The Launch THEN June 2003

The Launch by Tony Watson

The next morning, we awoke early, said prayers and had breakfast together as a crew. Robin had seen to it that we all could stay together at Malvern House, a bed and breakfast overlooking the harbor. Joan, our hostess, and Kate, her friend from next door, both went out of their way to help us settle in so that we could focus on the journey ahead. For breakfast, we were served the specialty of the house: an Ulster Fry, which we learned was a traditional Northern Irish breakfast of sausage, Smithfield ham, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, potato bread and soda bread. It was delicious; we devoured the contents on our plates, trying hard not to think about the impact it would have on our arteries!

After breakfast, we walked to the Causeway Coast Maritime Heritage Group boathouse which would serve as our headquarters in Port Rush. Staring out to sea on a head of rocks just outside the entrance to Port Rush Harbour, the squat, white concrete turn of the century pavilion had previously served as a launch point for the Port Rush lifeboats. The R.N.L.I. lifeboats, which still operate today, have been the salvation for many a ship in distress on Antrim’s beautiful but treacherously rocky coastline. Manned entirely by volunteers, the lifeboat crews are renowned for their selfless work setting out to sea in conditions that keep the even the most experienced sailors ashore. As we poked around the boathouse, we took notice of the long stone ramp descending into the surf from the back of the building. In the not too distant past, the lifeboats—which were rowboats at the time-- would be raced to the boathouse by horse drawn carriage to the top of the ramp, and launched out into howling surf below on their missions of mercy. The lifeboat crews are a testament to both the dangerous temper of the seas of the Northern Irish Coast as well as the courageous selflessness of the communities that have lived on it for millennia.

With the modern lifeboat crews now based exclusively out of Port Rush Harbour, the C.C.M.H.G. boathouse now served as the base for all maritime heritage efforts and sea kayaking on the Causeway Coast. Robin and John were active members of this group, and Robin had attained some local fame when he rowed a sea kayak from Ireland to Scotland a few years before. This made all of us feel all the more confident in his ability to lead us on our journey.

We spent the morning sorting through gear and painting the oars we would be using on our voyage, setting them out to dry on the rocks by the surf. By this point, we were beginning to develop a group dynamic, and our work was accompanied by banter, laughter, and playful boasting. This morning also was the first time we had an opportunity to practice the hymns and songs we would sing in services along the way to Iona. We had much practice to do. Alastair was to lead our efforts, and later that morning we had our first formal song practice in the upstairs of the boathouse. The room, looking out to sea from a bank of solid looking windows at the back of the boathouse, was soon filled by the beautiful harmony of a dozen men singing rowing songs, psalms, and hymns. It was a special moment for our crew. Singing in unison, it became clear that were not only to be a crew, but a brotherhood of pilgrims who would try to touch those we met with the faith that had sparked our journey. In many ways, it was this aspect of our voyage which would bring us closest to St. Columba’s original voyage: his mission of conversion had been undertaken out of faith, and buttressed by his faith in Christ. He had set out confident in his worldly abilities as a sailor, but entrusted the success of his mission to God. Sitting in our small boathouse looking out at the sea we would soon be crossing, we realized that despite our own confidence in ourselves as a crew, the success of our mission would also depend on our faith in God to guide us safely.

That evening, we gathered at the slipway in Port Rush Harbour to launch our curragh. This would not be an easy task. Colmcille was quite possibly the largest curragh afloat, being 2 feet longer than the Brendan, which Tim Severin had famously sailed across the Atlantic in 1976-7. Built in 1997 in Dingle, County Kerry by the renowned curragh builder Eddie Hutchison for the C.C.M.H.G’s original voyage to Iona, our curragh was 38 feet in length and 8 feet in beam. Made of a basket-like latticework of oaken bent ribs and stringers, the frame was then covered by layers of canvass that were sewn together and covered in tar to seal the hull. An open cloth boat without the benefit of a keel, the result was a sturdy, flexible, craft that slid over the waves rather than cut through them. The simple design of our craft would have other advantages to modern craft, as we were to learn later during our voyage.

At the moment, however, our thoughts were on getting Colmcille off of its trailer, down the slipway, and into the water safely. Our boat, despite its lightweight design, weighed in unladen at a very heavy 2 tons. Laden, it would weigh as much as 4 tons, and could flex to a lengthy 40 feet.
To get our craft into the water, we would have to lift it off of the trailer and roll her down the slipway on her rubber fenders, which would serve as makeshift rollers. This would have to be done with utmost care; there was a strong risk of damaging her fragile cloth hull on the concrete surface of the slipway until she was safely in the water. To do this, our crew gathered on either side of curragh and lifted her 2 tons across the trailer and set her gently down onto the ground, resting gingerly on her strong side gunnel while a number of us held her in place. The rest of our crew then scrambled among the others, placing the fenders alongside the length of our curragh. Then, carefully and slowly, our crew lowered her gently right side up onto the fenders. Getting on all sides, we rolled Colmcille along the fenders and down the slipway towards the water. As we rolled her slowly along, some of us raced fenders from the stern to the bow, adjusting them underneath as necessary to keep her fragile hull from coming into contact with the concrete surface below. With some of us knee deep in water and a few of us in the curragh to fend off from the seawalls, we gently rolled her the last few feet. Colmcille was launched!

By this time, we had attracted quite a crowd. While curraghs are still used in some parts of Ireland as fishing craft, none come close to size of our craft. Many of the comments and questions by onlookers concerned our voyage, our craft, and comments on its size. “Ye mean yer goin’ to row t’ Scotlan’ in tha’!?!,” volunteered one such onlooker, the deep lines on his face indicating that he was no stranger to the water himself, “I’ll pray for ye!”

Scrambling down the seawall and into our curragh, we took her out to sea for the first time for a training run. Many of us had been training on our own for months prior to coming together as a crew. Now, as we passed the seawalls that formed the entrance to the harbor, we pulled together for the first time as a crew. Well, almost together. Our first time out was marked by the clashing of our oars as we tried to find a rhythm as crew. We would clearly need some more time practicing to get it fully down. The curragh itself performed beautifully. Gliding across the waves, she proved herself both highly maneuverable and seaworthy. Despite the frequent clank of the oars of our crew, she moved with a grace that I had only previously seen in the finest sailing vessels. She could clearly make the journey. Any failure would be ours as crew, and we all were resolved to meet the challenge of the voyage ahead.

Back ashore, we ate at a local restaurant together and jokingly chided each other over our lackluster coordination as rowers. We knew we would have plenty of time to work the kinks out. In the next few days we would set out for Ballycastle, a port 18 miles down the Antrim coast, and we all looked to the days ahead with anticipation of the long rows ahead of us.