The Cathach 2011 - Volume II (PDF) - Sligo Libraries

of authority. They came in sidecars from the town with cases full of clothes, boxes
of supplies, all carted to this small pier and loaded on the boats. There was rapport
between my people and these men; they were our charge. A forebear stood on that
rock, her long red petticoat blowing in the wind, a small brass telescope to her eye,
awaiting signals of their safety. If a need arose, our men would row out their boat to
bring a sick or injured man ashore. The lighthouse still stands tall against the sky,
perched on its island three miles out. Its ancient ancestor, the top blown off and
broken in the sea, stands small beside it like a child. No men need rowing to that
island now, no men to call to from the sea, no friendly place to pull my boat. Like most
men that I know, the keepers are a note in history. Batteries and sensors do their work.
Computers send reports to Dublin on electronic waves that vibrate silently through the
atmosphere.
I am still alive; flesh still hangs on my ancient bones. The pots weigh heavy loaded
with their rope and stone, hard pulled from twenty fathoms deep. The lobsters that
come up are small, not worth the effort for the money that they make. Yet there is
adventure in it and Fallon here will watch for me. We like to dance across the water,
the little engine buzzing, him sitting on the boat front, bow spray blowing in his face.
I need the sea, the swaying of the boat, the wind and sky, the sparkling bubbles of the
mackerel rising from the deep. The diving gannets and the cormorants are my friends.
The twin tailed terns call greeting to me on their wandering tours. A passing whale will
come and touch the boat, and sometimes jumping dolphins guide me home.
The people that I know are here. The veil between us all has thinned with time. I
can reach out and touch them with my mind, listen to their words within the waves,
see them rowing the long tarred boats to the lighthouse. They still watch from small
hills along the shore. Others walk slowly toward the train station, their hands filled
with empty cases. They know the rocky reefs that lie beneath these rolling waters, the
blue fields of campanula. They know the rabbits and that black faced mountain ewe.
I can walk with them out here, touch their eyes and smiles, wander through their
gentle minds. They are my tribe, my people. When I sat like Fallon on the bow and
watched their strong backs pulling on the oars, there was no symptom of this passing.
They held my hand and walked me through the life we lived together. When I was
strong and rowed the boat out on the sea they held our children’s hands. We fought
our battles but when it was time for them to go I held them in my arms to give them
comfort on the road. The tide has turned again. Now I need a steady hand to hold.
Hold off your barking dog. Yes, yes, I know the wind has turned and there is danger
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