Róisín Ingle: I had low expectations for skinny dipping but the absence of togs was transformative

The first time I went skinny dipping was in the waters of Atsitsa Bay on the Greek island of Skyros. It was years ago, before children, back when booking a holiday was pure, straightforward self-indulgence. We’d simply imagine the holiday we wanted and then we’d make it happen. As a couple, we were, we still are, chalk and cheese. He’s the White Cliffs of Dover. I’m pure Camembert. That being said, we always gravitated towards the same escapes.

That escape was rarely a fortnight somewhere hot and all-inclusive with sun loungers and cocktails and paper umbrellas – not that I am against any of those things. But before we had children we craved something else: a Buddhist pilgrimage in France or a 10-day sleeping meditation retreat in the Spanish Pyrenees or a place where your holiday comes with a dollop of self-care. Our holidays on Skyros were not about sunbathing. Instead, you’d skinny dip at midnight with strangers and by day you’d take part in courses called Slay Your Dragons With Compassion or Unlock Your Inner Fool With Comedy (and Ukulele).

Moonlight shone on Atsitsa Bay that night, I remember. The air was warm and, crucially, apart from the lunar lamp, it was too dark to see much. The other people in our group were mostly English, beach pebbles crunching under their feet, nervous giggles wafting on the soft breeze. We left our clothes on the rocks and picked our way over to meet the darkly shimmering water.

[ How and why to sea swim: walk in slowly wetting your shoulders, if you like ]

I had the lowest of expectations. What difference would a lack of togs make? But the sea felt like velvet on my body, I remember. The absence of togs was transformative, like taking off a mask you didn’t know you’d been wearing. I’ve always been conscious of my body, worried that the size of it might offend. As a larger person I had learnt that lesson early, coming of age in an era long before Lizzo. In the dark you can’t cause offence, I reasoned back in Atsitsa Bay, the salt water wrapping around me like a generous kimono. The skinny in skinny dipping does not refer to body size, I’ve only just discovered that. It’s a nod to skin. The skin we’re swimming in. We embraced in the sea that night. The chalk and the cheese. We were last out of the water.

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The second time we went skinny dipping was on a recent holiday in West Cork, two decades later. I was thinking on the drive down, how lucky we were. To have friends with friends who let us share their holiday home for a while, to have chosen those weeks of glorious weather for our trip, how flipping jammy.

The trick, you see, is to go on holidays with people who have children the same age as yours

Near Bantry, my boyfriend went into a West Cork convenience store for some extra supplies of factor 50 sun cream. (I’ll be 52 next birthday but I’ve reverted back to saying boyfriend, until we put on a ring on it anyway, if we ever get around to that.) My boyfriend came out laughing from the shop, saying he’d heard shockingly few Cork accents in the shop. “It sounded like Ranelagh in there,” he said.

It was a holiday for the annals. The trick, you see, is to go on holidays with people who have children the same age as yours so you can read or lie in a hammock, listening to the younger people bouncing happily on a trampoline, or running around making mischief and memories. The adults played so much al fresco scrabble, we felt sort of dirty and then we kept on playing. The chef in our party cooked meals to rhapsodise over. The sea was at the bottom of the garden. The skies stayed blue. It was the Amalfi Coast or it was the Côte d’Azur or it was Ballylickey, it was hard to tell.

[ The sea is unusually warm off Irish coasts. We should be worried ]

Each morning, my boyfriend and I got up before the teenagers stirred and went down the steps to the small stone pier, a rare private place. We walked along the short pier in high tide, sea up to our chests, and swam without our togs. We chatted in the water. About everything and nothing. We swam out to a buoy. Somehow I swam faster. “Wait for me,” he said, nervous at how far out we were going and worried about making it back.

You might decide to leave a relationship for many reasons. And many do. Or, you might stay and discover something deeper on the other side

In the water, naked, I could see him clearly. And myself. He puts up with a lot. It’s 23 years next month of putting up with a lot on both sides. Sometimes you can’t and should not put up with stuff in a relationship, if it’s dangerous or damaging. But the other stuff? You’re wrecking my head. I want to be on my own. I’m sick of this. I’ve had enough. I just can’t. You might decide to leave a relationship for many reasons. And many do. Or, you might stay and discover something deeper on the other side. You could swim with no clothes on to a buoy with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend. The person who buoys you. Buoyfriend.

Back home a week later, still sunkissed, we lay on our bed holding hands. I was crying as I told my boyfriend how it’s taken me 23 summers to realise that one of the reasons we are together is because we both find life challenging in similar ways. Which could be a disaster when trying to build a life, raise children, keep things on an even keel. And sometimes it is a sort of disaster, it’s true, but on the other side is peace and understanding and, if you are lucky to have friends who have friends that own a rare private place, sometimes it’s skinny dipping, in the early morning sunshine, starkers in the sea in the broadest daylight.

[ Róisín Ingle: To make a change in your life, you have to get out of your own way ]

He puts up with a lot. He sees past all the noise into the heart of me, the heart of us. If I’d thrown in the towel, if I’d walked away, I’d never have had the privilege of finding this out. Never have discovered the beauty of our own private, happy place. Swimming naked as the day we were born in a bay, my buoyfriend and I. Chalk and cheese. With nothing to hide. Not any more.