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Arranmore - A Sea
Tragedy
By Patric
Stephenson
Somewhere
below the grey Atlantic skies
Off Ireland, is an island, Arranmore.
Like an inverted plate its contour lies
Far to the west, and on the sea-ward shore
Great rollers boom with never-ceasing roar
And crying gulls, salt-sticky with spray,
Wing round all day and each year's every day.
One bay,
one landing place, one tiny pier
Afford scant shelter from a running sea;
All who would visit Arranmore Island here
And boats tie up beside the little quay,
While eager, bare-foot children crane to see
What stranger comes, their coloured shirts and blouses
Flap in the breeze; behind them rise the houses,
Grey little
houses, low built, weather-stained,
Huddled like living creatures close together
In a poor land where it has always rained
And blows continuously through weeks of weather,
Some thatched with straw, some with the island heather
Tied down by ropes; their few, small windows peep
Beneath the eaves like eyes when half asleep.
No doors
or openings pierce the western walls,
Unbroken whitewash fronts the seaward side;
Here the Atlantic holds domain and calls
In aid ten-yard-high breakers, island-wide,
And wind to blow whatever's out inside,
And cutting hail, and rain, and foam like yeast
To smite across the island west to east.
Yet in that
season when the spring's young glory
Has not been smothered up in summer's prime
And spring and summer both became a story
To while away a winter's night in rhyme,
Rare peacefulness and calm rule for a time
And airs come gently from the balmy south
Kissing the little fields with fragrant mouth.
Then too,
the ocean tamed to unusual calm
Rests its blue waters on the rocky ledges,
Healing storm-broken spirits with a balm
Unknown by those who live behind thick hedges;
Moveless and dead it looks, but at the edges
A gentle swaying motion will be seen,
Echo of all the fury that has been.
Never is
that unruly ocean quiet,
Even upon the calmest summer days
Uneasy heaving speak of latent riot
Ready to burst out in a raging blaze,
Sea is the ruler here and man obeys,
Reading the signs of wind and wave, from womb
To death he labours shadowed by the tomb.
* * * *
* * * *
Each summer
some of the young islanders
Go far afield for work upon the soil
And help at harvesting with Highlanders
In Scotland, earning money for their toll.
They later on return to share the spoil
With their own folk by labour long o'erwrought.
The island boat meets them at Burtonport.
"D'ye
think the train will be in time?" John said.
"It's no' a market day," a voice replied,
"Why shouldn't she?" Behind the skipper's head
The island slid with steady, even slide.
The boat now nagged at by the running tide
Wobbled about. "Faith, I'll be glad to see
Our Michael back." The skipper braced his knee
And let
her have an inch or two more rope.
"An' Madge an' Hannah," Charlie said, "I know
That theyn't bin thinkin' long, an' Ned I hope
Hasn't spent all his earnin's this year." So
They talked of friends to meet. A stiffer blow
Set in. The skipper eyed the sea and sky,
Filled a clay pipe and puffed complacently.
Now they
were out where the Atlantic roll
Sweeps in unhindered from the distant west;
Thrilling to watch, a tonic for the soul
To ride upon an ocean's heaving breast
And view the coastline from each rounded crest
Only to lose all sight of land between
Those water-walls, grey, glinting into green.
Silent the
crew remained, the easy motion
Rising and falling on this spacious swell
Sufficed for words, as though some magic potion
Had cast all men aboard beneath its spell
And tolled in every heart a slow buoy bell.
The ceaseless march of broad-backed rollers passed
Above, beneath, above the boat. At last
The skipper
spoke, "My God, Look over there!"
He pointed to the western bay. His hand
Outlined a breaker. Greyer then his hair
Its swelling shoulder swallowed up the land.
John, crouching in the bow, jumped up to stand
And watch with staring eyes. Said he, "I bet
If we were there 'tis we'd be gettin' wet."
"Wet?"
Charlie said, "Aye, wet until we'd drown!"
Even as he spoke the mighty roller reared
House high, poised at its height, then toppled down
In seething surf where in no vessel steered
By human hand could live. "I'd be afeared
To meet the like o' thon!" The salt air shook
With thuds of falling water. Charlie took
A pinch
of snuff. His father spoke again,
"The highest wave I ever seen." Another
Almost as big swept onward in its train
And broke in creamier, broke in yellower smother.
"Aye," answered John, "I'm thinkin' now that
mother
Would fair be frettin' had she seen yon wave."
With sons afloat all mothers see a grave.
Gradually
the rollers lessened, bit by bit
The boat sailed on into the sheltered bay,
Past the big rock where shags wing-drying sit
The old man steered the well-accustomed way.
'Twas cool and dull, a real November day,
But on the whole good for the time of year.
With practised skill they landed at the pier.
Landed,
made fast the boat, and at the station
Met the homecomers' train with laughs and joy,
Warm hand in hand to greet a blood relation
Glad to be back and free from Scotch employ.
Money in pockets of each girl and boy,
Money to buy the summer back again
For fuel and clothing in the winter's rain.
"You're
welcome Madge and Hannah," "Hello, Ned",
Familiar faces smiled with friendly nod,
"Troth but I'm glad to see yous back," some said,
And others, "Well now, glory be to God
Is it yourself!" The girls new-dressed, new-shod,
Ran into Bridget's for a drop of tea.
The boys went on with luggage to the quay
And called
the girls to come. The tide was right,
Their skipper keen to start and be away
Before the coming dark had quenched the light.
Getting aboard, the sum, first time that day,
Shone through the mist, made their departure gay,
His glowing ball hung low above the sea
Out where America's the next country.
So in a
sunset glow they said goodbye
To those upon the pier, and rowed outside
Clear of the boats. John said the tide was high.
Indeed he's never seen so high a tide.
The narrow, little harbour looked quite wide,
And rocks in places which had always been
Above high-water mark could not be seen.
Shipping
the cars they hoisted sail and set
A course straight for the island's eastern shore,
The sun had gone, the mist came thick and wet,
The swell was not so heavy as before,
But hearts rose high to think of Arranmore
And home with loved ones near and hard-earned gold
To burn away the winter's dreaded cold.
Hannah had
stories of some handsome fellow
Seen in the train. Madge not to be out-done
Told - speaking Gaelic - how amidst a yellow
Six-acre field of corn she found her one,
Fair-haired, well-built, with eyes like Bridget's son
Blue as the sea and deep as mountain pools.
The men laughed, teased, and called the girls young fools.
They were
a happy boat load. Soon the weather
Grew worse and fog came down to left, to right,
Chilling and dark; but friends rejoined together
Cared naught for it, and singing songs made light
Of all their cold discomfort. Through the night
Rang many tales of human joy and troubles
Of true love broken like the wake-borne bubbles.
On went
the boat and still the fog came thicker
Making the isle's dim outline vanish. Ned,
With flaring match, looked at the time. A flicker
Gleamed on the mist. "Say boys, why not," he said,
"Go through The Gap of Clutch? The flood is dead,
The water's quare an' high." They all agreed
To risk the short cut so to gain more speed.
The skipper
changed her course to where the reef
Outside the Gap of Clutch had last been sighted
Some minutes past. A feeling of relief
To know they would be soon reunited
At home, warmed every heart. Men stuffed and lighted
Their pipes. John Rodgers in the bow looked out.
"Hi, bring her round to windward!" came his shout,
"We're
goin' on the rocks!" And quick as thought,
In half the space of time it takes to tell,
The sail was dropped, the tiller jammed to port,
But even so, too late; a passing swell
Subsiding, left the boat like some small shell
Perched on the reef. She tilted over, spilled
Her contents in the sea. The next wave filled
Her full.
Then carried with the surging water,
She grazed the rocks and floated upside down.
Mad hands of someone's husband, son or daughter
Clutched at her slippery sides. To those who drown
Frail driftwood is more precious than a crown,
More precious than the wealth of many kings,
Most precious of the world's most precious things.
Only three
men had strength enough to haul
Themselves upon the overturned boat's keel.
Michael, Patrick, their father - that was all
In twenty, and with hands too cold to feel
They clung and prayed to God. (O you who kneel
On cushions in warm churches saying prayers
You'll never pray with agony like theirs!)
What of
the others? Helplessly they drifted,
Struggling and moaning in the icy seas;
Some drowned at once, and some by breakers lifted
Were dashed against the rocks and stunned, to be
Left high and drier than the clinging three,
But coming waves would suck them back again
Amidst the boiling surf, dead, numb to pain.
Then to
three upon that up-turned yawl
Began a night of torture, fear and prayer;
Time and age, the hours were years, and all
The minutes, hours to those in anguish there.
Young Michael held his father by the hair,
And Patrick gripped both Michael and the boat,
A living mass of misery afloat.
Out of the
night huge, bestial waves stampeded
Crushing defenceless victims. Pristine power
Raged till the most tenacious mind acceded
Through being lashed a hundred times an hour.
All things life stood still for withered like a flower
Within the consciousness of those three men.
Ashore the clock hands crept, past eight; nine; ten.
"Maybe
they'll stop the night in Burtonport."
"Ouch aye, he's likely think the fog too bad."
In cottages on Arranmore the thought
And talk dwelt on expected lass and lad,
Folk went to bed not knowing dear ones had
Met death by drowning; all their wild distress
Pierced not the shroud of slumber's blessedness.
Out on the
sea the upside-down boat, battered,
Buffeted, tossed and wave-swept as before,
Rolled with the men to whom now nothing mattered,
Not even home, not even Arranmore.
The mist cleared. They could see the island shore
And lit up windows darkened one by one,
Each little light the setting of a sun.
Hurried
from the darkness came a monstrous wave
Black as the night. With bared and gleaming teeth,
It struck the boat and something broke and gave.
The hissing surf subsided underneath
And swept away, swept far beyond relief
The skipper; though he swam around for hours
His sons glued to the boat, possessed no powers
Or means
to help. They could but let him drown;
Glimpsing the man whose skill at sea for there
Last forty years around the coast was known,
Knowing their father on whose sturdy knees
They'd often sat for stories, slowly freeze
There is the very waters he had ruled
Ever since they were born and weaned and schooled.
Now there
were only two upon the boat,
And Patrick clutched his brother, firmer, tighter;
He tried by songs to keep their hearts afoat,
He sang and talked. Always a cheery fighter
He kept his spirits up; but Mick grew whiter,
White as the bursts of spray, and nothing saying
Died in the dark when Patrick thought him praying.
How long
it took before that night's sky lighted
The one live man adrift could never say,
Ages passed till the dim east slowly whitened
To mark the lazy coming of a day.
At length the dawn broke, chilly, sombre, grey,
And mournful gull-cries heralded its light;
The sea's life wakened from a normal night;
Wakened
with the old, slow routine of time,
The rhythm of the worlds, unchanged, unchanging.
Over the fields folk heard the chapel chime
As usual: little knew they that estranging
Death, had, while busy with his dire arranging,
Taken an evening's pleasure in the tide;
Grim death had struck and many kindred died.
Patrick,
numbed blue, still gripped his cold, dead brother,
Half dead himself, he saw the island shore,
His father's house and smoke arise where mother
Kindled her fire. Then faintly two, three, four,
Soon all the cottages on Arranmore
That he could see - he counted six or seven -
Sent up their little wisp of smoke to heaven.
This was
a sight to cheer his fainting soul,
"Surely they'll see me now," he thought, "I'll
get
In full view soon and wave." He felt the coal
Of life burn low, but not extinguished yet,
His sun would shine awhile before it set.
The current took him where he might be seen,
He raised a numb, cramped arm above the green,
Green space
of water, rising, falling, heaving,
Exactly as before, which always will
Go rolling on, unmoved by death's bereaving,
In its own way as changeless as the hill
And proof to woe as mountain tops that still
Present their lofty summits to the sun,
The same, immutable, since time begun.
"Jesus,
I'm weak!" He couldn't wave for long,
His arm dropped bump upon the keel, unfelt.
Yet hope sang through the heart a triumph song,
And in the mind before his God he knelt.
The born imagination of a Celt
Deposed the conscious self, his body's daze
Releasing him to travel gentle ways.
Dreaming,
he wandered to the faery places
Where little people rule. Beneath their spell
He dried and warmed himself, and kindly faces
Brought food and drink, beseeching him eat well.
O ! It was blessed there, out of hell
The ceaseless up and down of icy waters,
The grave of lovely sons and lovely daughters.
Thus did
he dream; anon the sense returning
Into the vacant chamber of his brain,
Brought all a mind and body's ache and yearning
Back to the field of conciousness again;
The nineteen dead; his danger; cold and pain
Hurting a hundred times worse than before;
The restless sea; a boat; the island shore.
Slowly the
objects realised by sight
Took concrete shape in his awakening sense,
Slow as the birth of day had banished night
His hazy thoughts assumed the present tense,
"They come for me." The joyous fact made dense
His new-found vision. Undefeated hope
Fulfilled itself. When near, they threw a rope;
Somehow
he grabbed it with unfeeling fingers,
Three men hauled him close alongside, bent
To lift a body where in life still lingers
Although its one last coin is nearly spent.
His clothes were torn in tatters, cut and rent,
As if by mighty jaws half-chewed and worried.
When safe inside, the others turned and hurried
To pick
up Michael - someone threw a coat
Round shivering Patrick. From feet to head
They dragged across the gunnel of the boat
A stiffened human form. No word he said,
And those who saved him, only one word, "Dead."
Thus in a tiny boat the dead and living
Were carried home with sorrow and thanksgiving.
While Patrick
smoked a cigarette he told
The ghastly tale with short and gasping breath.
They reckoned sixteen hours he'd stuck the cold,
For sixteen hours he's fought his fight with death,
Alone, one dead beside, and underneath
Deep down below him, drowned the eighteen others,
The loves of some, the darlings of their mothers.
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