined and looked up without comprehension. Ten minutes later I withdrew from the pool and made my way to the showers past the paper reading mother. She made the mistake of giving me a dirty look - so passive aggressively  I pronounced, ‘When you bring your son down to the pool you might take your head out of the paper, because I can’t guarantee to be around the next time your son tries to drown himself’ or words to that effect. It gave me a little unchristian satisfaction to see her many jowls flap like a flounder. On reflection it was probably the only time I saved someone where there was no chance of another intervening. I considered  mentioning it to the owner of the hotel who at this stage was a personal friend and thought against it, concluding the life guard would  probably get fired.

 

I may renew my membership to the gym and sauna in the Royal Marine Hotel in Dun Laoghaire. I may brave the water of the forty foot again in high summer with a wet suit.

 

11 May 2025