THE BOAT

Growing up in a small fishing village in Ireland offered me the privilege of watching boats sail in and out of the harbour, surrounded by people who knew how to follow the cycles of the moon, understood low tides and high tides. There was salt in the air, the faraway sound of fog-horns and the comfort of light-houses. The soft rain. Sea-weed, used as natural fertilizer, being transported on carts to the nearby arable land in the foothills of the omnipresent Mountains of Mourne. The influence of the gulf stream was palpable. Palm trees grew next to gigantic oaks and Scott’s pine. Well aware in stormy weather, of how small and insignificant we were in the grand scheme of things, waves engulfing the coastal roads, ferocious winds threatening to rip off the roof, little perfume bottles washed ashore, driftwood and shipwrecks subsequently left abandoned in the sand. We were in awe of the sea and its capricious moods.

My father’s last words were – `Frances, you need a boat`. I will never forget those words, from a silent man who was a compass in all matters of consequence. I have carried the image in my heart and this year when my sister Evelyn fell ill, I painted a boat for her… a golden one. She passed away, God bless her soul, in October but we will always remember her generous and selfless spirit.

Sometimes we all need a boat – a golden one at best.

I’m constantly reminded how ebb and flow, a continual coming and going, is innate in everything. In nature it is obvious. The beautiful poignancy of this made crystal clear, when at around the same time in October, we were blessed with the birth of our first grandchild, Conor Vicente. The brightest little star one could ever imagine. This serene little boy really and truly made our year! We hope to go back and show him the boats coming in, buy him a ninety-nine ice-cream in the Genoa café after a blustery day at Cranfield beach, skimming stones and building sand castles, collecting shells. As my brother Séamus, always good with words, said recently, quoting James M. Barrie, ‘God gave us memories that we might have roses in December’.  Memories but also dreams for the future too.

A whole boat full… a golden one at best.

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(Christmas 2021)