After the shocking weather of the previous week it would have been reasonable to expect heavy seas. Perversely, day after day was now fine and the sea quite calm. The rhythm of a new life became established. We would leave port about an hour before sundown, the boat driven by a powerful diesel engine. Looking back toward the land, the whole bay would seem to be overflowing, like a blue basin filled to the rim.
So we would throb our way out toward the great glowing red ball that hung low in the western sky. I would look assiduously for the “green flash” at the last moment of the declining sun, but never with certain success. Then would come the casting of the net and the inspection of lobster pots. Strange that our modern industrial civilization seems to have contributed so little to the technique of fishing. The locomotion of the boat is modern, of course, but the actual method of fishing is unchanged.
During the night we would cook some succulent fish, or a lobster, which we would wash down with mugs of tea, our digestions being good. After dawn the net would be taken in, and the fish sorted into boxes during the journey back to port. Back at the jetty would come the handling of the boxes on the quay and into a waiting lorry. And on occasion the net would have to be mended, an art in which I was instructed by Slugeamus. I don’t think that I could ever match the deft swiftness of his fingers, even if I were to practice for a generation.
But it was easy to see how the method of handling the boxes might be improved. It seemed possible to mount a temporary derrick on one of the masts, and then to use a pulley block to lift the boxes directly from the hold of the boat onto the back of the lorry. I mentioned the idea to Mike O’Dwyer.
“Aye, that’s the way of the Picts. But how would it be worth while with a catch as small as ours?”
“But there’s every reason to be thinking of increasing your catch now that there’s no lack of a market.”
“And that’s true enough,” he agreed.
It came about that there was never any opportunity to put this idea into practice, however. One day Mike showed me a small motorboat about ten feet long, well designed to avoid flooding of the engine by breaking waves. I concealed my curiosity as to where the new boat had come from, for I had no real doubt that it was a peace offering from Colquhoun. Without unnecessary discussion I spent a couple of afternoons taking down and reassembling the motor. Although I would have dearly liked to make a few trips into the bay, it would have been manifestly foolish to advertise either the boat or myself unduly.
Shortly afterward we had news on the radio of heavy weather blowing up from the southwest. There were only three other boats that put out along with us on the fateful night. The rain was falling and the quay was almost deserted, so that Mike decided very simply to tow the little craft behind us. Even so it did not entirely escape notice. A jibe from another crew was met by Slugeamus.
“What should it be, me bhoy, but our lifeboat?”
I hoped that he had the rights of the matter.
Our plan was simple. A glance at any map of Kerry will show that a boat may be taken well into Dingle Bay without ever coming within five miles of the shore. Somewhere south of Dingle the motorboat would be released, and I would head on a northeast course, using the sea and the wind to set me on the northern shore of the bay, a shore mainly without cliffs.
The trip was a very long one for O’Dwyer, almost one hundred miles each way. Reckoning on a maximum speed of twelve knots, this meant at least sixteen hours of continuous pounding, even if the weather got no worse. It meant that he couldn’t hope to regain the shelter of Kilkee harbor until ten or eleven the following morning. I mention this to exonerate O’Dwyer from all reasonable blame for the events that were to follow.
The weather worsened. We were now south of the Shannon, somewhere on ten miles to the seaward of Kerry Head. It was a difficult decision. Should we turn back, or should we go on, now that we were so close? We decided to go on, O’Dwyer declaring that he would have the sea and wind with him on the return—and if a storm should be blowing up he would run for Dingle. The crew would then of course be arrested, but on a fair claim of bad weather he would surely be eventually escorted back to waters north of the Shannon. In the latter case I would leave the trawler and head for the south side of Dingle Bay.
About three in the morning O’Dwyer at last decided that the moment of parting had arrived. He also declared that he would attempt to return by the way we had come. Slugeamus put a wet arm around me. “Let’s hope we won’t be weeping for you,” he shouted.
The sea was heaving most unpleasantly. We pulled the little motorboat in as near as we dared. By the light of an electric torch it seemed nearly impossible to board her. One moment she lay in the trough of a wave, the next halfway up the trawler’s side. But this was the moment I had been asking for, so there was no use fussing. The thing to do was to jump when the boat was at its highest.
I tied a rope about my waist in the fashion of a mountaineer—I did not wish to be too encumbered by a life belt. O’Dwyer was at the wheel, attempting to keep the best distance between the trawler and the motorboat. So I gave the rope to Slugeamus, making sure that there was the right amount of slack. Then I stood, flashlight in hand, watching the boat coming up, down, up, down, up again for the last time, and I jumped. Painfully I moved my arms and legs in turn to make sure that I was only bruised.
As soon as they saw I was safely in and able to move, O’Dwyer allowed the distance between the craft to increase, but he didn’t give the order to cast off until I had the engine started, which in my cold, numbed state took quite a while.
The little vessel bobbed like a cork. No radar could detect me, at least that much was quite certain. It was essential to run the engine slowly, so I concentrated simply on maintaining direction—the gathering storm from the southwest would drive me in, for I felt sure now that a storm was coming.
I steered by compass pretty well to the north, rather than to the northeast, since I felt that the sooner I got away from the middle of Dingle Bay the better. There can be no doubt that I owe my life to this slight change of plan.
No words can describe the stark horror that can be compressed into a single moment of time, so I shall not attempt any gaudy description. The plain facts are that I was cold, bruised, soaked to the skin, sick from the motion of the boat, when after an hour or more I heard above the wind the sound of waves breaking ahead. Nor was it the sound of waves breaking on a beach, but the roar of great waves hitting the base of a high cliff.
There was nothing to be done but to turn about and to give the engine full throttle. With the thought that O’Dwyer had taken me too far in and that I must be somewhere in the region of Anascaul, I turned to the west. Now I was side-on to the waves and it was only a question of time before the engine would be swamped.
With the feeling that all was surely finished, and that O’Dwyer had given me fair warning, I now concentrated only on finding calmer water and on keeping away from the cliffs. I suddenly realized to my surprise that the engine was still firing and that the motion of the boat was distinctly less. Checking on my compass I found I was heading south-southwest, out to sea again! I was too confused to perceive the true explanation of this singular situation. I knew only that every minute was carrying me into calmer water.
The night was intensely black and I had no warning, except perhaps the clearer note of the engine. The boat struck hard against a rock. I was too shaken to make a move, and it wasn’t until the heaving sea had taken the vessel off and then impaled it for a second time that I made a frenzied leap for safety. I kicked furiously, banged my knees and tore my nails, and at last found myself on a rock ledge with the water sucking below.
Slowly I edged up the rocky wall. If I could climb ten feet or more I might be safe from a rising tide. Soon I found myself crawling rather than climbing, A few moments later I felt grass under my hands. Evidently I had reached the flat top of some small rocky outcrop. I continued to crawl until the noise of the sea became muffled. Then I lay down, exhausted, to wait for dawn.
Dawn came. I saw a long rising stretch of grass to the south. Shivering violently, I went cautiously back to the sea. The apparently steep cliff resolved itself into a very easy climb, for the boat had crashed into a comparatively shelving, rocky bay.
Slowly I trudged lip the turf, and as I did so I came more and more out of shelter into a driving wind. The storm was still blowing, still blowing out of the southwest.
With the strengthening light the explanation of the night’s events became obvious—I could see cliffs rearing high into low clouds, three or four miles away to the northeast. They were the cliffs of the island of Great Blasket. O’Dwyer had been more delayed by the wind and sea than he realized and had started me, not south of Dingle at all, but a full ten miles farther to seaward. And I was now on the low flat island of Inishvickillane. It was clear why I.C.E. had discontinued the lighthouse on the Tearaght. Had it been working we should never have made this mistake.
Feeling that somewhere I had heard of a similar situation, I began to explore the island. It was maybe three-quarters of an hour later—but it seemed longer—when at last I found a quite substantial house. I walked toward it, gloomily realizing that although I had got myself successfully beyond the barrier, my position was completely hopeless. Then I remembered it was in Stevenson’s
Kidnapped
that David Balfour had simply been able to walk off Earraid when the tide went down. But there would be no walking off Inishvickillane. My boat was a wreck, and I must give myself up, right at the beginning. I was “run out” without receiving a single ball.
11. The Cliffs Of Inishtooskert
It was pointless to struggle further, cold, wet and hungry. I might as well give myself up immediately, I thought, as I walked up the winding path to the stone house. Whoever lived there wasn’t going to enjoy being wakened at this early hour, but this was clearly the occasion to be hanged for the sheep rather than the lamb.
In response to my hullabaloo, the door was opened by a sleepy-eyed, middle-aged fellow in a dressing gown. I suppose I had expected to find a local small farmer, tending a flock of sheep with a little fishing as a side line, and the story I had prepared was designed for the consumption of such a person. It was accordingly very disturbing to hear an American voice say: “Where the hell are you from?”
“Oh, I’m more or less an ordinary devil washed up by the sea.”
“Well, in that case come inside. But how did you get here?”
“From the sea, as I’ve just said.”
“But for God’s sake, you don’t mean you were shipwrecked on a night like this?”
“There’s no other way I’d be standing here. Our boat went down.”
“How many of you are there, for heaven’s sake?”
“Two others drowned in the sea, I’m thinking.”
My manner must have been suitably grave, for in truth I was seriously worried about Mike and Slugeamus. The great thing was that they could always stand in behind Brandon Head. This would give shelter from the southwest, so that the odds would be in their favor.
“Well, we must look for ’em without delay.”
“And what would I have been doing this hour past but looking for me friends?”
The man left me for a moment to return with a dressing gown. “Take this robe. The bathroom is the second door to the right. When you’re through, come into this passage. It leads straight to the kitchen.”
With muttered thanks I did just as he advised. It was a terrific relief to get off my salt-drenched clothes. I had to run the water quite cool at first to avoid smarting. At length, feeling very tired but very much better, I returned to the kitchen, wrapped in the dressing gown and carrying my dripping things. There was the smell of frying bacon.
“I’ve got an air search started. There’s no reason to give up hope yet.”
This was a nuisance, for I had no wish for Mike to be spotted. Several things were clear. From the excellent fitments in the bathroom and kitchen this was no farmhouse. Rather was it a farmhouse converted into a luxury residence. Plainly I had stumbled on a comparatively influential person, as I could judge from his last remark. Equally plainly, my story would sound painfully thin, but I was sufficiently exhausted to be past caring.
As I ate ravenously, the fellow looked me over curiously. “I’m baffled to understand how you came to be at sea,” he said. “Where are you from?”
“Kilkee.”
This shook him, as I expected it would. “But that’s fifty miles outside the area! How did you ever get yourself as much lost as this? Boy, you’re in the wrong ball park!”
“Poaching.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t get it.”
“The best sole on the coast is to be found in Dingle Bay. When the weather’s bad, but not too bad, we often come down here to get what we can. It doesn’t pay really, but it’s a sport with all us fishermen outside the barrier.”
“You weren’t expecting this storm, I suppose.”
“No, sir. The reports were of a choppy sea and a strong breeze, but no storm.”
“All this is news to me.”
I had no doubt at all of this. It was a preposterous story, but my presence there at least gave it some slight substance. If this amiable fellow didn’t like it he was welcome to think up a better one for himself. The true explanation looked preposterous too.
My host produced a pair of pajamas and showed me to a bedroom as soon as I had finished breakfast. It was now about 6:30 A.M. I tumbled into bed and fell asleep.
It was dark when I awoke. With the light switched on, I found that clothes—not my own—had been put in the room while I slept, and also a razor, soap and toothbrush. By the time I was ready to go downstairs I looked reasonably respectable, pretty well for the first time in the last two months, in fact since I left Dublin.