I remember them from White Strand, September 2009, when we called them 'Botox jellies'. They have the green of dirty jade, they're tiny, a bit like baby mushrooms and have disproportionally long tentacles. And they come by the dozen and are outnumberingly unavoidable.
In the knick between Dusty's rostrum and melon you can distinguish a Botox jelly.
I hadn't swum with Dusty since July 21st on account of Dusty's retaliations to abuse and ignorance. But it was over two months and with eight people in the water, now it was my turn again.
I half expected Dusty to come over soon after I was waterborne, but she didn't. All the better. I swiftly winged to the Donkey, crossed over to Crab Island and dove for two stones. She must have been close, as she arrived at the first click. I had the heart not to turn the camera on right away. This was a private jubilation.
Due to good weather the Galway pod travels out to the ocean and I first figured they had met Dusty. She bore multiple teeth markings, concentrated closely on the right side of her back, behind her eye. But they are not 'rakes'. Dolphin's teeth are much closer together. They were not made by sharks either, that would have ripped her skin. Unlikely it was a sperm whale, they don't have dolphin on their menu. Orcas perhaps? Susanne Magee of Dolphinwatch Carrigaholt offered 'Pilot Whales'.
Dusty's always in for a new game, but she does appreciate my standard repertoire. Wether I dive under her or she swims over me, she gets a full blast of my breath, a bubble tickle. I do a finger drum on the waterwing and rattle my fingers along the knobby ridge. And we do a bit of hanging.
Each time she disappears in the haze I resume my course towards the south point. And each time she reappears in short fly-bys. There is a bit of a surf hitting the south-west of Crab and I see Dusty catching a wave, shooting by. The long kelps are lashing to and fro. I try a shortcut through the milling shallows, then I meet blinding white water and resume the roundabout route.
I'm on my own now and the jellies begin to matter. Their reminder goes on itching between my fingers for the whole weekend. But back at the Donkey the water is rid of them. It's always nice when, after crossing the deep blue, I can see the seabed again. It's a visual foothold and a place to go. I navigate back to the harbour. There are quite a few people on the pier and a rib has just arrived at the foot of the slipway.
Dusty does a slomo and we circle together. Then I spot a tire on the bottom, two actually. I lift one to the surface and take it up the slipway. There I let it roll down on its own till it falls over. Dusty seems more interested in me than in the tire. The invention of the wheel carries no weight under water.
Then a crew man from the rib enters the water. I'm off, no blood on my hands. There's a lot of seaweed washed up on the beach and I'm tired after nearly two hours. No sugar nor milk in my coffee, no speakers to play Tull. Then my Dialysis alarm goes off. I drain, flush and lay me down for just a minute. An hour and a half later I wake up. Was it all a dream? Ixnay, watch the footage!