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“The choice is yours. Do we press on or turn back?” he asks, his tin whistle lilt rising with the beseeching tide. We are at the halfway point. The coastal town of Dalkey, 11 kilometers southeast of Dublin, is directly behind us. Dalkey Island is 300 meters in front of us. The February sea stretches out in between, wave after wave tripling the distance as each one amasses, peaks, then bares its teeth. I look at Robyn, the organizer of this unexpected excursion, nausea smearing itself in color and clamminess across her face. It was not the first risk we had taken that day. My initial birthday surprise had involved clambering into the back of a stranger’s large white Luton van. Offering his hand, our guide introduced himself as Rory, revealing a Celtic cross tattooed on his forearm. “Gear up while I ready the ‘yaks.” Jaw ajar, I searched for answers in Robyn’s pixie features. “You game?” she grinned, pulling down the concertina door behind us. The foot holes of the neoprene wetsuit were caked in silt. The material resisted manipulation, sensing hesitance in tight joints. I secured my life jacket. It cocooned and constricted me, trapping jittery energy underneath. I yanked the door up and the dulled cawing of gulls was amplified. Salt seasoned the air. The concrete walkway of Bullock Harbor trailed into a slick of black seaweed punctuated by clusters of mussel bouquets and hollow crab legs. We padded towards three kayaks dipping their noses in the shallows. Rory taught us to anchor our knees against the sides of the kayak for balance, to scoop deeply with our paddles for momentum. Unaware of our destination, I followed the others out of the harbor. We hugged the coastline, dodging rocks jutting out at angles, careful to avoid getting dragged into the open by the persuasive current. Once my shoulders had become fluent in repetitive strain, we veered to enter an inlet in single file, grazing the narrow granite opening. Our kayaks wavered like broken compass needles, prodding one another in the cramped space. “We’re halfway, but the 90° angle across to Dalkey Island is tough and unsheltered. The choice is yours. Do we press on or turn back?” Rory frowns, betraying an expectation of disappointment. Robyn’s gaze meets mine. Her peaky complexion is curdling. She reads the fatigue from my slumped posture. Through the granite opening, I see a sliver of the island and wonder at the majesty of its solitude. “You game?” I ask, cementing the fate of our baptism by fire. Muscles ablaze, the wind steals breath from my open mouth as I pant the final leg. Clipped to Rory’s kayak ahead, Robyn feels too far away. I begin to call out, but my kayak lurches sideways towards whiskers and a black nose protruding from the depths. Two dark eyes emerge. The waves quieten. Her streamlined form floats to the surface and she swims on her back, 10 meters away, fanning her gray fins towards me without breaking eye contact. I mirror her movements with my paddle. I look up and see that the others have their own attendant. I am lulled into the orbit of the island and, as the tide delivers me, she dives and disappears. Slicing temperatures numb my feet as I alight on the beach. This coast is all wilderness. Uninhabited. “Feeling any better?” I hand Robyn some water. “A little. That’s the graft of it I guess.” “I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I felt like the seal was trying to tell me something though. Did you know they’d be here?” “I was hoping,” she answers, smiling. “Happy Birthday.” “That’s how it works on Deiliginis,” Rory proclaims, dragging the kayaks onto the bank. “The sea washes up stories. The seals guide you in. St. Begnet’s is over the hill, named after the patron saint of the island. We’ll rest there.” We boulder upwards over oval pebbles onto mossy grass peppered with rabbit droppings. The rocks are aged with lichen and imbued with myth. A church greets us, ruined and roofless, open to the elements in praise of nature; a fitting setting to give thanks for where my body can take me.