The Martello towers in Ireland are small defensive forts built by the British in response to a threatened invasion by Napoleon Bonaparte at the beginning of the 19th century. Of the 153 towers built, perhaps the most famous is N.11 Sandycove alongside the Dublin Forty Foot cliffs where James Joyce once lived. There the opening scene of Joyce's Ulysses takes place, and the location is now home to the James Joyce Tower and Museum. The ground floor, originally the Sergeant's quarters, has been painstakingly converted into a Joycean Shrine, with original prints of Ulysses and handwritten letters adorning the walls. The second floor, fondly known as the round room, originally intended for 16 gunners, housed Joyce and his two friends. It is now a snapshot of his time there. His bed remains unmussed and his writing-table dusty. The black panther statue mentioned in Telemachus gazes upon tourists who climb the staircase alongside the room. 

When I visited the summer after my freshman year of college, I looked into Joyce's panther's eyes. His head seemed to turn towards us as we climbed up the ladder leading to the third story. The area was built for defensive fire, and my classmates and I took turns staring down the cannon's barrel. By that point, it had begun to drizzle, typical of an Irish summer, the wind swirled around us. The University had arranged a private tour for our group, so we were the only ones overlooking Sandycove's stormy scene. 

Dr. McDonald sat us in a circle to read our short stories aloud. Some were touching, others grotesque, and all were delivered with a shout to be heard over the rising howls of wind. By the time the last of us had finished, our hair was flying across our faces, and our voices were getting lost to the ocean below. 

It was like returning to a different world-- later, when we stood in the museum's parking lot, the wind was quieter; the rain not quite as heavy. 

McDonald pointed towards Dublin's Forty Foot cliffs, only yards away. "There," he said, "there people have been swimming for hundreds of years. 

The cliffs had once been home to a gentleman's only bathing place and swimming club. Due to its gendered history, the spot was briefly a nudist retreat until the '70s when activists for the women's liberation movement took the plunge. Since then, the cliffs have been a place where people have gathered to jump. 

McDonald left after that, citing that he would not be responsible for anything that was about to happen. He left us with the name of a pub where we would meet in 2 hours. There, he said, he'd be waiting with our first sips of Bailey's coffee.

Trekking towards the cliffs, we all climbed together once again. The bravest of us jumped without hesitation. Few people had brought changes of clothes or towels, and there was only one swimsuit between us eight girls. Passing it around like a muddy cigarette, we stretched the sopping fabric across every shape and size. Maddy, the first girl to whom the swimsuit belonged, squeezed her boyfriend's hand as they jumped in, her shriek disappearing into the wind.

By this point, the locals had joined us and were rushing to the edge, unburdened by our fear. 

When my turn came to go behind the rock outcropping and change into the wet swamp-green neoprene, I was covered in goosebumps and shaking like a leaf. The path from my enclosure to the edge of the cliff was slippery and rocky, and I saw a million scenes with my body bloody impaled on the rocks below flash before my eyes. 

Though I'd watched twenty people jump in front of me, I was still unsure whether the sea would release me unscathed.

I'm not going to lie; I had to be pushed.

And in the seconds between my feet leaving the ground and touching the ice-cold depths, my stomach leaped into my throat.

I screamed. 

The ocean rose up around me, trapping me in its whipping waters for the briefest of moments before I breached for air. "The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea," Joyce whispered into my ear. I was laughing. I was sobbing. Shivering as I tread water. Crying because I did it, laughing because I knew I would never do it again. 

When I swam back to shore to meet the damp towel that had been used by every girl before me, I could almost taste the Bailey's coffee Dr. McDonald had promised would be waiting at the pub. And I smile when I think of the cliffs, and of the coffee, and of the sea.

--Ella Cambell X Writer & Traveler