9th July 1981
They called it the secret beach – their secret, because it felt so private and undiscovered. Yesterday they had it entirely to themselves, on a squally unpredictable afternoon when clouds chased the sun and a wild wind whipped eddies of fine sand along the shoreline. They spun in its powerful gusts and fell over laughing, breathless and exhilarated. In a lull they built a magnificent castle, only for it to be beaten down by the tide. This thundered in so quickly they had to scramble to reach the cliff top.
He stands on the ledge now, looking down, shading the light from his eyes, trying to make out the handful of silhouettes paddling in the shallows, foraging in the rock pools. No one is swimming. Today is different. Although the sun is bright enough to dazzle there’s a chill in the air – similar to the chill that’s settled around his heart. The fear he knows he’d be unwise to dismiss.
He’s been looking for them everywhere. At first he pounded Dingle’s pavements, past the brightly coloured pubs with their Guinness-dark interiors, then along the harbour and the pier, as if they might be hiding under a tarpaulin or behind a stack of lobster pots. Although his hunt was fruitless, the rhythm of walking calmed him. He wouldn’t let the situation get the better of him: forbearance is his default setting. He climbed into the car and slowly cruised the back roads, eyes swivelling from side to side. When he swung towards the beach it was his last resort.
Perfectly secluded, Doonshean is a gift for those in the know. It’s much closer to Dingle than Ventry or Inch Strand – that long finger pointing across the bay where campers squat among the dunes. In the distance, he can make out the curious rock formation named The Foal, like an enchanted seahorse rising from the waves, another instance of the magic that haunts this spot. He takes in the drama of the scene: the folds of land like arms embracing the series of coves and the deceptive surface of the water, a deep twinkling blue. The sand has a silver sheen; the sky is a bolt of silk unfurled. The beauty of it draws him down the steep cobbled incline.
The cries of a child skim across the beach towards him. He can’t tell if they are cries of excitement or alarm. The breeze lifts the sounds into the air where they swirl in competition with the gulls. He’s not sure if the voice is familiar, but suddenly he is alert to danger and a sense of panic returns. He begins to move faster towards the slippery outcrop with its trove of shrimps and limpets and sea anemones, where the small figure is perched. He’s not close enough to make out facial features, but he can recognise a little boy in trouble. He curses the distance as he sees the boy lose his footing, windmill his arms and then, in appalling slow motion, topple from the rocks. There’s a splash, followed by a moment’s fraught silence.
He tugs off his shoes and runs. The sand is so firm his feet make no sound. He’s pulling his arms out of his jacket and abandoning that also. He’s aware of a frenzied yelling, voices wailing for help, figures jumping up and down in distress. Nobody else has gone after the child and there’s no head breaking through the foaming water, no sign of movement below the swell of the waves slapping the boulders. He increases his pace, fixated on rescue. This is his job: to save lives. This is a life he will save.
He plunges into the freezing ocean.