The Irish Sea Saga

19 July to 15 August 2006

We set off, three of us, in a well-stocked Mitigator, on the late afternoon of a glorious summer day, and sailed southwards from Holyhead, direction south coast of Ireland. Plan was to sail round the emerald isle, returning to Holyhead in about 4 weeks.
I took the first watch, from 10 p.m. to midnight. When all had grown almost dark, thunderstorms illuminated the horizon, great swathes of blinding golden light mixed with fork lighting, bright jagged slashes of five-fold branches, dashing down into the sea at the edge of the sky. Nothing else in sight, just this luminous spectacle for my enjoyment. Wasn’t scared at all. 

Afterwards I slept much of the journey to Kinsale, feeling a trifle drugged (from swallowing cinnazarine, stugeron). Kinsale was fun, a harbour full of life and dancing. Windy streets and lots of people.
Next day on to Baltimore. Then sailed further west and to Dingle, where we would drop off Luke.
In Dingle it turned grey and mizzly. Lots of tramping up hills and shopping and bidding farewell to Luke who bussed back to the airport and thence England.

David and I on our own now for a few days until we will be joined by Howard and Margaret. 
I recall lots of snippets of conversation with people in Dingle – they are so friendly; one family gave us some of their catch of mackerel – wouldn’t accept payment. I feel as if these folk are my kin – well, perhaps they are.

I steered the boat out of Dingle – there was a dancing dolphin close beside us as we left Dingle harbour – and round to Smerwick Bay. Most glorious sail (broad reach?), past the Blasket Islands, still and somewhat eerie with their dark jagged shapes emerging from the calm sea, white spray along the rocky edges. Stupendous cloud effects and beams of light streaming down in a fan of swathes from the west – the kind of thing that in a 19th-century seascape looks just too unbelievably unreal. But there it is. Jehovah is with you, and all that.

Soft wind from the south, and we gentled into a wide sheltering bay for the night.
David cooked supper underway – delicious meal with fresh mackerel he’d prepared that morning (present from the cheery-faced family in Dingle). 

Now writing backward from Saturday 29 July, rocking in Galway harbour while the mains’l is repaired (it tore as we entered a harbour on the Aran Isles) and there are gale warnings for small craft like us!

A dobbering day yesterday – scarcely any wind. I steered boat into Galway harbour (skilful at the helm!) and we tied up beside a French yacht (owned by a Mortissier-fan from Brest). He joined us for a glass of wine (cranberry juice for him). A very peaceful, companionable day. Good to be tucked safely in harbour, because the wind getting up – hums and sings and reverberates in the rigging. We sleep in the forepeak – less hassle with assembling and dismounting the bed, all in all more comfortable.

Galway: met Anja Valk from Harlingen, solitary sailor on Warber, her blue-hulled Vancouver, about 28 foot. Invited her to tea and apple tart (bought in splendid baker’s in Galway). We had supper with her later in Roundstone and Inishbofin, when H. & M. had joined us.

I’ve got a very sore muscle in my neck, left side – got chilly sailing out from Dingle. Then when I tense, which –  guess what –  I do from time to time on the big waves, it has got worse. We bought some Deep Heat salve in Boots. It doesn’t get better for a long time. It’s a nagging pain, makes me very tired, just want to lie with a good hard cushion wedged against my neck. Very annoying. I seem to sleep and lounge around, feeling slothful. We stocked up again in Galway, and had some good walks, and found an Internet café (first one was in Dingle) which is very useful for one’s sense of contact with the world out there (family and friends are what matter; one doesn’t need to hear the news, wars and rumours of wars and killings and terrors).

Not to forget – in Galway we came upon an astoundingly delicious baker’s, soda bread to die for – though indeed the one in Dingle would be hard to beat – small bakery where I found the best chocolate fudge cake EVER.

Sunday 6 August. Recovery day for Wendie. Cleaned up boat while the other 3 went ashore and had an evidently superb shower in hotel room in Inishbofin Bay. Talked to Anja (she dinghied over) who advised going ashore – stretch body, stretch mind, spirit or what-have-you. Good talk. But it’s not as simple as that – this boat holds so many memories for me, of fraught moments. It takes a long long time and many many dreams before all the tensions are relaxed. What does become very apparent to me is how greatly D and I have grown to understand and appreciate each other. And when I hear myself now making unnecessary objections (fearful forebodings) I can see how irritating that must be (even though I know why I’m doing this). Slowly I learn to say less; makes for soft quietness between people, soothes the hours.

I sat in the cockpit as we sailed out from Inishbofin to Killary loch – beautiful sail. I steered some of the way and David and I made a spectacular pick-up of the mooring – me doing a 180-degree turn into the wind, to bring the boat gently alongside the buoy which D. picked up first try. Impressive.

Swinging in the wind we rested and I baked a loaf of soda bread with sun-dried tomato pieces. Most excellent. Margaret made eye-rejoicing macaroni salad. Lovely weather all day apart from light mist as we left Inishbofin

Sat on deck and munched contentedly. A beautiful place this, at the head of a loch, flanked by steep hillsides, a short mile from the village of Leenane. One other boat on a nearby mooring but no one aboard. Great quietness.

7 August. Some reflections.
How being on the gently rocking waters aids meditation. I realize now – how could I have overlooked this? – have just been through a very stressful six months, dominated by Frances’s dying. She is very present in the boat, many memories of times she spent with us. And let me be clear – she was not a tranquil person; like her brother David, energetically driven, and one might perhaps say, obsessive. Not that it’s ever at all adequate to say a person is ‘like this’; that will not suffice. I prefer to tell stories about things we did together, recount the things we saw together, recall the things that were said. It heals gradually; the hurting inside me can be set free, unlocked, fingers opened, muscles let relax. Then look! the mauve and distant hills of Connemara, sunlight a silver stripe along the pewter shivering sea, a gannet swoops and glides, our small boat lilts upon the rinkling waves. All woes are brushed into the open sky, scattered onto the wind, shaken away, even if only for today.

It was Bank Holiday Monday in Leenane. A day of gentle undertakings. Leisurely breakfast on deck and then we dinghied ashore and walked into the village – a few shops and four pubs. Then followed the winding road to the head of the loch. Sat on a dry-stone wall and stared out across the mud flats towards the thin waters and watched sheep wandering across the far road (cars go slow) and herons wading in the sand-bank shallows.

Fine pub lunch in dim and ancient-smelling building (good homemade soup and soda bread). Back to Mitigator and shortly set off up the loch, under motor, little wind, I steered past many a mussel farm lining the loch’s banks. Margaret was navigator (witness photo with her holding dividers and looking pleased). Past some pretty impressive rocks, black teeth jutting out of the breaking surf, and then into a quiet harbour (Little Killarey Bay) with high mountain on the north side and wooded slope on the south, the trees emerging as it were from the water’s edge. Sun setting across the sea (in the west, just for fun). David made tasty supper, then he and Howard off in dinghy to try trout fishing in nearby lake(loch, lough)

Meandering Epilogue
This covers the period Monday 7 August to Monday 14 August. It was all fine sailing for them wot likes a hefty wave or two, absolutely no prob. I made the mistake, however, of not only using the heads but trying to flush them – I thought we were hove to, but actually we weren’t! Disastrous action. Became totally seasick, but couldn’t manage to vomit, oh utter misery, there is nothing so horrible, I want to be dead, I want to be anywhere else but in this bouncing banging boat, I groan, I sweat, I retch but no release. It seemed to stretch on interminably. But at last, the  quiet waters of the bay and we pick up a mooring bouy.

Margaret had steered for hours – she said it was the only way to prevent her from being seasick. Truly admirable (we were underway from 7.30 a.m. until 5.30 p.m., ten hours more or less, with a couple of heave-tos for reefing etc.).

Explained to the others at suppertime why I felt ‘op’ and didn’t think  I could face more days at sea at the present time. We’ve been away for 3 weeks now – seems twice that, can scarcely remember the first days. There have been some unforgettably powerful and imposing scenes. But maybe not enough quietness for me at this time, which is what I am needing right now. A little too much singing wind and surging sea.

Like Hopkins’ nun, I have desired to be
where no storms blow
and out of the swell of the sea.

After supper D and H pumped up dinghy and ashore to look at cluster of buildings on the banks of Elly Bay. I talked with Margaret about life and death and forgiveness. I need to learn about not squeezing time, give myself more quietness. Country walks, or dobber on water gently lapping. Not nag at the moments as they pass by; listen and watch.

Early next morning, D., H. and M. set off in the dinghy, H&M returning to UK.
I felt fine, tidied up boat and tried to recover a solid basis in myself, deep down there under the fearful depths. Had a very good day just pottering on the boat (on a mooring). We’re the only vessel in a wide bay, in the distance the town of Belmullet, our view low hills and to the west huge wide sky. Strong northerly winds continue. D. would like to sail further north but I am traumatized by fear of lashing waves. So we wait and spend Thursday aboard – in the bay it’s fairly still waters. I make a whole stack of  substantial pancakes, in lieu of bread. Plan set off Friday – but forecast still unpleasant – and 7 a.m. weather report gives small craft warning. I vomit (yes, literally) – it’s  probably result of ibuprofunon on empty stomach. D. is impressed (!). We have a long talk – about fear, about the inextricable unity of mind and body (fear, tenseness, vomiting…), and the wearying weight of sadness. Then we dinghy ashore and hitch lift into Belmullet (lift from Australian lady, adopted parents, father came from near Belmullet; she tells her story as we drive along; she is a teacher in Australia, has come back to Ireland in search of her roots – but will return to her job in Australia in a few months).

Belmullet is fun, small brightly-painted cottages and chatty people (I love them); a wedding tooters past, we do some shopping. Home-made soup and – yes, you guessed – soda bread in café and I gradually de-wooze and de-druggify (all that cinnazarine and ibuprofunon circulating inside me).

Into Internet café and spent hour connecting with outside world. Strange…
Bussed back to Elly Bay and had shower – joy and bliss – in the training centre (ISCA), and packed all our shopping and gear into the dinghy. Deflated it once on board, and plan northbound sail for next day. Weather forecast seems ok and I feel fine in the morning – but once sailing, unkind gusts bring back my fear – I ask D. if we couldn’t change plans and sail south (Killary Harbour is somewhere we could safely leave the boat). This of course did not make D. totally happy (!) but he was very noble and remembered his duty as skipper, i.e. to ensure the comfort and contentment of his crew. So we altered course and rounded Achill Head (awesome!) and found a lovely bay (Keem, Keel) where the waves were gentle. White sand and clear pale green water. Lots of people on the beach. And had cullen skink (smoked haddock) soup for supper deliciously prepared by D.

How hard it is to dissect and explain the quality and texture of one’s inner experience, to paint those swiftly-changing mental flashes; how capture the dream-like seconds that constitute one’s awareness, one’s sense of being, now, in the perpetually fleeting present.

I am so glad I stayed on Mitigator these last few days, because our final sailing trips were ideal, all troubles forgotten. On the last day, Sunday, we rippled into Rosmoney harbour, near Westport. There were quite a few yachts there, no people present, and we picked up a visitors’ mooring (well, actually not!) with stunning cool aplomb. All is quiet, save only the distant cows’ lowing, and soft rinkling of the lapping water. We sit on deck and finish the cullen skink – cold, most tasty, and salad and satisfying chunks of fruit cake. In the west the sun softly illuminates (back lighting) wafting clouds, and the diagonal lines of dinghy masts, pulled up on the hard, black against the opal sky. What tranquillity. Here’s where I have desired to be; this is what I came for. 

And I have to say, D and I have dialogued pretty well and I have hardly lost my temper at him, and he has listened to my meanderings, murmurings – and groans – much of the time. And I have realized yet again how wondrous it is that we two, with such different backgrounds, histories, approaches, nevertheless combine pretty well, and how astonishing a thing it is that people love one another; so that we/I do not cut the ropes and ship away to a world where there are no threatening billows and roaring gales. I continue to ponder about the sea and sailing, about why men continually cry, “I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky”, I sift through my previous conclusions about sailing, hugging my ambivalences. But am a little clearer than before, about what I can and cannot take; about my limitations and where I can explore – and about my findings and delights.

Manchester, Ascension Day, 2006