at all those dehydrated packet foods, I had a premonition that all would not be well. Everything seemed to be plastic. More than half the items were wrapped in plastic or came in plastic tubs, and we had spent a hectic day wrapping every item in a second plastic bag before sealing the full day’s rations in an even larger plastic bag. Our food looked and smelled of plastic and—as it turned out—soon began to taste of plastic, too.
Brendan’s monks had probably cooked on a peat or wood fire kept burning in a fire tray or in a cauldron, which could also be carried ashore. And, of course, they were accustomed to eating cold food. On the other hand, I had placed great value on the morale-boosting effect of regular hot meals, and so had arranged for a traditional paraffin stove to be built into a cook box about the size of a footlocker. Its lid hinged back to serve as a windshield; two side flaps pulled up to give additional protection; and, best of all, the entire stove hung on gimbals. It was an ingenious device because the cook box could be lashed into position wherever we wanted it, and used in almost any weather.
There was one other item on the slipway in Brandon Creek that would have surprised a yachtsman but not a medieval monk. Alongside the boat lay a soggy heap of sheepskins, looking grubby and smelling strongly. I had read that polar explorers had found sheepskins excellent insulation when sleeping on the ice; and as they were a typicalmaterial from Saint Brendan’s day I thought it worth trying them as sleeping mats inside the boat. As it turned out, the smell of sheepskin was to become the third member of our triumvirate of grease and leather and wool which was to pervade our lives for the entire voyage.
For our clothing I had selected modern sailing suits. Each member of the crew was color-coded so that our garments did not get muddled. George wore orange; I had yellow; and as befitted our most Irish crew member, Arthur Magan had chosen green. Arthur already had a nickname for the voyage—Boots—because on the day he first joined the project, he showed up wearing a pair of size 12 boots that would have done credit to an oversized cowboy. In fact, nearly everything about Arthur came in the larger sizes. He was burly and stood over six feet, with a shock of yellow hair that stuck out at all angles. He exuded a genial air of crumpled untidiness that somehow gave him the impression of a friendly young bear just emerged from hibernation. At twenty-three he was the youngest member of the crew—but also the strongest. When anything was jammed, a mast needed lifting, or a mooring warp had to be hauled right, it was Boots who was called on for the job. When he heard about
Brendan,
he had written me a letter which was a model of brevity:
D EAR T IM,
I am writing to offer myself as a possible crew member. Mrs. Molony gave me your address. I was at school with George’s brother.
I have been sailing since I was large enough to go near a boat. I have also spent several winter months recently fishing in trawlers in Icelandic waters.
I realise nothing can be gained by writing letters to each other. I am available at any time to come down and see you if you are interested.
Y OURS GRATEFULLY ,
A RTHUR M AGAN
So I had invited him to come to Cork, and two days later he clumped into the boatyard in his size 12s, glanced briefly around the boat, mumbled his name, took off a battered tweed jacket that was a kaleidoscope of patches and mends, and began working alongside us.
Like his letter, Boots’s sentences were brief. Bit by bit, I learned that his family lived near Dublin, that he had spent much of his childhoodin Valentia near the Dingle, and could “sail a boat a bit.” Later I would also discover that he was a magnet for the girls. Young ladies could not resist the challenge of trying to feed him, tidy him up, and generally take care of him. Boots, it seemed, was an ideal feminine project, but a hopeless one
Brendan’s monks had probably cooked on a peat or wood fire kept burning in a fire tray or in a cauldron, which could also be carried ashore. And, of course, they were accustomed to eating cold food. On the other hand, I had placed great value on the morale-boosting effect of regular hot meals, and so had arranged for a traditional paraffin stove to be built into a cook box about the size of a footlocker. Its lid hinged back to serve as a windshield; two side flaps pulled up to give additional protection; and, best of all, the entire stove hung on gimbals. It was an ingenious device because the cook box could be lashed into position wherever we wanted it, and used in almost any weather.
There was one other item on the slipway in Brandon Creek that would have surprised a yachtsman but not a medieval monk. Alongside the boat lay a soggy heap of sheepskins, looking grubby and smelling strongly. I had read that polar explorers had found sheepskins excellent insulation when sleeping on the ice; and as they were a typicalmaterial from Saint Brendan’s day I thought it worth trying them as sleeping mats inside the boat. As it turned out, the smell of sheepskin was to become the third member of our triumvirate of grease and leather and wool which was to pervade our lives for the entire voyage.
For our clothing I had selected modern sailing suits. Each member of the crew was color-coded so that our garments did not get muddled. George wore orange; I had yellow; and as befitted our most Irish crew member, Arthur Magan had chosen green. Arthur already had a nickname for the voyage—Boots—because on the day he first joined the project, he showed up wearing a pair of size 12 boots that would have done credit to an oversized cowboy. In fact, nearly everything about Arthur came in the larger sizes. He was burly and stood over six feet, with a shock of yellow hair that stuck out at all angles. He exuded a genial air of crumpled untidiness that somehow gave him the impression of a friendly young bear just emerged from hibernation. At twenty-three he was the youngest member of the crew—but also the strongest. When anything was jammed, a mast needed lifting, or a mooring warp had to be hauled right, it was Boots who was called on for the job. When he heard about
Brendan,
he had written me a letter which was a model of brevity:
D EAR T IM,
I am writing to offer myself as a possible crew member. Mrs. Molony gave me your address. I was at school with George’s brother.
I have been sailing since I was large enough to go near a boat. I have also spent several winter months recently fishing in trawlers in Icelandic waters.
I realise nothing can be gained by writing letters to each other. I am available at any time to come down and see you if you are interested.
Y OURS GRATEFULLY ,
A RTHUR M AGAN
So I had invited him to come to Cork, and two days later he clumped into the boatyard in his size 12s, glanced briefly around the boat, mumbled his name, took off a battered tweed jacket that was a kaleidoscope of patches and mends, and began working alongside us.
Like his letter, Boots’s sentences were brief. Bit by bit, I learned that his family lived near Dublin, that he had spent much of his childhoodin Valentia near the Dingle, and could “sail a boat a bit.” Later I would also discover that he was a magnet for the girls. Young ladies could not resist the challenge of trying to feed him, tidy him up, and generally take care of him. Boots, it seemed, was an ideal feminine project, but a hopeless one
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