Returning to the wheelhouse he gave himself a congratulatory pat on the back. For, not only had he rigged up an actual lee-cloth for the first time, he had overcome both the motions of the pitching craft and also the acrid smell coming from the engine, never mind the heat down there. Back on station Ruane was quick to observe differing weather patterns. Okay, it remained uncomfortable on board, but somehow he’d found his sea legs.
Astern dusk was falling. However, looking forward a very different weather event was building. A dark murderous cloud bank was emptying its contents into a blackened sea and courtesy of lightning flashes, he could make out the silver crests and driving spindrift galloping towards them. He spoke loud enough so that his father could pick up on his concern, ‘By-Jay-us is this ever going to settle down? How much more can we take?’
His own limited experience nevertheless told him that he needed to ready both the boat and himself for what would become an even rougher ride, albeit for a period. How long the period would be, was an entirely different matter. The only saving grace was that the wind had backed to true north. So for this storm LadyJac would be facing it, head on. He de-throttled LadyJac back further in order to ride out what would certainly be a roughening of the already rough wind-against-tide sea-state.
Like an old fighting ship’s cannon hitting its target the rain and hail drenched squall arrived. Visibility in that instant was reduced to near zero, and the noise... He held tight, trying to accustom himself to the changed weather state. LadyJac however fought back; she reared up then dropped like a stone into wave trough after trough. Ruane rigid, gripped on, he held tight. He hoped that the squall would pass quickly. He wondered what the weather would be like on the other side... if they even reached there.
However just as he had begun to think that the worst was over, he found himself staring out at what resembled a cliff face. In concert with the huge rogue wave the motorboat found itself at an acute angle – on an ‘up-hill’ trajectory!
Suddenly realising and fearing that the craft may be capsized, end-over-end, Ruane increased throttle, thus driving them up to and through its foaming crest. Unfortunately, and out the other side LadyJac went into a bow-down free-fall. She then ploughed straight into the next wave. Her bow buried itself within it. The whole boat shook. Ruane found himself pressed against the wheel. A solid wall of water engulfed the twenty eight foot long craft. It thundered against her cabin, and thereafter, filled her self-draining cockpit. Stunned, Ruane O’Rourke didn’t believe how the windows had remained intact. He screamed out, ‘What the fuck are we doing out here. Do you hear me Da, What the...’
With that rant out of his system, he directed his attention down to his father. He wondered how on earth he had slept through that hammering. Then he also wondered if the heart-stopping impact had done some, so far unseen damage to his father, or to LadyJac. The weather attack had thankfully passed quickly astern. He allowed himself to relax again; another crisis averted. Confidence surged as the Auto Helm was re-engaged.
He conducted, as best he could a visual survey of the forepeak, and main cabin of the vessel. Other that the contents of cupboards littering the cabin all it seemed was ship-shape. He forced a smile as he glanced at his father now curled up like a baby, against the front of his bunk.
The sea-state had further reduced to a big swell. Ruane wound up the throttle to full speed. Head down he continued the tidy up. He regularly checked the outside weather. During one of his sorties he jumped to attention. ‘Holy shit what’s that dead ahead? Da, get up here.’ But Ruane had realised that he didn’t need his father or indeed anyone to tell him that it was huge yellow navigation buoy.
He was on a collision course! In one frantic move he dispensed with Auto Helm while wrenching the wheel. Ladyjac turned hard to starboard. The imposing South Hunters cardinal buoy fell away to port. Now however, dead ahead, although some distance away, were the Maidens lighthouses, Their 15 second, triple flashing beam a warning of dangerous rocks. He calmly steered away, reverting to the original compass course. He breathed hard and went back down below to recheck on his father. At the same time he chastised himself over the near miss. Mumbling, he said, ‘Should have remained vigilant, it’s not human, it’s a machine, that Auto Helm.’
Fergal’s eyes had opened. He reached out and patted his son, saying, ‘You’re doin’ just grand Ru. Boy that must have been some wave earlier. Aye, you’ll be a sailor yet, you did grand. Think I might just say down here. How far to run son? Just call me whenever, okay?’ Once again he couldn’t decipher fully his father’s dialogue. As well as everything else, Ruane O’Rourke realised at that precise moment that he had a problem; a fatherly medical problem.
As he made his way back into the wheelhouse he reckoned that that squall must have been at the top end of the Beaufort scale which made him also ask again. What the hell are we doing out here? At that same moment the VHF radio burst into life. ‘Larne Port, Larne Port control. Small motor vessel passing between Hunters and the Maidens, please identify yourself.’
Several times the request was transmitted. Ruane O’Rourke ignored all the calls. He pressed on northwards. Ah bloody brilliant, bet we’ve been picked up on their radar. Fuck it. I must keep going. He grabbed his mobile. I wonder if Oisín would pick up? Then he realised that there was no signal. It also struck him that he was very much alone. He was alone in a gale, way too far out at sea in pitch darkness. His only company was that of a sickly father. If this fighter of a wee boat was to surrender to the conditions no one, not a singular soul would know. Eventually he and the Da would be categorised as ‘lost at sea’.
Just then, the young O’Rourke realised how frightened he was. After contemplation he decided, rightly or wrongly, that he should press on. Heading back into Larne would raise all sorts of issues.
That headland, one of several along the Antrim Coast, and their final destination was notorious even on ‘post card’ days; a location where tides meet was not a comfortable place for a small craft, especially when conditions are lively. Anyway, Da wouldn’t hear of it. Sure, he’d say; the worst of the weather had passed, and we’ve survived!
On the lee side of the headland lay their little known disused stone quay. How they were going to reach their destination their haven, continued to exercise his young mind. Worse, the cloak of the night had entirely wrapped itself around them. Worse still, a further deterioration in conditions had been noted with the wind direction veering back into the east.
His father, who had been a lobsterman all his life, knew the area in fine detail. Therefore, to have him by his side would be an imperative. He alone did not have the wherewithal to navigate LadyJac through what will be – always would be – the most treacherous aspect of what had already become an awful outing. This would be Fergal’s ace card; no one else would be daft enough to attempt such a landing, especially at night. For now though, he left Fergal to sleep...
* * *
‘This is it! Oh fuck, here we go; DA! Da, time to get your arse into gear. Come on! I need your help up here. We’ll be into that tide rip shortly. Come on! Move yourself, NOW!’
Fergal, now wide awake, struggled to free himself from his son’s version of a lee-cloth. Sitting up he had also discovered, was demanding. Making his legs answer to the commands of his head was easier said than done. He also felt dizzy, disorientated. However, after several attempts he was out of the bunk and standing; albeit, gripping the edge of the folded salon table with one hand while reaching for the hand-hold at the galley. He was also feeling nauseous, something he had never personally experienced before, certainly not on a vessel, large or small. ‘Weird. What the feck is happening to this auld body ‘o’ mine?’ He asked himself.
He focused on making for the companionway. Having concluded the conversation with himself he shouted out while staggering, grasping for further hand-holds, ‘On me way Ru. Plenty of movement again son.’
Ruane had heard his father. Relief washed through him.
As previously directed he steered LadyJac in close to the headland. This he was told was to avoid the worst of the turbulence caused by the colliding tides. He had been assured that they would pick up a back-eddy which, as he also remembered his father saying, would sluice them through and keep them well clear of ‘old Whirly’– the local’s name for a hugely dangerous whirlpool system that regularly formed in such conditions just off the headland.
However, while he had understood his father’s earlier directions he had decided to play it safe, safer. This action had been hastened by the sight and the sound of the breaking waves on the shore. He had begun to steer LadyJac seaward again. The shore he had determined was far too close for comfort.
Fergal, having finally navigated the stairs, popped his head up through the companionway. As was his way, he glanced out of the wheelhouse. Immediately, he shouted across to his son, ‘NO! Christ no! Get insho—’
As he swung round to signal his instructions, LadyJac suffered an almighty hit from a huge crest. She was broached violently to starboard. A window smashed and water burst into the wheelhouse... Fergal lost his footing! A loud crack resonated from below.
An on-board silence drowned out the wailing of the external weather. As Ruane gathered himself from where he had been deposited, he realised that the wave had hit him like a tonne of ballast and the silence was due to there being... NO ENGINE!
‘For fuck’s sake! What’s next? Oh no, no, NO!’ He slammed his fist into the wheelhouse floor as he crawled back up to re-grasp the wheel. In that eerie moment he asked of himself if he had he been pushing his ‘new toy’ too hard? Had they run out of fuel? Had he caught a lobster pot and fouled the propeller? The time for answers had passed.
He had a full scale emergency on his hands: on one side of LadyJac the rollers crashed onto a boulder strewn beach, but on the other, the turbulence, the noise of ‘old Whirly’ in concert with the screaming wind. Thoughts raced. A rock and hard place, my arse. More like, big rocks or a swirling staircase... to the sea bed!
Wishing that he had taken more notice of the boat’s equipment during the earlier boat-tour was of little significance now – those dials; yeah, yeah I can see them for myself. He tried in vain to restart the engine, but no, nothing; just clunks and clicks. The noise from the shore was getting louder, angrier. He was tempted to issue a May-Day, but that would blow everything. He shouted obscenities at the microphone clasped in his hand. He threw it away while poking his head through the companionway opening. Next, and with his eyes adjusting to the red glow of the main cabin’s night-lights, he shouted, ‘DA. You ok? Ah for Christ’s where are you? DA? Da, come on help me out, come on.’ But there was no reply.
Another wave of similar intensity to the previous one, laid the wallowing craft onto her side once more. Ruane was sent tumbling. Blood now streamed from his forehead, it flooded his eyes. He too found himself at the bottom of the companionway steps. He located his father. Fergal lay crumpled and motionless between the salon table and the bunk from which he had just escaped. In horror, Ruane screamed out, ‘NO, NO. Ah Jesus no, Da. Da speak to me. Ah come on…we need to get out of here. Come on Da, help me…I…I don’t know what to do.’
He attempted to lift his father. But a combination of a twenty-eight foot long cabin-cruiser imitating a cork in a cauldron together with the limpness of a twelve stone corpse repeatedly defeated him. Finally, and although the motions of LadyJac had become more violent, a final Trojan effort somehow hauled his father up, over and onto the bunk.
Fergal’s eyes stared back at him. Lifeless. New blood oozed but the earlier flow had clotted. Ruane discovered the source; an even more serious trauma to the rear of his father’s skull. The patterned upholstery was stained, saturated. He could taste the metallic odour. He knew...
With tears gushing, he placed his father’s arms across his chest. He slid the eyelids shut. Kneeling, he said his final goodbyes. Any religious overtures would be few and far between; his connection with Catholicism had long since disappeared. He did however manage most of an Our Father and a Hail Mary or two. He crossed himself, then his father. Kissing his forehead he apologised for what he needed to do next. In that instant an almighty bang shook LadyJac from stem to stern; from her portside to her starboard. Then another and another echoed through her hull!
As Ruane steadied himself, water gushed in. It washed over his father. It washed blood from his grey face. It also appeared to wash an arm free from Fergal’s chest. It fell in such a way as to point to the companionway. It was, as if to authorise his son’s next action. ‘Time for you to go my son.’
Ruane O’Rourke appeared to be a child lost in time. Standing, stuck in the companionway, braced, he seemed unable to function. It almost seemed that he was preparing to ‘go down with his ship’. He conducted a final inspection of the body in the bunk. Grief stricken but without any living soul to console him he recalled the great times with that silly auld fecker, his father. A man that he had admired copied, obeyed, adored throughout his young life.
Finally, having managed to break the spell he launched himself back up into the wheelhouse. It coincided with another broadside and a shower of freezing seawater; more of the boat’s windows had finally succumbed to the storm. A flash of blue light and a buzzing sound signalled that the sea had overcome the electrics; blackout! Finally, and with a new found determination, he readied himself.
As the craft settled on the beach, and before the next roller approached, he groped for and pulled on an oilskin jacket. He got himself out and into the cockpit. The thundering noise of crashing waves fought to be heard above the wailing of the wind. With tremors raking his body he could not hide his state of fright. Composing himself he stepped up and out of the cockpit. He stood poised on the side deck. He grabbed a hand-hold at the rear of the wheelhouse and waited for the moment. It wasn’t long before the next roller reared up to the seaward side of the doomed LadyJac.
Ruane jumped. For a moment he stood shoulder high in the water, legs and feet at the command of underwater forces. He swam, scrambling towards the shore. He had little control. Another wave exploded on her stern. It lifted the boat into the air. As he continued his evacuation, as best he could, he glanced back thinking; could this be a perfect end to a crap day. Aye, the feckin boat landing on top of me. Then, just as he thought he was clear the remainder of the roller grabbed, sluiced and tumbled him up the stony beach.
Coughing, spluttering and spitting salt water he found himself face down and bleeding. He clawed onto anything he could to avoid being sucked back out by the undertow. Finally he crawled to what he believed to be the high water mark. He was saturated, cold, bruised and bloodied. He lay trance-like gazing at the hopelessness of the once sea-worthy LadyJac. He didn’t dare allow thoughts of his ‘silly auld fecker’ of a father entombed within its broken hull. Exhaustion however got the better of him. A silence descended...
* * *
Ruane O’Rourke woke with a jolt. In pitch blackness it took him a time to regain his senses. Shivering, shaking, he sat upright. Pain exploded through him, he breathed heavy, coughed loudly. A paltry illumination had been provided by a quarter moon dashing in and out of the clouds. Intermittingly it picked out the outline of the dark hull down the beach. To his surprise LadyJac appeared relatively in one piece. More than could be said of himself.
Unsteadily, he rose to his feet. The storm had eased somewhat. As best he could, he surveyed the area. He sort of knew where he was. He reckoned, assuming that his geography was indeed correct that he had been marooned on a beach which was completely cut-off from view, except from seaward. No roads, just fields an isolated farmhouse and a small, off the beaten track housing development of seasonally vacated holiday homes. Battling internal cries of defeat he made one final ask of himself . Can I muster enough energy to even get over to there?
At the same time he debated if he should return to the wreck and extract the body of his father. Kneeling, he solemnly considered his options: should he
bury him, or even place him under the cliff face? Cautiously, he commenced his walk out towards the wreck, but he stopped as water drained into his Dubarry boots. Faltering and with a hung head he cried, he cried hard as he turned back, saying, ‘Na. Best to let you be found Da. That’ll at least allow you a proper burial. And as for me. I’ll have been lost at sea, disappeared. Aye, that’ll be best. Brother Oisín will know what to do. Aye, my brother the brain.’ He searched for his mobile phone. It was dead, drowned. He shouted further frustration at the beach. He had no idea what time it was, or even how long he had been sleeping. But one thing that he was sure of was the need for dry clothes. It had become nothing short of urgent.
Although his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the pain of his scratched and gouged face, elbows and knees had become intense. Regardless, he proceeded to claw up the mini cliff face. Reaching the summit he looked about as best he could. The landscape in front of him was barren. The occasional cloud break allowed him to pick out his target. He did know where he was. With a sudden injection of adrenalin he marched forward, inland.
Chapter 30 : Rendezvous and Revenge
Under the lee of the targeted headland dark clad figures were making plans to disperse. Tempers had frayed. They, seven of them, had stood on the elderly stone pier for far too long. Their leader was one Oisín O’Rourke. His attempts to reassure them that his father and brother would arrive shortly, rung hollow.
‘They’ve probably had to run for a bit of shelter; shelter, from that storm out there. Can you not understand?’ Trying to disguise his frustration while at the same time cover his concern for their safety, his tone rose. ‘For fuck’s sake lads have a bit of patience. How would you like to be out there. In that? Listen, listen to it.’ Those believing that the boat would appear round their headland were it seemed, few.
A Letter to a Lucky Man Page 22