For the greater part of the afternoon we sat on the tops of empty
barrels in the public-house, talking of the destiny of Gaelic. We
were admitted as travellers, and the shutters of the shop were
closed behind us, letting in only a glimmer of grey light, and the
tumult of the storm. Towards evening it cleared a little and we came
home in a calmer sea, but with a dead head-wind that gave the rowers
all they could do to make the passage.
On calm days I often go out fishing with Michael. When we reach the
space above the slip where the curaghs are propped, bottom upwards,
on the limestone, he lifts the prow of the one we are going to
embark in, and I slip underneath and set the centre of the foremost
seat upon my neck. Then he crawls under the stern and stands up with
the last seat upon his shoulders. We start for the sea. The long
prow bends before me so that I see nothing but a few yards of
shingle at my feet. A quivering pain runs from the top of my spine
to the sharp stones that seem to pass through my pampooties, and
grate upon my ankles. We stagger and groan beneath the weight; but
at last our feet reach the slip, and we run down with a half-trot
like the pace of bare-footed children.
A yard from the sea we stop and lower the curagh to the right. It
must be brought down gently--a difficult task for our strained and
aching muscles--and sometimes as the gunnel reaches the slip I lose
my balance and roll in among the seats.
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