Around thirty six years ago, in the summer, when I was supposed to be studying for my college exams, and wasn’t, I headed off on a short camping holiday with some friends to Doolin in County Clare.
It was an anomaly, a beautiful warm June day when we got to Doolin and of course decided to cool down in O’Connors Bar, renowned at the time for the quality of traditional music played there by the Russell brothers.
I don’t think they were present that afternoon because, after a few cooling pints, we then decided to head for the beach, set up the tent and have a swim.

The fact that I had completely forgotten to pack swimming togs mattered not to me. I knew I was wearing a pair of particularly jazzy underpants, a present from my brother-in-law who ran an underwear factory in Dublin and I was confident that no-one could tell them from togs.
We got the tent up and tore down the beach for our swim.
I did notice (the glasses were of course off so I was in my usual state of blind myopia) that the people on the beach were making a lot of noise as I ran obliviously down the beach but, assuming that they were just admiring the unique beauty of the jazzy unders, I think I waved regally and proceeded into the waves.
There I was caught almost immediately by an undertow, dragged under, turned upside down, shook, partially drowned and then spat out on the beach breathless, waterlogged and totally naked.
The undertow had deprived me of my breath, my dignity and my undergarment.
I hadn’t a lot of options but to do the best I could with my hands in the way of modesty and run up the beach, past the now obviously laughing sunbathers, to the tent and privacy.

When I had recovered myself sufficiently to dare to leave the tent, this time wearing both clothes and glasses, I discovered that there were signs on the beach prohibiting swimming due to a dangerous undertow, that had been the message the people on the beach were trying to tell me.
I was I suppose lucky that the only injury was to my modesty.

Towards the end of the holiday we went walking some miles down the beach to the Burren-like rocks on the shoreline.
There a little flash of colour caught my eye.
There, weed encrusted and clung to a rock on the shore were the same, unique, jazzy knickers.
I rescued them and took them home and washed them.
I wore then for many years after.
I would love to say that they reminded me of my near escape and acted as a warning to me to get a little sense.
The truth is I just thought they were groovy.