Bon Voyage

The sailing time from Dublin Port to Holyhead is just under four hours, and if the sea is calm, it’s spectacular. Salmon coloured skies are the backdrop for the seagulls, travellers, migrants, and poets who travel from one Celtic land to another. People have been making this crossing since St Patrick and before him, and the journey is filled with waves of memories and the sounds of goodbyes.

Half way across the water, there’s time to think.

The thoughts needn’t be profound or interesting, but the middle of the sea can be precious and sacred.  It’s there you see the ghosts of the Irish emigrants of the 50’s dressed in their best suits and Sunday shoes, leaving one island for another. You sometimes see St Patrick, heading off to teach the gospel to unsuspecting pagans.  Nowadays, you see holiday makers trying to keep their distance.

Not everyone likes to keep their distance.

Yesterday, a very unpleasant man was too close to me in the queue.  His eyes were narrow, and he had a hooked nose, with an overstretched forehead. I could tell from his side parted hair that he was a careless driver, a bully to his spouse and a challenging colleague.  He wasn’t wearing a mask so I could smell his foul, mouldy breath, and the dampness of it, as it passed my neck, made me want to vomit.

He is the type of man who thinks that being asked to wash his hands is an infringement of his right to wipe his arse and let the faecal matter simmer under his fingernails, all day.

I asked the man to step away from me, but the request made him smirk.  When I asked him, a second time to please keep his distance, he snorted an exaggerated, pantomime laugh.  I told him that I had a Category Four person living at home, and that having a someone with underlying health problems, in my household, made me a little anxious about picking up and passing on diseases.

He laughed and said, “this man-made disease isn’t even real, come on, we all know that!”

How remarkable, how very sad.

I’m often struck by how unfortunate looking some of the anti-maskers are.  You would think they would be in favour of putting a small piece of material over their faces, and covering up for a while.

I don’t have a sick person in my house. 

That was just a lie I invented to encourage a gram of compassion or a speckle of decent, human courtesy from him.  It did not.  Contagious diseases aside, I shouldn’t have to ask men to move away from me.

What’s wrong with people? 

Why are they so mean?

Later, I saw the horrible man coming out of the shop and he was speaking loudly on the phone to some unfortunate family member, friend, or colleague.  He was walking with wide steps, outstretched legs and swagging shoulders, as if he were ready for battle.  He was holding up his phone up high, like a modern day dagger made of gold and lapis lazuli.

For a moment, I saw through the pinhole of eternity and into his soul.  I saw the sadness and grief that had caused this anger and pain, and I wished him less loneliness, and a happier life.

He’s not alone on his journey of insipid selfishness.

If he doesn’t want the free, life-saving vaccine, then so be it.  I just hope I don’t miss out on medical treatment later down the line, because he’s holding up another queue.  I know he’s been doing his own research with that one video on YouTube, and that conversation with his cousin’s best friend, I just wonder if his research is reliable.  I wish you well, strange man in the queue.  I wish you well.

We still have a little while left on this trip, and I wish him safety.

I really do. 

The last time I came back to Dublin, on the ferry from Holyhead, a coast guard helicopter tried to land on board.  It was at night, and it was dark, and it was very dramatic.  Most of the passengers ran outside, to see if we could record whatever tragedy was unfolding.  Luckily, it turned out to be a training exercise, so we all went back inside, and carried on scrolling our phones.

We, the humans, are funny old things. 

We are so perfectly pointless and serene, beautiful, mean and light-hearted.  What an extraordinary privilege to still be here.

Over the sea and back again, over the sea and back again.

I’ll see you here next week, when we can continue on our voyage together, and thank you so much for reading me.