Atlantic Britain: The Story of the Sea a Man and a Ship. Adam Nicolson
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For the first time now it was shrieking in the rigging. We had no instruments to measure it, but George reckoned thirty-five knots, gusting ten knots higher, Force 8 to 9. The beautiful day had given way to a raging night. We hauled the sails down and tied them as best as we could in the climbing wind. The whole of the foredeck was plunging into the breaking seas. Just visible from the cockpit, the white teeth of those breakers appeared grinning around us.
‘Go down,’ George said, a level of intensity in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Freezing rain was driving into our faces. Til get you in three hours’ time.’ Down below, the saloon was jumping, a savage version of itself, thrashing at the lamp that hangs from the deck-head, its chain not swinging but jerking like a hanged man, a maelstrom of no gravity followed by thumping smacking lurches into new seas. I crawled into my berth, jammed myself against its sides, my body held in place by my hands, the middle of my back and my knees, and hauled the sleeping bag up around my head. The engine groaned away beside me and I slept.
‘Can you do it?’ I woke to see George’s masked face slewing and sliding above me, only his exhausted eyes visible through the slit of his sodden balaclava. ‘I’m too cold to stay up there,’ he said. ‘I’m frozen and I don’t want to start making wrong decisions.’
In the churning, topsy-turvy world of the cabin, I got up, pushed seasickness away, swathed myself in the weather-armour, went on deck, got the heading for Baltimore from George, 340 magnetic now, took the torch from his hands, and he went below. I was no less exhausted than when I had gone to sleep. I had to shake my head every few seconds to keep myself awake. On and on the engine ground away beneath me. The boat was still smacking into the seas and the drench of the chilling rain was unbroken. It was just a question of staying awake and keeping us on course. No light worked in the compass. I could only find the heading with the torch. But I couldn’t keep that on all the time. An occasional flash on the binnacle and then the hope for a few minutes that I was steering in the right direction. The hours stretched out ahead. The eyelids drooped closed and jerked open, again and again and again. The wool of my balaclava was wet in my mouth. The boat was being hammered by the seas we were driving straight into, coming up white on the bow and then breaking over the bowsprit. For a while the stars appeared and I could hold a constellation at least half-fixed in the shrouds, a still point in a traumatic world. But the cloud and rain closed over again. I kept looking at my watch. Ten minutes had passed, sometimes twelve. How was I going to last three hours at this? My back had tensed into steel hawsers. As I turned my head, I felt the sinews in my neck clicking and rolling over each other’s armoured strands. ‘Dig deep,’ George had said to me as he went down.
It is a mysterious and powerful place to be, on deck alone, while the man you have been relying on sleeps beneath that deck. He has dug deep for you, has stood in his balaclava with the merest of eyeslits open to the world, shielded from it. He has stayed there for hour after hour in the dark while you have slept curled down in the bunk, protected from the rolling and breaking of the sea. How ancient a set of conditions is that? At this level, the sea is historyless: time has not passed here. His standing for me and now my standing for him is there in the Homeric poems and the sagas. It bears a cousin relationship to sharing a rope when climbing, but the tenderness of it and the demands of it are, if anything, stronger. I sleep while he suffers and I suffer while he sleeps. The only continuities are the sea, the boat, and the seemingly endless stretch of time, of an almost disconnected sense of timelessness, the repeating waves, the light head of exhaustion.
A strange and distant intimacy. The three hours came and went. I knew I must not wake him but wait until he was rested enough to get up himself. He had done the same for me, and everything here was reciprocity. It was a world governed by a mutuality of duty and care. I was cold but not impossibly cold. I was dog-tired but not beyond all consciousness. He had held the wheel for me often enough already; he had, in many ways, held me; now it was my turn.
We were in the darkest night I have known. I wonder if anyone who has not been to sea in these conditions, who has not felt himself exposed and exhausted as I was that second night, can know what it means to see the loom of a lighthouse on the shore for which you are making. It is no more than a blur at first, so faint that you cannot see it with your watching eye, but only if you look away and catch its flickering on a distant screen. Is that something? Is it? Yes, it must be. Fastnet! The Fastnet light! Again and again it smeared its paleness over the northern sky. Then another, over to the northeast, the Old Head of Kinsale. For hours they remained the two sentinels guiding me in. Lights! Land! Shore! Sleep! Home!
On the Auk drove, the Volvo engine beating steadily beneath me, George asleep, clearly very deeply exhausted. In the end, no more than his face appeared at the companionway steps. ‘Cup of tea?’ he said. The dark bulk of the land on either side was drawing us in on 340. The land now had shapes, a blacker outline against the black of the night. Ireland was a place, not a fantasy of arrival. Still an hour from the harbour entrance at Baltimore, I saw the light, marked on the chart, that I had been looking for over the previous hour. ‘I’ve got a flashing green,’ I shouted down to George. ‘Make for that,’ he said. The ocean slowly stilled. We reached the green, then the red beyond it, curving into the harbour calm, the lights of the village, the fishing boats against the quay, the ripple of harbour water against the Auk’s worn sides, the sea, as Auden once wrote, ‘as calm as a clock’. We dropped the anchor at four in the morning, forty-three hours out from England, and the Auk lay to her chain like a stabled mare while George and I drank whisky until the sky began to show the first streaks of a green Irish dawn.
We drank our Murphy’s and sank into the lush of southwest Ireland. The place oozed comfort, salmon on every plate, scallops for every dinner. We took the Auk in and out through the maze of islands in Roaring Water Bay: to one side an English actor’s castle, on the other an American sculptor’s island. A deep change had occurred: there were now more ex-pat Europeans living here than native Irish. I went to buy some fish from the cutting shed on the quay in Schull. Eight young aproned women stood around the steel table, knives in hand, the bodies of the fish flipped and sliced in front of them. They stood in total silence. I asked the manageress, a white-skinned woman with hennaed hair and a creased face that had once been beautiful, why no one spoke. She was from the Loire valley, outside Tours, and had lived here eight years. ‘We do not speak,’ she said, ‘because none of us can speak the same language.’ Lithuanians, Estonians, Germans, Portuguese and Poles: they were all here. In Baltimore, sixteen different nationalities now lived and worked. Or so the French grocer told me. The southwestern corner of Ireland had shifted from edge to centre, filled to the brim with organic veg, face creams and lovely ‘Irish’ knitwear. It was scarcely the place I had left home for.
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