The Captain of the Muruch Lass

Maoin na mara ar muinighin [i] – “Our hope lies in the riches of the Sea”.

We are a people of the sea and have lived on these shores for over one thousand years since our ancestors sailed down from the great Northern lands. The Irish Sea is as nurturing and comforting to me as cuddling up to my own mother’s breast. Her energy flows through the very essence of me, and I take great solace in knowing that the energy of the water flows through us all.  

The year was 1901, and I was just a girl of 18 years. The second eldest child of 6 children to Padraig and Rose O’Doyle. Our country was in turmoil. The English government was still occupying our land and the greater population of my country was impoverished. But the Fishery[ii] was not. In fact, we were thriving, with our own micro-economy and regulations, though you dare not tell the English.

Our home was known as the Fishery, a small town within a town, pushed up on the eastern seafront, adjacent to the harbour. Where our simple whitewashed dwellings with thatched roofs lined the coble stone streets. A place where we spoke our own language, made our own clothing to keep the chill out of our bones. We adhered to our own calendar in accordance with the herring and mackerel run and lived in harmony with those who would also honour the sea (even with the protestants).

My mother Rose was a wise woman who could read and write, with thanks to the sisters of Mercy and their makeshift schools in the hedges. But she was also an incredibly superstitious woman who practised and followed the old ways.

Her healing powers were well known in the Fishery with many sailors coming to her for all kinds of remedies. She also had the power of sight, “a gift from the ancient ones” she would say. My ma’ could find meanings in the way the ravens flew overhead, the smell of the sea air and the patterns in the waves. The evening before last she had one of her foretelling dreams. Ma’ spoke of heartache coming our way, and there was no convincing her otherwise. Trouble was coming and it was coming in fast.

I remember that day well. It was a cold morning, so very cold. The bloomin’ fire took an age to start because of the damp coal. The chilblains on my hands were complaining as loud as the rolling sea, crashing upon the shoreline and the mist was swirling around my ankles as I went about my morning chores.

“Rosie” my mother called out, “take this to ye da’” before he sets sail.  My father had forgotten his Geansai, a fisherman’s jersey skilfully knitted without wide seems to wear under his oilskins. He left the house just a few moments earlier calling out behind him, “I’ll be not needing that today the weather is fine, and the water is as smooth as liBan’s [iii] backside”.  

Although my mother was as tough as nails and shows no emotions on the surface, I knew she was worried that day. She stood looking on after us, twisting her emerald ring, and the lines on her usually pretty face seemed to run deeper than normal.

As I set out towards the harbour, which was just a few hundred yards away, I could see the masts of the Muruch Lass waving back and forth beckoning me to come closer.  She was a fine lugger, measuring just over 45 feet, painted dark green, with a big rounded stern and two masts reaching up to the sky. My father was so proud of her. “Our hope lies in the riches of the Sea” he would often say to me. And with just a few more good hauls of herring, the Muruch Lass would be all ours.

“Thank you, m,’ darlin” as he took his Geansai off me, “that mother of yours will worry herself into an early grave”, he said with a cheeky grin on his face and a sparkle in his crystal blue eyes.

He loved her so and she him. A handsome man with strong shoulders, standing well over 6ft tall with big square hands that could hold the Muruch Lass steady in any weather. He was an intelligent and resilient captain who knew the waters of the coastline well. often following the herring as far up to the turquoise waters of the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. My father would often teach me about how to navigate the sandy Outer Banks which were responsible for many a shipwreck. And, how to read the stars at night, to always be able to find my way back home.

He was able to run the Muruch Lass with just a crew of eight. The motley crew was made up of my father as skipper, a mate who was also his brother-in-law and best friend Uncle Jimmy. My older brother Michael was there too for a while, along with 5 other sailors and a boy to help out on deck. Sure, fishing was a dangerous occupation, but I too snuck onboard whenever I could slip away from my mother and homely duties. His crew were like family to us all and would sail with him until the ends of the earth.

And so, they set off on that fateful day, with trailing winds and the sunlight peaking up just beyond the horizon. I stood there on the quay waving goodbye to the Muruch Lass, unbeknown to me that it would be the last time that I would see my beloved father alive again.

The mood onboard was a cheerful one as they were busying themselves for a successful haul. The sea was calm, and all was well, as my father spoke to the waters. The men thought nothing of my father whispering to the sea. It was like the water was telling my father where the fish would be that day. Uncle Jimmy had just finished setting the lines when he turned to ask my father what the sea had whispered to him that morning.  

“Padraig “Jimmy shouted as he darted towards him. But it was too late. Morrigan[iv] would take my father quickly that day, as he grabbed at his chest with a distorted look upon his face. He was gone before he hit the deck.

Within hours the Muruch Lass was returning to port with her once master onboard. My mother was waiting on the quay. A single tear rolled down her pained face and into the sea, an unintended offering of sorts. No one had to tell her what had happened, she already knew. She was right to worry that morning, and from that very moment on, I too believed in her sight and would never question her again.

After my father had been laid to rest, the town was abuzz with a lot of chatter about the Muruch Lass. What would become of her, who would own her and who would captain her, and how could we keep her out of the hands of the Tyrell brothers?

The Tyrell brothers were trouble with a capital T. They were the local shipping agents, who were just waiting to pounce on the unfortunate events of the families in the Fishery. As if we didn’t already have enough bother from the English, these brothers were absolute villains.

Our Michael, the eldest child and son, was lost the year last, which left me as the oldest child to help out the family, a mere lass. “That’s it”, I thought to myself, with just 30 pounds left on the Muruch Lass to pay the bank off, I will become her new master.

But how, my head was spinning with so many questions and with so much more self-doubt. I returned to the sea for answers, the same sea who had taken our Michael and the same sea who had brought my father home.

As I sat there on the shore, I was mesmerised by the rhythm of the waves, rushing in to greet me only then to retreat in shyness. Uncle Jimmy sat down beside me, probably at the instruction of my mother and began to throw pebbles into the sea. Finally, he spoke, “Ah sure, y’ can be sad about your da’, but the fish are runnin’ and we need to get haulin”.  With all the love and support of my Uncle Jimmy, I was reassured that I could stand in our Michaels place.

Jimmy was the older brother of my mother by 10 years, and he never had the good fortune of marrying and settling down with children of his own because he was always at sea. He was also a man of very few words. So, when he did offer his opinion or advice, I took heed for he was wise and thoughtful with his meanings.

Within the week, the Muruch Lass was fully provisioned and ready to set sail. Unlike my father’s last voyage, the seas were gathering. It was a full moon the night before creating a voluminous and rolling sea with white caps. The grey sky hung low as I waved goodbye to my sweet mother.

The women of the Fishery are quite a force to be reckoned with, especially when they have their minds set on things. They rallied around to prepare me for what Mother Nature had installed. In addition to a hastened Geansai and crudely adjusted oilskins, they fashioned me a pair of woollen trousers to wear under my outerwear to keep me nice and warm. And packed extra soda bread and warm tea in a flask for the cold night ahead.

As we set out of the harbour channel, I ran my hands through the water on the starboard side of the Muruch Lass, and I felt a warm, familiar embrace of my father’s hand. Like my father before me, I stood with my eyes closed for just a moment and whispered to the sea, and she, in turn, answered back. With that knowledge in mind, I checked the maps and set the course for the Outer Banks, where I knew there would be a hefty catch waiting for us.

The sea was roaring by the time we reach Delas point a rocky outcrop just off the coast. The Muruch Lass moaned and groaned pitching and falling over every monstrous white-capped wave, but she held fast. At this time and because of my small stature, I had tied off the helm to keep the course true. Then I ran a line to the aft mast and tied myself to that, so that I wouldn’t get washed overboard. It was a baptism of fire, and mother nature was not going easy on me for my maiden voyage as captain.

We reached the Outer Banks in record time with thanks to the following seas. And, as it was told to me, there was a great number of herring waiting for us, with a splattering of mackerel for good measure.

As luck would have it, by the time we started to head home, the sea had calmed and there was a cool wind behind us. I was rocked by the gentle sway of the waves, and I pondered my lot in life. I gave homage to the waters that had taken so much from us but had given the Fishery so much more in return. From the vast wild Atlantic Ocean where, our spirits are allowed to sore as high as they might. To the babbling brooks near Croghan mountain, where the waters twist and turn as they calmly travel towards the sea, claiming our souls as a part of it along the way.  I was home.

On the return voyage, Uncle Jimmy and I had forged a plan to keep the Muruch Lass out of the greedy hands of the Tyrrell brothers and to hold the banks off just a little longer. Because I am just a lass, I could not captain or own a ship, so, we would have to transfer ownership from my father’s name to Uncle Jimmy. The good folks at the Fishery were no fools, though, and I soon became known as the Captain of the Muruch Lass.

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[i] Arklow Coat of Arms. Heraldry of the World. 1995, viewed on 20 August 2021, https://www.heraldry-wiki.com/heraldrywiki/index.php?title=Arklow

[ii] MToole93, Arklow History. The Forgotten Fishery of Arklow. 18th-19th Century Social Perspectives, 18th–19th – Century History, Features, General, Issue 1(Jan/Feb 2013), Volume 21. January 14, 2014, viewed online 1 September 2021, https://arklowhistory.wordpress.com/2014/01/27/the-forgotten-fishery-of-arklow-http://www-historyireland-com18th-19th-century-historythe-forgotten-fishery-of-arklow/

[iii]. O’Donovan, J, Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland, 1 (2 ed.), Hodges, Smith and Company, 1856, p. 201.

[iv] Wright, G, Celtic Gods, Mythopedia 2019, viewed on 25 August 2021,  https://mythopedia.com/celtic-mythology/gods/