Water is a place of redemption and transformation in novel

Author Roisin Maguire says those of us who stare at, sail on, bathe in, or dive into the great expanse of water will recognise that feeling of coming home, when we engage with the sea

Roisín Maguire writes of the alluring nature of the ocean for humanity through the years. Picture: Muiread Kelly

When I was six-months-old, I fell into the sea. We were on a battered old tub of a row-boat, the kind of thing Popeye would use to skim over the waves, and it was stuffed full of my cousins, sisters, my uncle the skipper, and me.

Uncle Mickey laughed at my mother who stood twisting her hands on the beach, and said that he knew what he was doing, and “sure it would be no bother, they would hold the Ba tight, and she’d be grand, we were only going for a wee skite round the bay”.

Mum looked at me, snug as a bug on my sister’s stout knee, and let me go.

They did things differently in the '70s.

We hadn’t gone far from shore when a great big fish was spotted by my cousins, just under the surface of the water.

Huge excitement rose like a wave and tipped the laden boat quite sharply, and my sister shrieked and clutched the sides and let me go. 

In I fell with a plop, and “Oh sweet Jesus!” said my uncle. He almost scuppered the boat altogether, so great was his leap to the side to save me.

Imagine his astonishment when he looked down and saw me just under the prow, face down and moving my podgy little arms on the surface quite happily, kicking my fat little feet, knowing somehow not to inhale.

I was wearing my bright red coat, which had a hood that he hooked to haul me up and into the rocking boat again like some glorious catch to be cried over, hugged, rubbed, and kissed while I beamed and gurgled at all around me, delighted with my first swim and dripping everywhere.

I was a water baby from the start.

There is a growing interest in the theory that — at some time in pre-history — our ancestors evolved to be semi-aquatic animals, and that remnants of these marine adaptations persist in our biology and psychology today.

Remarkable physical changes that take place when humans enter the water, the instinctive reactions of very young children like myself to immersion, even the shape of our face and our features indicate that at some point in our development we were creatures living between land and sea.

To some, this may sound like nonsense. To others like myself, the truth of it is clear every time we enter the water.

On this island of ours, we are never far from the coast, and so the affinity with wave and tide is even stronger in the people here. The drive to be on it, or in it, or under it, is a constant undertow.

Scuba diving for a water fix

For many years now, I have taken my water-fix in the form of scuba-diving, getting deep down into the salty, freezing stuff and feeling the positive effects for days after each trip.

Of course, scuba is an extreme sport in a dangerous environment, and it is practiced by the most careful people in the world — or else they’re dead.

Our ancestors didn’t stay long enough by the water to develop a breathing system like the whale’s, so while we developed the ability to walk upright and a fatty layer under the skin to keep us warm when floating on the surface, the difficulty begins when we try to put our heads below the water and keep them there.

Like the seal, our heartbeat and metabolic rate do automatically slow on submersion — but to explore this alternate universe for any length of time we must bring our own breathing air with us in a great big tank strapped to our backs, our self-contained underwater breathing apparatus (scuba).

When you submerge in Irish waters, everything goes green. Yes, green.

Not light blue as you might expect. Not gin-clear as in the nature programmes, swarming with myriad fish, but green.

The stuff of life is contained in our temperate waters — the soup of nutrients that stock the world’s oceans.

Green and hazy. Often dark and murky, too.

On calm days there is an audible “thock” as the water closes over my head and I sink gently to the bottom, landing on my knees as if in prayer. 

A check of my gauges, and a squeeze of the inflator button on my jacket and I rise gently in the water. I’m flying.

This is the point in every dive at which I know my ancestors were creatures at home in the sea.

The heart audibly slows, and I can count its slackening beats in my ears. My circulation pools its resources in my core, which feels warm and buzzy, and my fingers fizz.

As I swim to greater depths, the increasing water pressure massages my soft insides, which compress without fuss, squeezing impurities from every cell. 

At 20m down, the brain enters a heavily meditative state. Fatty tissue is released into my bloodstream to absorb extra nitrogen taken on at depth, and it gives an energy buzz as a bonus.

I remember my forebears who, the theory has it, dived to great depths on a single breath in the hunt for food, and who learned this same thing about immersion. It feels fantastic, familiar, and transformative.

Teacher and visionary Alan Watt wrote: “You didn’t come into this world. You came out of it, like a wave from the ocean. You are not a stranger here.”

Those of us who stare at, sail on, bathe in, or dive into the great expanse of water will recognise that feeling of coming home, when we engage with the sea. 

The human body as a whole is the same density as water, which allows us to float, and the very liquid in our cells is comparable to sea-water in its mineral composition. 

The connection is clear, and the benefits of immersion becoming more widely accepted.

The water in my novel, Night Swimmers, is a place of redemption and transformation, too. 

The irascible protagonist, Grace, swims under the moon to deal with the loneliness of her solitary life. 

Tourist Evan faces death in the same waters, and realises his desire to survive, despite the tragedy that has befallen him. 

Rescued by Grace, an unlikely friendship grows between them — and sustains them both when the world stops in that strangest and most lonely of times, the covid-19 pandemic.

• Roisín Maguire is an award-winning writer of short fiction and holds an MA in Creative Writing from Queens University in Belfast. 
• Her debut novel Night Swimmers (Serpent’s Tail) is published this year