This morning I had a long talk with an old man who was rejoicing
over the improvement he had seen here during the last ten or fifteen
years.
Till recently there was no communication with the mainland except by
hookers, which were usually slow, and could only make the voyage in
tolerably fine weather, so that if an islander went to a fair it was
often three weeks before he could return. Now, however, the steamer
comes here twice in the week, and the voyage is made in three or
four hours.
The pier on this island is also a novelty, and is much thought of,
as it enables the hookers that still carry turf and cattle to
discharge and take their cargoes directly from the shore. The water
round it, however, is only deep enough for a hooker when the tide is
nearly full, and will never float the steamer, so passengers must
still come to land in curaghs. The boat-slip at the corner next the
south island is extremely useful in calm weather, but it is exposed
to a heavy roll from the south, and is so narrow that the curaghs
run some danger of missing it in the tumult of the surf.
In bad weather four men will often stand for nearly an hour at the
top of the slip with a curagh in their hands, watching a point of
rock towards the south where they can see the strength of the waves
that are coming in.
The instant a break is seen they swoop down to the surf, launch
their curagh, and pull out to sea with incredible speed. Coming to
land Is attended with the same difficulty, and, if their moment is
badly chosen, they are likely to be washed sideways and swamped
among the rocks.
This continual danger, which can only be escaped by extraordinary
personal dexterity, has had considerable influence on the local
character, as the waves have made it impossible for clumsy,
foolhardy, or timid men to live on these islands.
When the steamer is within a mile of the slip, the curaghs are put
out and range themselves - there are usually from four to a dozen - in
two lines at some distance from the shore.
The moment she comes in among them there is a short but desperate
struggle for good places at her side. The men are lolling on their
oars talking with the dreamy tone which comes with the rocking of
the waves. The steamer lies to, and in an instant their faces become
distorted with passion, while the oars bend and quiver with the
strain. For one minute they seem utterly indifferent to their own
safety and that of their friends and brothers.
