High Tide at Westcove
Southwestern Ireland is comprised of four fingers that project out into the Atlantic Ocean. There is a road that meanders through all four peninsulae called Wild Atlantic Way (it actually covers 2,500 km from the top of the island to the very southern part of Cork). The common aspects of that road are that it follows the sea and it’s about as narrow as any road you will ever drive on. In between each of the fingers is an inlet with its own tidal flows based on all the forces and physics that govern such things. In the ten days we have been here at Westcove looking out at the Kenmare “River” inlet, I have seen no commercial shipping traffic other than a few small and infrequent fishing boats. Even the seagoing pleasure craft seem minimal by most vacation area standards. An odd sailboat or a sightseeing rubber raft carrying tourists might wander past. This is a quiet part of the world and the hardscrabble hillsides give clear evidence of why human activity of all sorts and transportation on land and water are de minimus.
The nature of the area is that there are simply no highways and road travel is slow at best given the way the roads are forced to follow the rugged terrain and the natural geography of the peninsulae and inlets. Sea travel is also slow and steady since the scattering of rocky outcropping giving rest stops to seabirds and the Wild Atlantic currents that can throw waves up in an instant are both cause for maritime caution. Vacations are meant for adventures and this land and sea are brimming with adventures waiting to be snatched from their breast. And yet, our more “mature” collection of friends and family are our guests this week, which means that we must temper our adventurous instincts and carefully think through consequences.
We have taken note that the service people here in Kerry are very happy to have our business and they show it by covering over their natural gruffness with a pleasant veneer of helpfulness. We can see enough of their natural tendencies to know that what lies beneath is not the courtly behavior that opens doors and politely clears table. My policy to tip 10% to all service people has been met with mixed response. Some are pleased and appreciative. Some look disappointed, in a way that suggests that life is hard and nothing can improve that. Most accept it with a nod as though to do less would be churlish and to do more would be sycophantic. But overall, we have found everyone in Kerry genuinely pleasant and properly respectful. We are told that Americans are more liked than most since they view America as having befriended the Irish in many ways for one and a half centuries.
The day’s agenda calls for a day-trip to a pub across the inlet. That would require either a forty-five minute speedboat ride with the wind in our hair and the sea spray in our faces, or a steady two-hour ride in the van with Gerard at the wheel with his vast array of local knowledge and gift-of-gab. The first excursion last week proved to be challenging in boarding and disembarking the boat. The Westcove dock is not the height of modernity, so its points of access are always in doubt based on who else is using the facility, where they have affixed their boat and the state of the tide vis-a-vis the depth of the draft of the docking vessel. The choices are three; a stone stair landing, a boat ramp and a metal ladder. They all present opportunities and challenges. Truth be told, for a younger or experienced seaman, none is a particular problem. But did I mention that we are neither young nor experienced in seagoing ways?
The anticipation and preparation towards this minor boat outing by this group of aging Baby Boomers would put the D-Day Invasion to shame. There was much consternation about whether to risk the boat or suffer the long car ride. Both could be treacherous to a bad back, a wobbly knee or a queasy tummy. Everyone in the group of eighteen had one or more of those maladies to some degree or other. It became a triage to assign a mode of transport, with one-third by land and two-thirds by sea required.
When we arrived at the community pier (a spot that felt like our private pier, but was not), there was an Irish family swimming in the mooring area where the boat would have to dock to be alongside the stair landing (clearly the most accomodative boarding spot given the higher tide of the moment). As the boat approached, I politely mentioned the need for the family to get out of the water to make way. The mother was not happy as she could not understand why we couldn’t use the ladder instead. I needed to explain our aged and infirmed condition and the mother finally begrudgingly got out of the water behind her two wet-suited lads, and then held her over-eager water dog so he would not jump into the boat. This all made the boarding process a bit less relaxed as the dripping family stood by while we gathered our stragglers, donned our life preservers and gingerly made our shaky way onto the boat. As we departed the pier with a hearty thank-you to the chilled family, the gesture was met with a head shake and a Gaelic version of “good riddance.”
Gerard had timed his departure by car so as to more-or-less coincide with our arrival by boat. After a sunny dockside pub lunch, complete with beer and wine, we regrouped with the most injured members retreating to the car and the more fit (a very relative term in this case) heading for the boat. This time it was our turn to wait impatiently on the dock while another boating family unloaded their boat of its fishing gear and refreshments. A choppy and soaking ride home left us having to contend with an increasingly low tide. The boatman by this time had realized that this crew was not up for the ladder and the tide was too low for the stair landing, so he chose the boat ramp as our exit strategy. We all stumbled off with no one worse for wear, with the over-tipped boatman probably glad to be rid of the injured reserve team we represented.
A good day was had by all, but I must admit that as a non-boating person, I have never before fully appreciated the importance of the tide in the simplest of boating maneuvers. I also now understand the need for civility and patience in boating. I have a newfound respect for the planning of great amphibious efforts and will forever remember that a high tide lifts all boats…or something like that.
I enjoyed this. It took me back to my impressionable teen years when I lived in a house on the Atlantic Ocean. Our property ended at the low water line. We had a small sailboat that needed tending. Our next door neighbors were a fine Irish Catholic family, several members of which made their living on the water as merchant marines, lobstermen, and coastguard. We paid attention to the tides daily. A nor’easter that peaked at high tide once sent a telephone pole over the seawall and into our yard.