He hates the cold, but he’ll jump into the ocean every Saturday, no matter the weather. Ireland never goes arctic, but this January it’s cold enough to see his breath. Two nights ago it rained and he woke to find a thin layer of ice had coated the car. He’s in it now, the car. Heat blasting, trying for warmth so the freezing water won’t seem so crazy. He knows it’s crazy, imagines the other “dippers” know this, too—the Irish. They’re Irish, the others. They don’t sit baking in their cars like him. They don’t pump themselves up with music, no set of push-ups before leaving home. They pull up quietly, disrobe, and walk the sloped path right into the ocean—at high tide, it’s up to the retaining wall. Like stepping into their showers, they do this. He’s not sure if that makes them more crazy or less. He’s rarely the only one. Sometimes an active storm swoops in or high tide comes too late in the day, but there’s always a hardcore regular, or some nonswimmers enjoying the view from their cars.

          He feels alone, though. Especially weekends, when he doesn’t have work. And when the sun sets, shortly past four these days. And in his apartment complex, mostly unoccupied except in summer, when the town fills with bustle and life—and other Americans.

          They said he’d never move. Even when he told them he’d filed paperwork for the Irish Foreign Births Register. He was young, just back from a monthlong trip around the isle. With the girlfriend who’d become his wife. The wife who became mother to his son and daughter.

          The girlfriend enjoyed Ireland as much as he did and agreed to live there one day. The wife grew less sure once they acquired a house and dog. The mother called the venture a ridiculous idea to begin with. The last time he brought it up, their oldest had just turned ten. If they were going to make the move, he said, they should do it then, before the boy’s friends became the most important thing in his life.

          That wasn’t why they divorced, though. Like his cold-water swimming, he knew he was crazy for wanting to move to a place he had no connection to besides a grandfather who’d moved from Cork to New York as an infant. “No one does that. Not once they have kids and a job and need to be around family.” She was right, had always been the voice of reason. If only he’d been more attentive, hadn’t worked sixty-hour weeks. If she had not, as a result, found comfort in someone else, she’d still be talking him out of leasing a Jeep, booking a surfing vacation, ordering tilapia at IHOP.

          There’s no one here to talk him out of this. The thought draws a smile laced with pain. He’s glad to have sacrificed and knew her practicality came from a good place. It was a partnership. He loved her. He’d tried his best to keep her happy. But it wasn’t good enough.

          He turns off the ignition and removes his trainers and socks. Then sweatpants and layers of shirts. He piles them on the passenger seat and slips on flip-flops. His old swim trunks are marine blue, white trim, hemmed nearly at the knee. From when the kids were Disney age and he chose a neon-green pair from the men’s section of Target, the day before their flight. She’d handed him these blue trunks and put the green back on the rack because they looked ridiculous. Irish men love short shorts. Maybe not 1970s basketball player–length, but definitely north of mid-thigh. He’s self-conscious as he exits the car.

          “Hiya, it’s roasting, sure. Left the heat on for ya.” The old man’s a regular at the cove. Not out for a dip, he’s one who swims out to the horn and back. Greets everyone on the way back to his car. His shorts are nearly bikini bottoms, his pale skin beet red from the water. Steam streams from his shoulders, swimmer’s cap over white hair. He walks with the urgency of an overfed monarch.

          “Thank you kindly, Me-hall. What is this, Miami Beach?” There’s very little breeze. A rare thing this close to the water. In the sun, the task seems less imposing. He’s still warm from the car as he stands at the top of the concrete ramp.

          This is the hardest bit. Actually getting into the water. It’s a fight against every survival instinct, to do something that would kill him if he did it for too long.

          That’s why he can’t casually walk in like the others. On the ramp, he pauses before the calm water reaches his now-bare feet. He inhales deep, a belly breath. Tastes salt, seaweed, the cool ocean air. Another smile, this one less lonely.

          Until he looks down at his shorts and misses the wife—not who she is now, the woman with narrowed pupils and a drawn mouth that means business. But the beaming eyes and whole-faced smile he’d get coming home at day’s end. That warmth was genuine. He can’t remember when it was last meant for him.

          He gets a running start. In his youth, he’d do a cannonball. Now it’s more a lopsided pin drop, side of his right leg hitting the water first, followed by waist, right arm, and at last, his head. Eyes closed. Sounds muffle into oblivion, vibrations. His ears squeak. He stays under a few seconds and surfaces, breath shallow and frequent. Literally breathtaking, it clears the mind of anything but survival.

          The cold is all-consuming. He must move. He starts a breaststroke—not back to the ramp but toward the horizon. The cold, an enormous entity that scratches his skin with each movement. Not pain, exactly, but unbearable still. Small daggers from every direction, a thousand cuts. Ignore the sensation. Keep moving. Must.

          “. . . Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . .” He counts to sixty. Sometimes aloud, when no one’s near. One minute. That’s how long it takes. To go from utter discomfort to a euphoric numbness. The chance to think straight, to escape.

          “. . . Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . .” There’s a small island in the distance. It looks small, but large enough, he bets. Great, bare rocks—perhaps volcanic remnants. He’ll never make it but tries with each stroke. Up and down. Up and down. Keep moving.

          “. . . Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five . . .” Birds congregate on the island. Hundreds of gulls, hovering and landing and perching. Their squawks carry over the water. No—the squawks are from the near shore, the sea cliff visible out a ways, the edge of a farm. Farms at the beach! He still can’t get used to it.

          “. . . Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight . . .” The farms, the gulls, the rocks, the cliffs. The ancient, small streets. The pleasantries. The hiked-up shorts. The small cars. The rolling hills.

          They said he’d never do it, and look at him now!

          She’d never let him do this.

          Are you trying to get pneumonia!

          You finally lost it, you nut job!

          Is this the best example for the kids? We already can’t get them to wear a coat!

          No longer swimming but floating, his face almost dry in the sun’s winter rays. This time, his broad smile has no hard edge, no pain.

          It’s the highlight of his week. The ocean covers the muck and jagged stones of life, all the unpleasantry. It’s his high-water mark, this momentary numbness, mind focused on what’s before him. His breathing, regular again. No squawking, no bustle, no perch.

          He takes up the breaststroke again, to the island. Arms up and down. Up and down. No rush. The water’s brilliant, cut-glass shine. His muscles strain and burn in a good way. He’s almost warm. He turns to the sun, so bright he shuts his eyes. More warmth—he basks in it. What is this, Miami Beach?

          They went there once, before kids. Her body in a bikini, amazing. Arm in arm, strolling along the wet sand. A sense of pride. He has the hottest one—her tanned skin and silky wet curls. Her smile mirrors the sun.

          A gull cries overhead. It soars to the sea cliff and beyond, headed west. Same as home. Same direction she flew. To a lesser job, but closer to her parents, to where she grew up. Took the kids, they were looking at colleges anyway, would be out of the house soon. He could have relocated—his job was remote. Instead, he chose to go east. The business mouth and narrowed eyes grew tighter when he told her. Her words cut deep, even now.

          So you’re just leaving your kids? Great parenting. You and that place. What are you trying to prove?

          The sun has withdrawn behind clouds. He’s still numb but for one spot below his chin, sends chills along his body when it catches the breeze. The clouds are dark. It might rain. He’s farther out than he’s ever been. Hard to judge how far, but the rocks are closer, bird sounds coming from the island now. Quarter mile? Half? Could he make it after all?

          His smile blazes with defiance. A challenge! And who can stop him?

          Are you out of your mind? You’re not Michael Phelps.

          Do you want to lose a toe to frostbite?

          Do you see any other people swimming out there? Ever?

          He’s still not cold, quite the opposite. He’s swimming for real! Actual, freestyle strokes. Not Michael Phelps but not out of shape either. He could run for miles on land. What’s another few dozen yards?

          He’s not a deadbeat. He provides for the kids, though the wife remarried well—a retired fireman she knew as a child. His money wasn’t needed, but he gave it anyway. Even now, he pays their student loans, sends money around holidays. Calls them at least once a week. Sure, they don’t answer every time. Mostly they seem rushed to get back to whatever they’re doing. He gets it, was young once. Hopes they’re living it up. Swim for the island of your dreams, kids! Don’t look back! You’re invincible in your mid-twenties. He could’ve swum to Philadelphia.

          He can’t do that now. He feels his age, a deeper burning to each stroke. Has to turn his head after each to draw breath, compelled to slow down. The squawking grows louder over his breathing, but the rocks don’t seem close after all the effort. How long had he gone at it full tilt?

          He turns, looks back at the shore. Knows what he’ll see. The view is stunning. But distant! Far enough, he can’t make out individual people or cars. Even the sea cliff is far away. Fear bleeds into his grin. The warmth of exercise and early hypothermia might be wearing off. His mouth chatters, fingers and toes no longer warm. They burn.

          Could he make it back in time? He should be terrified. Still, he smiles.

          What would she say?

          You’ve frightened your wife. Are you happy now?

          Well, the kids are used to you being gone already, so . . .

          This whole idea was crazy to begin with. What are you trying to prove?

          It was never about what he was trying to prove. She never understood. It’s about being alive! Living and dying in the same town you grew up, spending thousands to vacation in sweating hot queues all day while your kids melt down, driving the best-selling minivan, owning a bi-level with a flat backyard in a boring suburb, wasting a Sunday in Target, eating pancakes in a pancake house—that’s what’s crazy! All chirping and no flying. Life should be a thrilling adventure or nothing at all. She was happy with nothing. Would always be.

          The smile on his face slides askew. So he’s alone. Alone in a quiet apartment with a doorbell he’s never heard. Alone on an island miles and so many years removed from her warmth. Alone at a beach next to farms. Alone in a vast, dark ocean, rain pelting his face. But still—Still!

          His drooping smile says he has something. The something she’ll never have. The something he never would have known if he didn’t actually do it. Something that can’t be taken away, not now. Even if he doesn’t make it back.

          The something that is certainly not nothing at all.