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The air is stuffy and hot as we slip through the door of this hut, a rush of chatter greeting us as we take our seats along a long wooden bench, not far from Silverstrand Beach, in Galway. We aren’t there long before a stranger leans over — “Where are you from?” he asks.

Soon, we’re in the midst of riotous noise. One patron recounts a failed fishing expedition the day before; another is tenderized from celebrating a 60th birthday. Soon, we’re all debating a central question: Which county will win the All-Ireland Gaelic Football Championship? (Soon, a local star — a player on Galway’s team — trots in. Admiring his fitness, the men in the corner issue a verdict: We’re winning it next year.)

Is this another Irish pub story? You’d be forgiven for thinking so. But it’s Sunday morning, we’re hardly clothed, and one by one, we rise from the bench and throw ourselves into the sea.