Back to Galway

Twas a stormy — and I mean friggin’ STORMY — January day off the west coast of Ireland.

We were huddled “down below” in a 60-foot passenger ferry, bound for Inishmore. The sturdy boat slammed and rolled through breaking waves some 15 feet tall, higher than our gunnels.

The ride had gotten well past rough.

I stood by a porthole down below, keeping my eye on the horizon.

The goal was not to throw up — but it afforded me some astonishing views, too.

As each roller built and headed toward our boat, I would turn and say to Melissa: “Get ready. Here comes a huge one.”

Melissa and our friend John both sat on the bench seats provided for us passengers.

When the bigger waves rolled us past a certain angle, a grinding, electric-buzzer alarm split the air… adding even more angst to the voyage.

At least half the passengers had left the cabin and gone out onto the rear deck. (We could learn later, when departing the boat, that they were all puking out there.)

The winds blew from the west, right into our face as we entered hour two on our two-to-three-hour trip. (Come to think of it, there was another three-hour tour this reminds me of…)

I’ve been in storms in the Chesapeake in November… We got caught in a storm on San Francisco Bay one winter and had to ride it out — at sea — through the night as the channel was not navigable.

I’ve ridden some gnarly ferryboats across the English Channel.

But nothing could have prepared me for the sheer butt-clenching violence of these seas.

At one point, the door to our compartment swung open.

We were clutching our seats for dear life as the boat porpoised along.

Appearing in the doorway was a tiny man, dressed all in black.

Black sea cap… Black peacoat… Black oily pants and sea boots…

He had little, tiny, narrowed black eyes that burned like molten coal.

He had a narrow, bony face whiter than a piece of paper.

As he surveyed the frightened faces, he asked: “Everybody okay in here?”

We all did our best to not sound like we were panicking.

One of our friends politely asked: “Um, how much longer do we have to go?”

The captain looked him right in the eyeballs, narrowed his gaze and paused for a good three seconds.

Then he blurted out his answer: “Days.”

The little sea captain — probably tougher than a hickory knot — turn on his heel and left, with a wry smile on his face.

Goddammit, that’s Irish.

Our friend looked over at us for answers — apparently not appreciating the joke.

He was more astonished, confused and even more freaked out than before.

Ah well, we would eventually pull into the calm harbor at Inishmore, largest of the Aran Islands.

This small archipelago lies exposed to the North Sea at the mouth of Galway Bay.

Melissa, myself and John had decided to spend a day there, exploring the stone forts and structures going back to at least 1,100 BC.

Indeed, we spent the day exploring the island’s remarkable history.

We froze our asses off every step of the way, along the stone cliffs with the January wind whipping our hair straight sideways.

Then in the afternoon, we met back at the harbor to catch the ferry back to Galway.

That’s when we tucked in at Joe Watty’s pub, overlooking the rocky harbor.

At the end of the bar, a clutch of old timers stood drinking and back slapping.

They spoke a language I’d never heard: pure Irish Gaelic. It was music to listen to.

I could have listened to those guys for hours, even though we understood not a word.

Across the dining room from us — seated at a table in a window, alone — was an old man.

He had the January getup you’d expect: Irish sweater, wool pants, cap on the table, cigarette in the ashtray burning away…

Tendrils of smoke rose from the tip of his Rothman up into the yellow sunlight streaming in through the window… the smell of burning peat, which smells like lighting a charcoal barbecue with lighter fluid, filling the air…

We sat there at our table and talked among ourselves for an hour.

I noticed the old man’s Guinness had only dropped about an inch the whole time.

He sipped that slowly, smoking, staring off out the window into stormy Galway Bay.

I always wondered what he was thinking that whole time we were there.

He looked like he’d seen some things. But we’ll be left to wonder, I supposed, forever.

In the meantime, I wrote this new song about that wild day.

It’s called Back to Galway. And I hope you like it:

A sea shanty about a stormy trip to the Aran Islands back in the 1990s.