Ruth Fitzmaurice: I found my tribe at the cove in Greystones

Some people took over our cove one day, a group of tourists who announced they were jumping in with their clothes on. I stared at this lady in horror with her big winter coat and remembered I had thought of jumping in myself not so long ago. But this was no tragic, stones-in-her- pockets, Emily Dickinson endeavour. They were whooping and laughing.

“Are they drunk?” I muttered to my swimming friend.

“No, I think they’re just American,” she said honestly, and we both got a fit of the giggles.

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