It’s hard to believe it is 30 years since we were weather-bound on Tory Island. It was mid-August 1995 and a group of us from a less exposed island down the coast had decided to explore this outpost off Donegal. Part of the attraction was that it still boasted a monarchical regime whose king may not have worn a crown but boy could Patsy Dan Rodgers, the King of Tory, make music and talk the talk.
Of course, we had an anointed leader of our community with us too: The Priesht, who for the sake of diplomacy shall remain anonymous due to certain shenanigans on the deck of the boat on our return journey to Magheroarty.
The memory of that summer sojourn and the number of 16-hand reels and singing sessions until dawn came bouncing back during a recent rocky August voyage from Clare Island, my home for a time.
Ironically it happened to be on the same ferry, the Tormore, which was the Tory ferry in the mid-1990s but is now among the fleet of ferries servicing the Co Mayo island.
Missing in action: Renewed push to honour Finnish sailor who fought in the Easter Rising
High seas drama: Áine Ryan on a Tory Island ferry crossing she would rather forget
From predators of pests to a calm presence on warships, cats have done some service
Saving the best for last: How the Making In symposium left an indelible mark
It was two days after Storm Floris swept in across the horizon and the seas were still recovering from her wrath. No surprise that the unseasonable weather had caused campers to run for shelter, day-trippers to cancel their planned voyages, islanders to batten down the hatches and boatmen to tighten their ropes and check their anchorages.
It also ensured that this long-time nervous sailor was hyper-vigilant of the trajectory of the storm as I obsessively checked all the apps from Wind Guru to Magicseaweed and, of course, our very own Met Éireann.
Two days later I was armed in rain gear and a look of terror on my face as I boarded the ferry with the tail end of Floris still blowing gusts of up to 65km/h.
As always, in rough sea conditions, I am more than happy to make a holy show of myself. So on this occasion I sat inside the door of the cabin, threw my arms over the back of the seat in front of me, bent my head, closed my eyes and started box-breathing.
The journey from Clare Island to the mainland is usually about 30 minutes but on occasions when the sea is lumpy and the wind is belligerent, the wise skippers “tack” into the wind or run from it, meaning the voyage is a little longer.
Every 10 minutes or so I rose from my crouched position and peered out the porthole to check for the welcome sight of land. The relief was short-lived when I finally saw the outline of the cliffs which frame Roonagh.
Suddenly, our craft slowed down and drew to a halt. Apparently, there was swell rolling into the little harbour and another island ferry, the Clew Bay Queen, was inside tied up to the pier. For safety, we needed to wait outside until she exited.
Lord almighty but that was a long 15 minutes as the Tormore’s engines revved and screeched and rocked and rolled under the cliffs awaiting a safe passage inside to the pier.
To make matters worse, what do you think swam across my memory but the trauma of that very rough voyage from Tory?
Unlike Clare Island, with its big hill, An Cnoc Mór, Tory is low-lying, nine miles off the coast and has little shelter from the whims of the ocean.
[ Saving the best for last: How the Making In symposium left an indelible markOpens in new window ]
Back in August 1995 when the winds suddenly blew up and word spread about the ferry being cancelled, we gave little thought to it. The craic was too good. There was another night of madness to be enjoyed.
However, when bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived the following morning we were told the Tormore would be departing for the mainland an hour later, it was a whole different story.
Ironically, it was us islanders who were the worst passengers. Being seasoned sailors, it must have been the experience of an ocean which appeared to have a very different modus operandi when attacking our northern coastline with strong winds. Certainly the other tourists who knew little about the Atlantic’s vagaries appeared more sane than our gang.
Turns out it wasn’t a very good idea for The Priesht to have indulged in a full Irish breakfast. Half way across he provided an entertaining spectacle of kneeling on the deck, vomiting into a bucket while one of our group threw a towel over his head, for modesty’s sake.
Every now and then he’d peep out from under his cowl and cause much mirth, shouting: “Well, that’s the fried egg” and “Here comes the black pudding.”
Three decades later with my stomach hovering in my throat, my sense of relief was visceral as our ferry turned into the pier and the crew tied its ropes.
Afterwards, I stood overlooking the pier and watched the Tormore bounce back out of the harbour with her new load of passengers. This sturdy craft has carried islanders and visitors along the wild west coast in all sorts of weather but for this seafarer the Beaufort scale must be in a benevolent mood with high pressure dominating and I don’t mean my heart rate.
