too. At landfall after landfall on the voyage he would be returned to
Brendan
by his latest girlfriend, despair mingling with sadness in her expression, as before her very eyes he began to dissolve into his usual chaotic state the moment he stepped aboard. And as likely as not, we later discovered that he had left some of his clothing behind, and these would be sent ahead to be at our next port of call. Arthur himself took such matters in his stride. He never offered any information unasked; and he hadn’t even told his family that he had been selected for the
Brendan
crew until one morning his father read in the newspaper that a certain “Boots” Magan was going on the voyage. “Do you know anyone called Boots?” he asked over the breakfast table. “Yes, me,” was his son’s brief reply.
That rainy morning in Brandon Creek Arthur’s crumpled green sailingsuit was topped off with—of all things—a battered Sherlock Holmes stalking cap, its ear flaps lustily blowing in the wind. “Hello, wearing your Deputy Dawg outfit today?” the inevitable wisecrack came from Peter Mullett,
Brendan’s
photographer, dressed in a bright red sailing suit that made him look more like a cardinal than the London sparrow he was. Born and reared in London, Peter had been a successful magazine photographer before he had become exasperated with city life, thrown up his job, and moved with Jill, his glamorous ex-model wife, and his son Joey to the west of Ireland. There he had bought a plot of land, built a small cottage with his own hands and to his own design, and settled down to live as simply as possible. Then he too had heard about
Brendan,
and impressed me by arriving at the boatyard with a large suitcase. “Have you brought your cameras with you?” I asked him. “Yes,” he replied, and opened the case. It was divided down the middle by a partition. On one side a complete professional’s array of camera bodies, lenses, and sundry equipment lay neatly cradled in foam padding. But what caught my eye was the opposite half of the case. There was a comprehensive and well-used carpentry kit—complete with saws, draw knives, spoke shaves, drills, planers, and all the tools of a professional woodworker.
Brendan,
I thought to myself, was not just getting a photographer but, equally valuable, a man who could mend her wooden frame en route.
Rolf Hansen in his Norwegian blue sailing suit was the fifth and last member of the crew to join. He had come from Norway to volunteer, and was an old-boat fanatic. His hobby was interviewing retired fishermen in remote Norwegian coastal villages to collect their reminiscences about the days of sail. Short, barrel-chested, and bespectacled, Rolf was second only to Boots in physical strength; and like the Irishman, he was a man of few words, partly because he spoke only a smattering of English, but also because Rolf regarded seafaring as a serious business. When someone ventured to ask him if he was married, Rolf answered very seriously, “I am married to the sea.”
So an Irishman, a Cockney, a Norwegian, and an Englishman had joined
Brendan,
and I wondered how well we would get along together during the days that undoubtedly lay ahead. We were attempting a voyage which differed in two important respects from many previous voyages in reconstructed historic vessels. First, we were embarking in a true boat, not a raft.
Brendan
was not simply a platform on which the winds and currents might carry us to our destination if we were lucky. She would have to be sailed properly if she were to survive, and there was little margin for error. A single mistake—a rope jammed around a cleat in a squall, or a sail suddenly blown hard against the mast—could capsize her with disastrous results. Second, and more important, we were about to venture into cold waters where few modern yachts cared to go. This was not to be a sun-drenched cruise in bathing suits. We were about to take a very small, open boat into
Brendan
by his latest girlfriend, despair mingling with sadness in her expression, as before her very eyes he began to dissolve into his usual chaotic state the moment he stepped aboard. And as likely as not, we later discovered that he had left some of his clothing behind, and these would be sent ahead to be at our next port of call. Arthur himself took such matters in his stride. He never offered any information unasked; and he hadn’t even told his family that he had been selected for the
Brendan
crew until one morning his father read in the newspaper that a certain “Boots” Magan was going on the voyage. “Do you know anyone called Boots?” he asked over the breakfast table. “Yes, me,” was his son’s brief reply.
That rainy morning in Brandon Creek Arthur’s crumpled green sailingsuit was topped off with—of all things—a battered Sherlock Holmes stalking cap, its ear flaps lustily blowing in the wind. “Hello, wearing your Deputy Dawg outfit today?” the inevitable wisecrack came from Peter Mullett,
Brendan’s
photographer, dressed in a bright red sailing suit that made him look more like a cardinal than the London sparrow he was. Born and reared in London, Peter had been a successful magazine photographer before he had become exasperated with city life, thrown up his job, and moved with Jill, his glamorous ex-model wife, and his son Joey to the west of Ireland. There he had bought a plot of land, built a small cottage with his own hands and to his own design, and settled down to live as simply as possible. Then he too had heard about
Brendan,
and impressed me by arriving at the boatyard with a large suitcase. “Have you brought your cameras with you?” I asked him. “Yes,” he replied, and opened the case. It was divided down the middle by a partition. On one side a complete professional’s array of camera bodies, lenses, and sundry equipment lay neatly cradled in foam padding. But what caught my eye was the opposite half of the case. There was a comprehensive and well-used carpentry kit—complete with saws, draw knives, spoke shaves, drills, planers, and all the tools of a professional woodworker.
Brendan,
I thought to myself, was not just getting a photographer but, equally valuable, a man who could mend her wooden frame en route.
Rolf Hansen in his Norwegian blue sailing suit was the fifth and last member of the crew to join. He had come from Norway to volunteer, and was an old-boat fanatic. His hobby was interviewing retired fishermen in remote Norwegian coastal villages to collect their reminiscences about the days of sail. Short, barrel-chested, and bespectacled, Rolf was second only to Boots in physical strength; and like the Irishman, he was a man of few words, partly because he spoke only a smattering of English, but also because Rolf regarded seafaring as a serious business. When someone ventured to ask him if he was married, Rolf answered very seriously, “I am married to the sea.”
So an Irishman, a Cockney, a Norwegian, and an Englishman had joined
Brendan,
and I wondered how well we would get along together during the days that undoubtedly lay ahead. We were attempting a voyage which differed in two important respects from many previous voyages in reconstructed historic vessels. First, we were embarking in a true boat, not a raft.
Brendan
was not simply a platform on which the winds and currents might carry us to our destination if we were lucky. She would have to be sailed properly if she were to survive, and there was little margin for error. A single mistake—a rope jammed around a cleat in a squall, or a sail suddenly blown hard against the mast—could capsize her with disastrous results. Second, and more important, we were about to venture into cold waters where few modern yachts cared to go. This was not to be a sun-drenched cruise in bathing suits. We were about to take a very small, open boat into
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