The next morning, we awoke to a Saturday festival atmosphere in Portrush as folks from across Northern Ireland descended on the town. We had the day off to get ready for our voyage, and the long range forecasts indicated we would either be leaving early or late Sunday. On that partially sunny Saturday, a 1 kilometer swim in the outer harbor had been planned, drawing contestants from as far away as Europe. It would be a difficult swim, with the distance, the swell, and the 50 degree water temperature to overcome. John Martin, professing polar bear blood, stoutly decided to compete, and some of us gathered at the beach during the race to cheer him on.
The rest of us wandered about town gathering provisions and visiting some of the local sights, mixing with the crowds. We would have ordinarily expected a pleasant day of strolling families, sunshine, and beachside fun, but today the Loyalists were set to parade, and a sense of tension pervaded. Around 1pm, the main street was cleared, and the orange-bedecked paraders began to snake their way along the main street to the deafening sound of bass and snare drums. Uniformed young toughs marched past, shouting among their ranks, pumping their fists in the air, earrings and rings glinting in the sunlight. Over their heads flew a banner swearing vigilance in the destruction of Popery. They were followed by a group of uniformed school girls, an unspoken vow that the next generation would carry on the fight, and raise children of its own into it. The effect the parade had on the crowd was unsettling; some people cheered the parade, many tried to ignore it, some watched in stony silence. Like many of the onlookers, I suddenly found myself on guard over my own Catholic upbringing, and tried to look Protestant.
I found myself fingering the emblem of our curragh: the “Bantry Boat” pin on my lapel. The pin, which had been given to our crew by Robin and the other C.C.M.H.G. members, was the hopeful symbol of their group’s attempt to reconcile the terrible divisions that have set Christian brother against brother over the centuries. Pulling its intricate design from an early Celtic Christian grave, the pin recalled an era when the fresh Christian message of God’s infinite love, compassion, and forgiveness freed the warrior inhabitants of this island from their fear of death and shadow. I felt sad for the marchers, knowing that this hopeful Christian message of mercy and tolerance would be lost to them as long as they felt the need to march. In marching they kept alive the traditions of the past few centuries; traditions of bitter struggle, sectarian warfare, and manipulation of the mob by those in power. They sadly believed their march honored their past, ignorant that each discordant step marched them further from a legacy reaching through the mists of history to the early days of Christianity in Ireland. It is a legacy rich with kings, artists, heroes, and saints. It is a legacy which speaks to their noblest traits as a people.
That night, our crew had dinner together. We told stories. The winner was John Martin, who with his deep gravelly voice proceeded to describe his race without ever divulging the actual result. “T’wuz nothing at all. Less than a kilo-meter. I wuz ashore ‘fore I knew’t.” After dinner, some of us ventured out to some of the pubs of Portrush. As we made the rounds, we talked with people about our voyage. After people got over their initial astonishment (“I didn’t know you were allowed to drink!”), we found that many wanted to talk about our voyage, and in many cases about their own faith. In the course of that night, we were able to reach out to a few individuals with Christ’s message of hope. The experience made it clear that our mission had truly begun. It also showed us that we would achieve it best by meeting people on their own terms, talking frankly about our voyage and the faith that drove it, and leaving them to draw their own conclusions. We would have to trust in God to show them the way; this would be the subject of much debate during our voyage.
The rest of us wandered about town gathering provisions and visiting some of the local sights, mixing with the crowds. We would have ordinarily expected a pleasant day of strolling families, sunshine, and beachside fun, but today the Loyalists were set to parade, and a sense of tension pervaded. Around 1pm, the main street was cleared, and the orange-bedecked paraders began to snake their way along the main street to the deafening sound of bass and snare drums. Uniformed young toughs marched past, shouting among their ranks, pumping their fists in the air, earrings and rings glinting in the sunlight. Over their heads flew a banner swearing vigilance in the destruction of Popery. They were followed by a group of uniformed school girls, an unspoken vow that the next generation would carry on the fight, and raise children of its own into it. The effect the parade had on the crowd was unsettling; some people cheered the parade, many tried to ignore it, some watched in stony silence. Like many of the onlookers, I suddenly found myself on guard over my own Catholic upbringing, and tried to look Protestant.
I found myself fingering the emblem of our curragh: the “Bantry Boat” pin on my lapel. The pin, which had been given to our crew by Robin and the other C.C.M.H.G. members, was the hopeful symbol of their group’s attempt to reconcile the terrible divisions that have set Christian brother against brother over the centuries. Pulling its intricate design from an early Celtic Christian grave, the pin recalled an era when the fresh Christian message of God’s infinite love, compassion, and forgiveness freed the warrior inhabitants of this island from their fear of death and shadow. I felt sad for the marchers, knowing that this hopeful Christian message of mercy and tolerance would be lost to them as long as they felt the need to march. In marching they kept alive the traditions of the past few centuries; traditions of bitter struggle, sectarian warfare, and manipulation of the mob by those in power. They sadly believed their march honored their past, ignorant that each discordant step marched them further from a legacy reaching through the mists of history to the early days of Christianity in Ireland. It is a legacy rich with kings, artists, heroes, and saints. It is a legacy which speaks to their noblest traits as a people.That night, our crew had dinner together. We told stories. The winner was John Martin, who with his deep gravelly voice proceeded to describe his race without ever divulging the actual result. “T’wuz nothing at all. Less than a kilo-meter. I wuz ashore ‘fore I knew’t.” After dinner, some of us ventured out to some of the pubs of Portrush. As we made the rounds, we talked with people about our voyage. After people got over their initial astonishment (“I didn’t know you were allowed to drink!”), we found that many wanted to talk about our voyage, and in many cases about their own faith. In the course of that night, we were able to reach out to a few individuals with Christ’s message of hope. The experience made it clear that our mission had truly begun. It also showed us that we would achieve it best by meeting people on their own terms, talking frankly about our voyage and the faith that drove it, and leaving them to draw their own conclusions. We would have to trust in God to show them the way; this would be the subject of much debate during our voyage.
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