'There are only so many last straws a man can take — but going home wasn't an option'

I was reluctant because, since the storm began, I had only found safety when sitting with my back to a cupboard on the floor of the bridge. Just standing up, I had quickly discovered, was a tortuous endeavour. 

I quietly gulped at what I had just agreed to do.

As he bolted out the door of the bridge and stepped lightly down the wrought-iron staircase through the hatch to the lower deck, my hands shook uncontrollably as I tried to lock the two buckles of my life jacket.

As I struggled to get one buckle through the other, I spied the waterproof Lighthouse torch I had I brought in case I needed to be seen after being tossed into the waves.

I thought it could come in handy to signal any... you know... rescuers. I grabbed my phone and stuffed it into a chest pocket, for easy access.

Armed for key eventualities on the epic journey — that’s through the door of the bridge onto the deck for a simple plate of humble bacon and spuds — I walked out into the wind and rain and waves crashing up against the side of the boat like a drunken reveller trying to walk home plastered after a night out.

As it seemed to do every minute of the day since we’d left the safety of Dingle Harbour just after 12am five days previously, the boat was heaving up and down.

Not only that; it was swaying from side to side and then — just when you caught your balance — surging back and forth.

I finally made it to the hatch, gripped the sides of the ladder and stepped purposefully down through the hatch, as one side of my face took a shower in icy cold spray from Atlantic waves.

Greeting me when I reached the bottom of the ladder, was not the expected warm glow and steaming plate of bacon and spuds.

Instead, yet another freezing cold blast of spray into my face, this time through a hatch the crew use to thrust anchors for the fishing lines.

I let out a strangulated expletive as the icy water shot inside my collar and down my back.

This was one of many “last straws” on this trip.

Another was the time I was sitting by the door of the bridge and the boat lurched suddenly. My laptop shot off my knees and flew out the door onto the deck.

Luckily, I hadn’t changed out of my oilskins or life jacket. On my knees, I crawled through the doorway, and edged over to the laptop as it slid around the back deck. Every time I got close enough to reach it, it would slide away from me. Eventually, I rescued it.

Getting food out of the skipper’s fridge was another one of those last straws. Something as basic as trying to get cheese and ham to make a sandwich was a trial of ingenuity.

The trick, which I only really got the hang of in the end, was to time the opening of the door for when the boat rolled to the starboard side (that’s the right, landlubbers).

Even then, the sea had a knack of thwarting me.

Time and time again, I carefully approached the door, checked to see to which side the boat was about to roll, and then I’d quickly open it.

Invariably, the contents would just fly out.

Bottles of water would shoot off the shelves, followed by sliced cheese packets, packets of ham, and yoghurt tubs.

To add insult to injury, as I scrambled around the floor of the bridge to retrieve the contents of the skipper’s fridge, my phone or some other thing I thought I had placed securely on a ledge above the fridge would shoot either over my head or into my face.

I got sick of it fast, and tried to ease the situation with humour, like the time I asked the skipper if he could just hold the boat steady and stop the rocking and rolling for a while as I was, well, sick of it.

I could tell he thought I was a hoot.

There was a point where I just gave up. There are only so many last straws a man can take — but when you’re out on Irish fishing waters, there’s no option to go home.

I stopped trying to stand up, or even kneel down and just collapsed slowly back down on the floor, in the middle of the contents of the skipper’s fridge, various tools that had dislodged themselves, and the contents of one of my dry bags.

As I sat there, defeated but still hungry, rolling first to one side, then another, I picked out a packet of ham from the debris, pulled out a slice, placed it in between two slices of bread, added some sliced cheese and just sat there, closed my eyes and ate it. Forget about making a coffee to accompany it.

For the duration of the trip, the bridge was my “safety zone” and everything else was my terror zone.

As the five-day trip progressed, I did get more confident on deck and managed to get some photographs, but everything else was a disaster.

“Well, is it a life for you?” asked the skipper as we finally faced each other over that sliding plate of bacon and spuds as the cabin rocked violently from side to side — rough enough to, occasionally, lift me off the bench I was sitting on.

Without hesitation, I replied: “No.”

As the boat later edged its way slowly back into a calm but freezing Dingle Harbour at 2.30am the next day, long after the storm had subsided, I realised a newfound respect for skippers like Bosco Mac Gearailt and crews like his.

Yes, they get paid and — if it’s a big catch — they can get paid well.

But the Atlantic is like no other working environment I have ever encountered before, and nor have I any wish to encounter it again.

So the next time I pop into the fishmonger to buy some fresh fish for supper, I’ll think back to what the skipper and his crew would have endured to get them there.

And I’ll remain grateful for the simple pleasures I have grown to take for granted. You know, small things, like a plate of bacon and spuds that stays horizontal on a table, in a kitchen that doesn’t rock backwards and forwards or roll from side to side, and a floor that doesn’t move at all.

They say the small things are the big things.