IN THE FIRST WEEK OF MAY, BEFORE THE WATER IN Galway Bay changed to a mild summer blue, Eric Hartman and John Berry drove to Jim’s house and announced that they had gone swimming that morning, at eight o’clock, by the diving tower at the end of the promenade in Salthill. The three men had grown up together and still lived in the same town, though in recent years Jim had seen them less, or as they put it, they had seen less of Jim.

It was still early morning and Jim walked the kitchen in pyjamas and crooked glasses, bringing cups of tea to the white table.

Eric said, You should come with us, make it three.

John said, Yes, the water’s cold, the concrete is cold, but once you’re in the water it’s not too bad.

They said nothing more as Jim sat with his cup. He scratched the hair that still felt for the pillow he hurried from when he heard the doorbell. It had been five or six weeks since he’d seen either of them. This was the way with even boyhood friends: sooner or later another life always comes with its bags, even in the late years.

Jim said, I’m not a man for cold water, but I heard the bay is warmer in January than summer, with the Gulf Stream from Mexico.

Eric said, Always the man for facts. Are you up for it then?

Jim looked at the floor between his feet and saw the tower. It was a cold place, the tower and the concrete shelter at the end of the promenade, completely open to the elements, completely without comfort in the face of the strong wind off the bay. And that solitary journey to a cold dunk in the frigid water drew solitary people to it every morning. As a child he watched the old bony swimmers leap into the water and swim around the base of the tower and run shivering for the towels they draped on the railings. One man used to leap straight from the sea onto his black bike, cycling home instead to change, stopping wet on the way to buy a newspaper. Perhaps all those memories made him want to agree to go with them, or perhaps the recent loneliness that visited him in the mornings had taken to staying a little longer by the week.

And so it came to pass that at eight in the morning, four times a week through the summer and well into autumn, the three of them swam in the waters of the Atlantic, fast pink arms in the churn of the dark seas.

Today Jim had come twenty minutes early. The water was slate grey and a blustery wind seemed to push the sunlight off the boulders that ringed the tower. He had not slept well, and as he drove along the seaside he saw rain showers blowing in from the Aran Islands and knew he did not want to wait for the other two. The routine had taken over the excitement, he understood that, but lately their conversation shared the same fate as the time trapped in his watch, it always came around to a point where it used to be. He parked his car farther down the promenade than usual and walked the extra distance to warm himself. Because the November sunrise had found the clear part of the sky, he wanted to swim while the sun could shine on his skin, even a sun without heat, any sun, because this time of year was unforgiving: you ran in and got the thing done. But if he kept coming, doing this, perhaps by spring he would feel differently.

He undressed down to the swimming trunks he wore underneath and picked his way on flat feet across the stones to the water, found a patch free of seaweed, bent at the knees, and launched himself. The cold clamped him at the head and the chest and dragged ice along his body as he entered fully the green silence, opening his eyes to the salt and the waving seaweed, the fat tendrils’ ballet in a slow current. He thrashed his arms, twisted his neck, rose to the surface and kicked his legs until a seed of heat burned at the numbness. He made a tight circle around the tower and hauled himself onto a rock, gasping and saying incomprehensible things just to ward off the brutal chill. A gust sliced spray off the rocks after him as he grabbed his bag and ran to the shelter to change. He placed firmly in his mind the dry promise of the towel, the second sun gleaming from the dashboard in the car on the way home, the hot shower of water from pipes.

Inside the shelter, he took the towel and entered the only cubicle even though he was the only one there. Jim liked the ounce of privacy. He wrapped the ends of the towel in his fists and see-sawed it along his back with his toes curled off the damp concrete, dabbed his chest and legs, noticed the strings of blue veins under the skin. He threw the towel down and reached for the underpants. That was the good thing about the harsh concrete of this place: you didn’t want to hang about and think.

He was drying his feet when he heard his name spoken at the door of the shelter.

Remember what Jim said – last July, was it?

What did he say?

Jim smiled as he recognised the voices of his friends. He dredged the toes of his left foot with the towel.

John said, Don’t say anything, is that Jim’s car parked outside?

I’ll look, Eric said. No, he’s not there.

Jim had a hand on the cubicle door to push it open and tell them he had beaten them to the swim, but then John shouted, Listen, today is going to be the best day of our lives!

Eric laughed, Will you keep it down, will you? He could be along any second.

Jim stopped. Was that something he had said once? He said that once. He should put his trousers on first before leaving the cubicle.

I mean, John said, he’s out there on the rocks and says that to us about the best day of our lives. What was that all about?

I could hardly stop myself from laughing out loud, Eric said. He stands in his wet trunks with his arms up in the air and says, ‘Look at the clear water, the sun in the clouds’, and then he says—

Don’t—

‘Christ, lads, isn’t it great to be alive!’

Inside the cubicle Jim pulled his trousers on. The rest of his clothes were in the plastic shopping bag outside the cubicle. He couldn’t very well walk out now to get his shirt and socks. His friends were talking about him, and they would be embarrassed. He would be embarrassed.

John got his breath back. I felt like saying, ‘The best day? We’re going swimming, Jim. What are you doing?’

I wouldn’t mind but he’s the one who got winded, Eric said, tried to go out a hundred yards and ends up floundering. Lucky the man didn’t get blown out to sea altogether. Thinks he’s still a young fellow.

Inside the cubicle, Jim smiled. They were talking about him behind his back, and he was listening behind theirs. He’d wait another minute before springing the surprise. They’d all laugh about it later in the bar, a little friendly elbowing. How many get to hear what their friends say about them?

As he waited, carefully silent in the cubicle, Jim remembered that day of his extra-long swim: it was midsummer and he felt brave enough to explore, to go farther, stretch the circle out in a wider radius to the bigger waves and be helpless and brave in all that water. He was tired of the same path his friends dug out of the waves to follow. It was something he decided at the moment he dove in and so could not tell the others, who always swam as a pair a little behind him. He took a left turn and in two minutes was already far enough out that the tower had shrunk by two or three inches and his friends were half the size. It was more than he bargained for. How tired he got! He didn’t say anything at first, but when the cramp tugged at his calf, he wanted to call out to the others, but they might laugh at him or not notice the call coming from an unexpected place, so far to their left where no one ever swam, and so he trod water to get his breath and watched his friends circle the tower and pick themselves out of the sea. Then he felt the first tug of a different current push him out a few inches more, an indifferent hand pushing him out into the open and anonymous sea and beyond the magnet of the tower. The terror of those inches! The sea yawned under him. He kicked and thrashed his way parallel to the shore until the tugging stopped and he was able to head for the beach, coming from the waves fifty yards down shore. He wound his way back to the shelter along the sharp rocks in the surge of sun and the relief that he was on dry ground, and when he reached the tower, his friends were already in the shelter, but his relief had turned into joy. He stood on the flat lukewarm stone, and that was when he shouted that today would be the best day of their lives, that it was great to be alive after all.

Jim buttoned his trousers. Outside the cubicle, his friends were not finished with him.

Eric said, Ever think Jim was a little, you know, off?

As in?

Don’t know really. Off.

Daft? John said.

Eric said, Daft. Good daft, I mean.

No wonder his wife—

Wait. I want to hear, but check again first.

Jim moved away from the door. No wonder his wife what? He hung the towel at his shoulders.

Eric’s voice sounded again after footsteps: Nothing. He’s late today. Maybe he’s not coming.

We better get in and swim, looks dark out in the bay.

Jim heard bags rustle and shoes thud as they undressed. If he opened the door now, he would mortify his two friends. At this point he would gladly have taken the embarrassment he passed on previously. Best to wait until they left the shelter for the swim and then to get his bag, dress quickly, go outside and wave at them as if he’d just arrived. Two swims...