Chris Duff has always been a man who is more comfortable in the water than out of it. He was working with the US Navy at Holy Loch, Scotland in 1982 when he finished his enlistment. Faced with the difficult decision of whether to re-enlist or not, he opted to return to civilian life. Soon the dream of an Irish trip would be born.
Chris tried various trades, at one point working in upstate New York as a butcher’s assistant for an elderly couple from Ireland. When he asked where the old man was from, he was told from the Aran Islands. For those of us who love Ireland, he conjures up enchanting visions of stone cottages and late-night music sessions. The couple pulled a coffee table book from a shelf and opened it to some startling images of the Aran Islands and their people: rough seas, sheer rocky cliffs, stone houses, fur-covered boats called currachs, and rough, weather-beaten faces. wind. Our man Chris was captivated by the wild sea that surrounded that beautiful island and a seed was planted in his brain that would grow and give birth to a Celtic adventure that would change his life fourteen years later.
Chris’s decision to kayak around Ireland was not the first such trip for him. He embodies the spirit of adventure that many of us only dream of. He had kayaked across the US and Canada: twelve months and 8,000 miles. He had also circumnavigated Great Britain: five and a half months and 3,000 miles. However, Ireland, with its wild seas and unprotected west coast, with powerful waves meeting Europe’s first landfall, would be an entirely different story.
The starting point is Dublin’s famous River Liffey on June 1, 1996. The journey’s holy ship, an eighteen-foot sea kayak loaded with a hundred pounds of food, water and camping gear, a plastic-wrapped diary for safekeeping and a carefully splash-protected map of the Irish coast on the helm. As Chris begins his travels, he shares with us his blessings: ten years of carpentry work allowed him to save enough to take this precious time off for this adventure, to “take time and be quiet for a few months.” Few of us have known such luxury, but he has worked hard for it and appreciates it; luckily for us, he shares every moment so we can enjoy it vicariously through his words.
What struck me most about Chris’s writing is the mystery and wonder with which he contemplates the beauties of nature around him, particularly the west coast of Ireland, where cliffs are battered by strong seas and winds whip wildly. He sometimes kayaks through sea caves along the coast and paddles in semi-darkness and one feels his reverence for what nature has wrought in our landscape.
Ireland’s coastline is simply crazy for bird life, particularly the islands off the coast. At one point, a large-winged fulmar watches him curiously, hovering in the air and looking him in the eye. Chris tells him, “You are so beautiful, my friend. What have you seen and where have you been today?” There is a timelessness in the eyes of such a bird, which can make us feel our insignificance in front of Mother Nature. Chris visits islands rich in bird colonies: cormorants, shearwaters, shags, fulmars, kitted gulls, guillemots, gannets, razorbills, by the thousands. They are all very tolerant of his presence and just accept him instead of becoming frantic when he approaches, as one might expect. It is a paradise for bird watchers.
Along the journey, Chris visits numerous islands, some with familiar-sounding names like Skellig Michael and Clare Island, others that are tiny dots in the ocean landscape. When he gets bad weather, he sits out of the wind and waves, looking out of his tent at the storm outside, waiting for a change in the weather. He takes us with him as he sleeps in a beehive hut or paddles under a waterfall near Dingle Bay for a cold freshwater shower or even religiously bar-hopping from session to session in the busy pub town of Dingle .
What is remarkable is that, unlike many of Irish descent, Chris Duff did not come to Ireland to search for his past. He wanted to enjoy a challenging kayak trip and be alone with the winds and waves. The powerful force of the Irish landscape and the Irish people, however, leaves its mark on him. He begins to feel not only a sense of belonging, but also a sense of wonder and loss. As he walks through tangles of wildflowers on a desert island, he comes across ruins of stone huts and chapels and the history of the place springs up to ensnare him as it has so many others. He reflects:
“Across the narrow channel, two ruins of stone houses stood bathed in the last rays of the sun. The island, radiant in the evening light, looked like an enchanted land from a fairy tale. The shadows of the stone walls They divided the green meadows and the cap of the rock that made its way to the top of the island looked like a place where the fairies could dance…”
I found it a pleasure to travel around the circumference of the Emerald Isle with a philosophical “American canoeist”. His courage against the wild waves of the west coast is mind-boggling for a shore sailor like me. At one point, he lands safely on a remote shoreline only to be greeted by a local emergency crew looking for him. Someone had seen him “struggling” in the waves and thought he was in danger. Meanwhile, he had been having the time of his life happily battling the waves!
The names of the landmarks on your journey sound like a cast of famous actors with cameos in a blockbuster movie: Mizen Head, Dursey Head, the Skelligs, Dingle Bay, the Blaskets, The River Shannon, Galway Bay, the Cliffs of Moher. , the Aran Islands, Clare Island, and more! The list goes on. It really is a cast of notable characters and keeps you guessing which one will take the stage next.
Visiting the Blasket Islands, which were reluctantly abandoned by villagers in the 1950s, Chris comments that in a kayak the paddler always sits facing forward. However, in traditional Irish currach, the oarsmen face the rear of the boat and watch its wake. This last sight of their island must have been painful enough for the villagers as they rowed further and further away from the ancestral home of their kin.
The people along the path are exclusively Irish. Every time Chris emerges from the sea, seemingly out of nowhere, he is met with disbelieving comments. “Did you come from Dublin with that?! I think you’re crazy.” Kindness to strangers has always been the hallmark of Irish hospitality; thousands of years ago, it was actually ordained by the Brehon laws of the land. It just seems like second nature to a generous people. The fishermen who casually hand you some lobster claws or some clean fish for your dinner, along with tips on your journey. The housewife who cooks her dinner and asks her to join the family by the fire for a night of storytelling. The couple that gets up at dawn to see him off on the next stage of his journey. The fellow kayaker in Galway that gives you a place to stay and relax after a period of bad weather and helps you transport your heavy kayak through the busy streets of the city. Sadly, only in the north of Ireland, where trouble was still raging, is his knock on the door greeted with suspicion and fear rather than a smile and a warm welcome by the fire.
Ireland is a revelation for our kayaker friend. He is amazed by the natural beauty of the windswept islands and cliff-fringed coastlines, drawn by the friendly people, mystified by the sheer volume of history pouring from the seams of the landscape, and humbled by the mysterious sacredness he feels. He has a gift for storytelling, for describing a scene to the last rays of the sun, which may well be evidence of his Irish ancestry.
For those who are faint of heart, there are scenes in this book that are truly heartbreaking. Chris paddles over waves that would scare you and me and navigates around submerged rocks that could puncture his little kayak and drown him. But truth be told, he ends his journey safely. As the old saying goes, he “lives to tell the tale.” So he enjoys every beautiful and creepy second!
Copyright Janet McGrane Bennett 2010