The race… (part 2 of 3)
Still catching up with my notes about the Celtic Challenge, last part tomorrow.
I staggered from the bus onto Irish soil, jet-lagged and bleary-eyed after one hour’s sleep on the ferry. It felt as if we had crossed the Atlantic rather than the Irish Sea. The teams might have to keep up this punishing regime for at least another 36h, up to and including the exertions of the race, the start of which depended on the weather. Not one of them showed any sign of tiredness. Shamefully, John and I scuttled into a B&B (which miraculously had one free room) for a few hours’ rest before lunch.
Arklow has a busy high street with few pedestrian crossings. Perhaps this is because here the cars don’t accelerate when a pedestrian steps onto the road.
The beautifully painted pubs promised Guiness and Bulmer’s cider on tap. However, they were surprisingly empty for a Friday lunchtime. The smoking ban introduced on March 29th (presumably so it would not be taken for an April’s Fool) is holding, but it is bad for business.
The cider was better than anything outside of Devon. John proclaimed his pint of Guiness superior to the Guiness anywhere else in the world. I reminded him that it had been ten years since he last had one Ÿon a previous trip to Ireland. He retorted that this is because it is so bad everywhere else.
Dozy with jetlag and twitchy with nicotine-deprivation, I swept a glass from the table as we got up to leave after lunch. The barman was good-natured about it, telling us to take it easy. This we did, retreating back to our room to build up our strength for the long ardeous hours of watching other people row across the Irish Sea.
The teams met at the local sailing club at six. As we gathered in the courtyard, we could hear the wind whistling through the rigging. The sky had turned an ominous grey. It was clear that the race would have to be delayed. The starting time was tentatively put back to Sunday at 4 a.m.
The following morning, the teams re-convened. The sky was clearer but the wind was blowing in gusts, chilling our bones and ruffling our hair. In the past the Challenge has been rowed in force five winds, but the forecast was for gales up to force six and the swell had built up over the past few days; some of the support boats had struggled on their crossing. The race required a 36h window of reasonable calm. It was not to be.
The organisers explained that risking just one life was unacceptable. Against the protests of some of the faster teams, the race was called off. Either all would be able to partricipate or none. It was the first time that the Challenge had been cancelled due to adverse weather.
Hundreds of athletes and their supporters were standing in the sailing club car-park; 360 people in all had gathered for the race, along with nineteen longboats and a flottilla of yachts, motor boats and fishing vessels. For the past months the teams had dedicated themselves to this occasion: training, organising and fund-raising. One man had flown over from Australia specifically to take part.
Just de-mobilising the crews took the rest of the day. Buses were arranged for the evening ferry. Urgent phone calls were made. While the bustling continued, John and I walked to the end of the marina up to the beach, across a patch of desolate wasteland. We joined some of the skippers who stood looking out over the sea. Here in the open, we were buffeted by the wind. It was clear that it would be irresponsible to go ahead.
We retreated to one of the larger pubs for coffee and talks. The meeting slipped into lunchtime and soon the Guiness started to flow. It looked as if most people would settle for the day.
Before long, the singing started around some of the tables where the blokes had not bothered with morning coffee. Being Welsh, they sang in perfect harmony. And gradually, the gloom lifted. People began to smile, making plans for the Welsh League season ahead. The wind drove the clouds from the sky and the sun emerged. Soon the singing in the background was mixed with laughter. Suddenly, I was in the Irish pub of my dreams.
Despite the crowds, we did not manage to drink the place dry. The bartenders emerged periodically and kicked barrels of Guiness across the asphalt towards the cellar, like slow-motion-football. To be fair, by about the time we had to leave for our buses, the proprietor looked slightly alarmed.
“I’ve only got nine more barrels in,” he said: “I hope it’ll last!”
Denni