Idlebones

Cuccumber Sandwiches & Kayaking in the Surf

This morning I felt the need to cycle to Castlebellingham, to a local farmers market that takes place there on the first Sunday of every month. I opened my curtains at 7.30am and decided against it. The rain was falling in slanting sheets that buckled the Fusia bush in my back garden and rattled off the drainpipe in like pellets. I considered it for a moment: cycling in the rain is actually quite enjoyable. It keeps you cool and pours down your face in constant refreshing swathes. I declined the notion, deciding that the rain was far too
heavy. Instead I went with plan B. Kayaking with Shane a little later in the day out in Clogherhead. You can’t get much wetter than a quick dunk in the sea.
Instead I drove to the market, getting there early enough
to fill my satchel full of books. A JP Donleavy my best find out of 9. John, the retired gentleman who is ever present at the market knows my face by now and gives me my 9 books for 5 Euro. A regular’s discount, he tells me. He loves to talk, and I like to listen. He is an avid
reader of books, three a week he tells me. His intimate knowledge of every book I buy from him leads me to believe him. He confesses he is worried that I might turn up one day and set up my own stall, selling all the books I’ve bought from him in competition with his own. Later, I sit on the wall overlooking the small weir bordering the old stately
home where the market is being held and overlook my purchases. The sun has come out, contrary to my expectations and sparkles of the leaves,
heavy with the morning’s rain. Mum has rung to say they are on their way, so I sit and read, sipping a cappuccino from the Italian stand and wait for them. Instead I drove to the market,
getting there early enough to fill my satchel full of books. A JP
Donleavy my best find out of 9. John, the retired gentleman who is
ever present at the market knows my face by now and gives me my 9
books for 5 Euro. A regular’s discount, he tells me. He loves to talk,
and I like to listen. He is an avid reader of books, three a week he
tells me. His intimate knowledge of every book I buy from him leads me
to believe him. He confesses he is worried that I might turn up one
day and set up my own stall, selling all the books I’ve bought from
him in competition with his own. Later, I sit on the wall overlooking
the small weir bordering the old stately home where the market is
being held and overlook my purchases. The sun has come out, contrary
to my expectations and sparkles of the leaves, heavy with the
morning’s rain. Mum has rung to say they are on their way, so I sit
and read, sipping a cappuccino from the Italian stand and wait for
them. By the time they arrive I am on chapter three of
Donleavy book, my coffee finished and my shirt clammy with the growing
heat of the sun. It’s turning into a beautiful September day. I decide
to join them in their perusal of the market. Mum, typically gravitates
towards the antiques and costume jewellery, Dad is single minded in
his search for the book stall. Like father like son, an inherited
interest shared by myself and Adam. He picks out a History of the
French Revolution, history being his weakness. Mum and I debate
herbaceous borders and clinging ivy’s at a stall in the rear garden.
All our interests are eventually secured by the live glass beehive
that one exhibitor has brought. It’s a wonderful side section of life
in a beehive, complete with queen bee holding court while the drones
bustle around her, tiding and fussing, bumbling into each other in
frantic dance. It’s entrancing. Some of the bees are carrying insect
debris, and as the exhibitor narrates, try to look for an exit to
throw out the trash. They can’t be kept in a glass cage like this for
longer than 8 hours, he informs us, because of their fastidious
nature.

I beg my leave, eventually, eager to get to Shane’s to
pick some rocks from the nearby Dunanly beach to build my rockery at
home. Muireann, Shane’s Daughter is as usual, holding court and busy
building sandwiches with her father. Cucumber sandwiches are a
favourite. I beg my leave, eventually, eager to get to
Shane’s to pick some rocks from the nearby Dunanly beach to build my
rockery at home. Muireann, Shane’s Daughter is as usual, holding court
and busy building sandwiches with her father. Cucumber sandwiches are
a favourite. “Hiya Boney!” she yells as I enter the Kitchen. She’s
covered in paint, a result of her “helpful” interludes to her mothers
decorating upstairs. She delights in showing me her feet, resplendid
in cream coloured undercoat. “I been helping!” she declares, a three
year old delighting in anything sticky, messy, loud and bold. Her
copper coloured bangs toss about her head as she swings from my gaze
to her fathers, Shane dutifully making a sandwich for Niamh who is
upstairs, revelling in the peace Muireanns’ latest distraction has
afforded her. Tiernan, her little brother, I’m informed by Muireann,
is asleep, “because he’s Knackered!” I can see the corners of Shanes
mouth crease in mirth at his daughter’s re-enactment of his wife’s
words.

We sit and eat cucumber sandwiches at Muireanns
Instruction. She clambers onto my knee and makes faces at me. I return
the favour and she struggles to cross her eyes and pout her lip in
response to my gurnning. She’s a giggler, a live wire of happy
childhood, tearing around the kitchen in dance and fake falling over.
You can’t help but recognise she is a happy, loved, wonderful little
girl. We sit and eat cucumber sandwiches at Muireanns
Instruction. She clambers onto my knee and makes faces at me. I return
the favour and she struggles to cross her eyes and pout her lip in
response to my gurnning. She’s a giggler, a live wire of happy
childhood, tearing around the kitchen in dance and fake falling over.
You can’t help but recognise she is a happy, loved, wonderful little
girl. Shane suggests we visit the beach in Dulaney to
hunt for rocks for my garden. I’ve brought my boat, on Shane’s
suggestion, in case the tide is amicable, and we set off in our cars
to the beach, Muireann in baby seat with little booties and wrapped up
warm. The little dirt track that leads to the beach is no longer
uninhabited. Someone has bought the little broken down cottage that
looks out over the bay has been done up and is fronted by several cars
that give away the owners as Dubliners. It’s a beautiful, cresent
shaped beach that receives us. It’s empty save for one couple vainly
trying to launch a dispirited looking kite. Muireann is enthralled.
Her little boots scuff the high ridge of stones washed into a frozen
wave at the edge of the dunes as she picks her way down towards the
beach.

Shane and I watch her and wander up the shore, drawing
an exclamation from Muireann. “You can’t leave me!. I- have-To-Make-A-
Sandcastle!!” She punctuates each word with a raised finger in
gesticulation that converts Shane and I to bent over laughing. Her
seriousness in her expression melting our hearts. We do as we are bid
and wait till Muireann completes her castle with a triumphant “Ya!!”,
instantly losing interest in it and tearing past us to a funny
coloured rock that’s caught her eye. Shane and I watch
her and wander up the shore, drawing an exclamation from Muireann.
“You can’t leave me!. I- have-To-Make-A- Sandcastle!!” She punctuates
each word with a raised finger in gesticulation that converts Shane
and I to bent over laughing. Her seriousness in her expression melting
our hearts. We do as we are bid and wait till Muireann completes her
castle with a triumphant “Ya!!”, instantly losing interest in it and
tearing past us to a funny coloured rock that’s caught her eye.

On our way back to Shane’s house we discuss bringing our
boats out onto Clogherhead beach. It’s decided that, on Niamhs’
approval, we will spend a few hours surfing the waves that brush the
nearby coast. Niamh laughs as Muireann is left to ask the question as
we cower in hallway:”Can Daddy and Boney go Paddling Mum?”
On our way back to Shane’s house we discuss bringing our boats out
onto Clogherhead beach. It’s decided that, on Niamhs’ approval, we
will spend a few hours surfing the waves that brush the nearby coast.
Niamh laughs as Muireann is left to ask the question as we cower in
hallway:”Can Daddy and Boney go Paddling Mum?” Shane works hard and
is constantly working around the house. Niamh is only too delighted to
see him take some time off and muck about at his favourite hobby. I
have a moment of jealousy at they’re relationship as I look up at
Niamh on a step ladder, busily painting the landing. Shane is an
amazing DIY man, constantly devouring empty time with projects. Niamh
is constantly trying to keep up with him, but loving the fact that he
has an outlet. His kayaking.

We decide to kayak, no, surf on Clogherheads’ incoming
tide. The tide is almost in as we mount our boats. We climb in, barley
in the shallows knowing a wave will eventually take us out. The high
waves are easy, but the suck of the backwash is alarming as I am
forced to paddle outwards constantly to avoid being turned over. The
fun is in the backwash. I turn my boat to 11 o’clock as instructed and
ride the wave, surboard-like into shore. I stick my paddle into the
en route wave and steer my rudder (my lacklustre paddle) over the
pummelling tip of the surf, lifting me, throwing me back for the
shore. It’s thrilling, energising, exciting, scary, and wonderful. I
turn around; digging ploughs into the waters, until I’m facing seaward
again. Shane is out beyond the waves, facing me as seal pokes his
enormous head above the waves, away to his right. I see him first.
“Feckin seal” I shout. The wash is disguising my call. Shane looks a
bit bemused by my gesticulations, eventually following my out pointed
finger to see the large black head of a seal 30 feet of to our
position. Later we find out that this massive seal has been the
scourge of local fishermen for sometime, biting fish off their lines
for the last 9 months. I’m secretly happy for him, and his clever
hunting. We decide to kayak, no, surf on Clogherheads’
incoming tide. The tide is almost in as we mount our boats. We climb
in, barley in the shallows knowing a wave will eventually take us out.
The high waves are easy, but the suck of the backwash is alarming as I
am forced to paddle outwards constantly to avoid being turned over.
The fun is in the backwash. I turn my boat to 11 o’clock as instructed
and ride the wave into shore. I stick my paddle into
the en route wave and steer my boat over the
pummelling tip of the surf, lifting me, throwing me back for the
shore. 

I spin around, digging ploughs into the waters, until I’m facing seaward
again. Shane is out beyond the waves, facing me as seal pokes his
enormous head above the waves, away to his right. I see him first.
“Feckin seal” I shout. The wash is disguising my call. Shane looks a
bit bemused by my gesticulations, eventually following my out pointed
finger to see the large black head of a seal 30 feet of to our
position. Later we find out that this massive seal has been the
scourge of local fishermen for sometime, biting fish off their lines
for the last 9 months. I’m secretly happy for him, and his clever
hunting.

         We spend the next hour surfing the waves that pummel the
shore. I’m still slightly nervous in my boat, a hangover from my
recent experiences with anxiety. I’m still nervous as Shane suggests
we try some “wet exits”. I’ve come to realise that part of my problem
manifests itself in claustrophobia, yet here I am, legs constricted by
my plastic kayak, being thrown about by the waves that threaten to
topple me with every ripple. I need to fall over, but fear it at the
same time, needing the waves to overturn me to force me into a wet
exit to assure me that I can escape. Sure enough, one large wave
fulfils its promise. I see it coming for at least 30 seconds, giving
me enough time to turn my stern towards it and begin paddling as fast
as I can to try and lessen its initial impact. This does, however,
mean that I can’t see it coming any longer.

The wave arrives with a slight lifting of my stern, followed by
an acceleration that lifts me a good meter and carries me towards the
shore. I paddle continuously, furiously trying to keep my kayak in an
11 o’clock position to ride the wave in. I begin drifting towards 10
o’clock and the crest catches me broadside and starts to turn my boat
over. Instinctively I dig hard to my left and upright myself, whipping
my green craft to a 12 o’clock position. But my momentum carries me
further and soon I’m racing towards the shore with my bow pointing up
and my stern becoming buried by the force of the water behind me. I
flip, unconsciously flinging myself to the right. The wrong thing to
do, I realise instantly. Submerged, but not completely upside down
yet, I have the presence of mind to gather myself back into the boat
and grab the sides of the cockpit with both arms and push myself free
of the boat with ease.

“I thought you were going to wait for me to practice that” laughs Shane from the shallows, having shot past me riding the same wave.

“So did I” I reply, chuckling, gathering myself to my feet in what I now realise is barely three feet of water.

The water is cool, refreshing, and energising on this warm September afternoon.