The Crushing of Connie's Lobsters

During the summer of 1972 I was content to sit at Coxtown Cross and watch the world go by. The other young fellas of the village, (all of us on our summer school holiday break) were involved in drift net fishing for salmon. I was not that fussed, my first job had been a disaster. I had been employed by local chicken farmer of the day, Paddy O'Neill. Paddy had handed me a few sheets of fine sand paper and instructed me to scrub hen shit from individual hen eggs prior to packing them into large crates. I must have scrubbed a million eggs and removed a ton of hen shit, when suddenly one day I dropped one of the large crates full of shiny eggs and Paddy immediately offered me a V.E.R. (Voluntary Early Retirement). I was therefore not that tempted to run out, find another job, and receive another arse kicking, only this time at the hands of some Long John Silver type salmon fishing boat Skipper.

My outlook in life was one of love, peace, tranquility, and playing my guitar. My hair was long and my platform style boots had a purple stripe across the toes with zips up the sides. The boots reached above my ankle and were a source of constant irritation to my Auldfella who reckoned they were similar in fashion to boots worn by old women he remembered when growing up as a child on Sherkin Island . My bell bottom pants and long hair also irritated him. I'm sure he thought that most of the young fellas of the day were not actually victims of fashion or fad, but were undergoing a gradual gender change which eventually would see Dunmore East inhabited by fine strapping young women all married to transsexuals.

Whether or which, I needed to do something to keep him and the Auldwan quiet as they both had reached boiling point on account of what they perceived to be my indifference to honest toil. I did go down the pier and looked around for a job but I knew that most of the jobs on the salmon boats had been taken as most of my friends had taken them. Then one Saturday afternoon the unthinkable happened. The Auldfella arrived home from Powers Pub and under the influence of a dozen large stout announced that he had secured me a birth on a fishing boat.

My mind raced as I tried to figure out what skipper in Dunmore did not have a crewman. Every skipper I thought of had some misfortunate individual on the deck of a motorboat, or in the saturated confines of an open punt. I couldn't think of one who hadn't. “And who is going to take him on", queried my doubting Mother. “Connie Fancy", announced the Auldfella. "Connie", he continued, "has no one to help him with the lobster fishing and I just had a drink with him and he's willing to take the other fella to sea”.

The last few hours in Bills flashed before my eyes. I could imagine Connie and the Auldfella negotiating my contract of sale over pints of stout and Paddy whiskey. "I'll take him Paddy", Connie would have said, "I'll take him Boyyyyyyy long hair and zipped up boots or not, I'll make a Mon of him". "Good Man Connie", the Auldfella would have said, "will ye have another pint?"

Christ, I thought, I have been press ganged into a trip with Connie. Me own Auldfella has sold me on to the high seas for stout. "You're to be at Portally" he said "at 6am in the morning outside Connie's house". In order to keep the peace I agreed to the challenge and a challenge it turned out to be.

The next morning I arrived at Connie's at 6am and we put to sea from Portally cove in his punt. Connie had fished out of the cove for most of his life and was a well known Portally man. He had three sons, Buddy, Jimmy, and Anthony, who were also fishermen, but of course they were all fishing salmon. Connie being older was happy enough to stick to his lobsters, not a bad choice considering prices were reasonable and few were chasing them at that time. Anyway no sooner had we cleared Portally cove but Connie turned off the outboard motor that was attached to the stern of the punt. It was a new motor and he was very proud of it. The only thing I had noticed about the engine was that it had to be turned to face the opposite direction if one wanted one's boat to 'go astern'.

"Now Boyyyyy", he said, "put out your oars and we will row" (he should have said ‘'you will row''). I don't know why he did not want to use the engine but I never rowed as much in my entire life as I rowed on that particular day. I rowed east and west from Red Head to Ballymacaw and back again until I could barely sit up in the punt. We were hauling lobster pots and by mid-day we had a dozen lobsters which Connie placed on the floor of the punt up near the bow and covered them with an old oilskin jacket.

We then decided to go in for dinner as Connie reckoned he could see Mick D (Dennis Power, another Portally resident) standing at his door and therefore it must be dinner time. It was from then on that my demise as a lobster fishermon began. Connie started the engine and we headed towards the mouth of Portally cove. The idea was that when we neared 'the frail', (an endless rope tethered from one side of the cove to the other, onto which the punts were tied) I was to grab it and bring us gently to a halt.

I was more than concerned however when we did enter the cove to see that Connie had not reduced speed and we were only a few yards from the frail when he finally tried to throttle back on the horse power. Because of the 'turn the engine about' thing he could not stop the punt in time and shouted for me to 'run to the bow' and try to stop us going ashore by grabbing hold of the frail. I did as he commanded and leapt into action landing near the bow. I failed however to grab the rope and we ended up striking Portally beach at about 20 mph and coming to a sudden halt.

It was then in the silence that I heard Connie moan as if he had been shot. When I looked at him he was looking at the floor area of the bow beneath my feet. I was still standing on the old oilskin onto which I had jumped a few moments previous when trying to stop the boat. It was then it dawned on me that in my panic and haste I had jumped on the lobsters and crushed the life from their little bodies with my zip up platform boots.

They were all dead. Connie was dejected. We tied up the punt and walked up from the cove to his house where we stood by a fence smoking a pair of woodbine cigarettes. It was then I got the sack again, twice in a fortnight. “Ye killed them Boyyyyyyyy", he said, "ye killed them, they're crushed and dead , I will have to boil them for me tea, tis a long walk", he continued, "to Coxtown. "Here", he said, "take me wife's bicycle and ride home". He did not tell me to return.

I took Mrs Power's bike and rode down from Portally to Coxtown. I told the Auldfella about killing the lobsters; it was as if I'd told him I'd killed a bunch of his close family relatives. To add to my troubles my mother did not believe that Connie had given me the bike and tried to suggest I'd hijacked Mrs Power's bike to ride home.

Like I said, it was summer '72 and I was content to grow my hair and play guitar. I never returned to sea with Connie but remained friends with him for years afterwards. He often reminded me of the day I crushed his lobsters. "Twas the hair that blinded you" he would say. "Boyyyyyy, you were a fine Mon but for the long hair".

I have written a poem about this event. Click here!

Note.

Connie always used the word Mon instead of Man so that is why “Fishermon” etc appears in these writings.

Ringo.