He’d open his eyes to discover he was in darkness at sea in a Force Seven. The sound of the engine was monstrous. Across from him Hugh and Thady were rocking to and fro in their bunks. The quiet Belfastman, Theo De Largey, was sleeping with his mouth open. With each lunge of the boat De Largey fought to keep the engine from intruding into his subconscious. “Daley,” he’d shout, “I’ll fucking swing for you.” Like Jack, he too was trying to enter a landscape that was tranquil. But it was impossible to get the sound of the engine out of your head.

“I had it nearly perfect,” De Largey would say.

“Where were you?”

“It’s private.” He turned to face inwards against the cabin wall. “Maybe I’ll tell you some day.”

“Yeah, sure.” They’d turn away from each other. And start counting down to the moment they could enter sleep again.

Jack would count the revolutions of the engine and seek to enter his dreamworld through a small comfortable gap in the noise. The gap would appear as the trawler perched on one long roll. It felt like they might stay up there for ever. And just as he’d be pouring his consciousness through the break, a new run of thunderous waves would shoot the engine up into a perilous whine. Seven waves later the gap would appear again. As he’d make for it, he’d resurrect Catherine. Then just as he’d reach her the Atlantic would strike the bow, sending the waters flooding into his consciousness. The lurch would send him sliding. He’d hold on to the last image of Catherine in his head while the boat shuddered, and fell down a series of rocky steps.

Somewhere on the descent he’d always lose her. The sense of loss would be painful and bewildering. Then, reaching again a few seconds of promised calm, he’d arrive at a new warm perspective from which to view her. The oily sleeping bag, the coarse wool of the jumper that did as a pillow, became light as air. The floor of the bunk, which was only a few inches away from his face, became a distant ceiling. All receded. He braced his foot against the wall. Her white shoulder would swim into view. Her scandalous shins. His consciousness idled.

“Jesus!” shouted De Largey as the lurch came again. “That fucker Daley.”

28. Searching for Jack in Yeats’ County

28

Searching for Jack in Yeats’ County