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Sweet it was to follow the winding road that leads from Skibbereen into the village of Baltimore, West Cork, Republic of Ireland, EIRE. My friend, Michael Walsh, picked me up at Shannon Airport and is taking me home to the village of Baltimore.

Late in the day, we pass Hegarty's boatyard where Liam and his brother John build wooden boats the proper way: practical to survive the sea, beautiful to survive humanity. The road winds on. There's a graveyard and a church off to the right, down by the River Ilen.

Then the road rises and hooks to the left and Baltimore harbor comes into view. We are just past the equinox now, therefore the sun is transiting well to the south. The afternoon light hits the water and the silhouette of the lifeboat ramp is cast in silver and black. The old railroad bed bends around by Church Strand and the mussel beds there. Spain Tower and the famine village of Spain are above to the left. Tragumna beach is past some miles back. There is a brief rise, then we drop into the seaport of Baltimore. Dead ahead is the Pier, then the Cove, then the Beacon.

Pride II is here on her fourth visit, fifth if you count the visit of the first Pride. She carries a new generation of crew who are befriended by a new generation of local people. Those of us who have been around awhile stand back and marvel at the whole thing.

This visit to Baltimore was not like past visits. The weather was tough on us, and it affected the entire posture of the captains and the crew. There were a few nocturnal adventures ashore, to be sure. And there was a very memorable evening at Jacob Youn's establishment where song and wine flowed freely. Kieron Walsh once again flung open the doors of the Algiers Inn to the crew and many of them spent a comfortable night ashore for the first time in months.

As often in the past, Gerald O'Flynn led a Flying Column of crew across the countryside of West Cork, pausing at myriad points of interest, and narrating in his inimitable style. But the more or less incessant threat of gales kept the lot of us on our toes and minding the barometer. This all came to a head the day after I took command, Tuesday, October 3, the day we were scheduled to depart. As it turned out, the Gods of the North Atlantic had not read our schedule, or if they had, it merely served as an invitation to wreak havoc.

Despite my manic use of the engines, the vessel was slowly being battered into a narrowing funnel formed by the Lousy Rocks to starboard, and the jagged, rocky shore of the mainland to port.

On the bright side, Baltimore is homeport to a Royal National Lifeboat. The Baltimore Lifeboat is rugged, and weather-worthy. She is designed to steam directly into the jaws of hell, take care of business, and come right home for dinner. She is skippered by Kieron Cotter and manned by an extraordinarily capable and dedicated crew of volunteers. Cathal Cottrell serves as her full-time engineer. Knowing that these lads were ashore, I wasted no time in hailing them out to remove our two passengers. The day was shaping up to be nasty enough and there was no call to extend the inherent risks to those who needn't be exposed to them. The lifeboat nosed up daintily and plucked our two guests away without so much as a smudge to the paintwork. A nice bit of boat handling, indeed. But if I'd had my druthers at the moment, I'd have traded away any amount of paintwork for a spot of fine weather. Such a deal was not to be had.

At one stage, we seemed to find a sort of raucous equilibrium between the howling wind, the engines churning madly in reverse, and the chaotic sea. I thought to myself, "I think we could hold on like this for some time - maybe hours. Maybe then the weather will improve." That's when the engineer notified me that the exhaust line for the port engine had broken in two, that it was spewing water and fumes, that it would be necessary to shut down the engine to effect a repair. Shut down the engine! Doesn't the port engine understand that we are in survival mode? No, it did not.

I notified the Lifeboat of the situation and that I would like them to stand by while we effected the repair. Had I needed to run a lap around the harbor, one engine would not be sufficient, especially given that it was the port engine that had failed, and my turns were always to starboard. I don't think the Lifeboat crew ever strayed far from the station that day, and within minutes they were on their way. When I saw them approaching, we shut down the engine. By the time they were alongside, Messrs. Shellenberger and Landers had repaired the engine and she was up and running again. They did a fifteen minute job in two. It was that kind of day.

Noon came and afternoon followed. The sky remained a tortured brew of lurid gloom and twisted plumes of gray, racing clouds. Salt spray washed away the rain. Rain washed away the salt. Pride of Baltimore II struggled like a beautiful, but ungainly, bird utterly out of her element, trapped in a spherical cage of razor wire, flailing frantically with nowhere to alight and no escape. From ashore it must have looked an unholy mess.

At mid-afternoon we attempted to anchor again. We got both hooks out and they appeared to hold. But the wind went Northwest and intensified, and the anchors tore the bottom out of the harbor. The ship swung broadside to the wind and once more careened across the harbor toward the cliffs. Once again, the crew slaved, hauled, and cranked on the windlass like madmen. At this juncture, the helmsman, John Shellenberger, noted that the breeze had reached 68 knots, a solid Force 12, well into the range of hurricane force. As my friend Mick Walsh said later, it was no ordinary gale.

But it was no ordinary crew. They got the anchors home, despite the fact that the burton hook, made of 1 ¼" inch steel bar, bent like a rubber chicken under the strain, and alternate means had to be devised to recover the anchors. All of which simply lends credence to the idea of being prepared for the worst, because then you might just have half a chance. Problems always abound at such moments, never under easy circumstances.

Just about sundown the breeze dropped to a civilized 25 knots or so and we were able to set the anchors under the lee of Sherkin. It was a nine hour ordeal, nine hours with nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide. The anchor watch was set and we slept the sleep of the just.

The next day was lovely calm and we ate a late breakfast. Some prawn fishermen came around with a lot to say about the precision with which we placed our anchors in relation to their prawn pots. No matter that their pots were smack dab in the middle of the anchorage. No rest for the weary. Once more we hauled back on the anchors and relocated. By late afternoon, the sun dipped below a line of cloud that was fast sweeping away to the east. All of Baltimore harbor and the surrounding hills were bathed in a gorgeous, iridescent glow of gold and green that quickly made light of our recent tribulations. The Beacon stood out on the clifftop and some figures gathered beneath it to see us off. From where I stood at Dun na Long, the Pride herself never looked so fine, or more worthy.

While in some respects our visit was all business, I have never felt closer or more indebted to the many friends that we have in Baltimore for their kindness and their genuine concern for the well being of the Pride. The way folks looked after us, I have never felt more convinced that the ship is as much theirs as ours. And we will be back.

Watch Below,

Capt. Dan Parrott