Carraroe, County Galway, is a world away from Liberal, Kansas. It�s set a way back from the hustle of Galway City, out in the Gaeltachts, where the people still speak the old language and the fields still stand encumbered with the crumbling remains of sad old cottages. The land embodies a tragic beauty that weighs on the traveler who happens upon the isolated way to the rural villages along sea.
The pock marked road winds through the sweeping emerald fields, hugging the stone fences overgrown with weeds and mold, until it ventures into the small town of Carraroe with its buildings painted cheerful shades of blue, pink, maroon and yellow. I slide into town in my rental car, small by my standards but titanic when squeezed on the narrow roads with stone on either side and another car oncoming. Few people walk out along the sidewalks as I come to the end of the street. In front of me is the local pub, painted dark red with beer signs hanging above its Georgian door and windows. I turn to the right and slowly drive out of the charming town. Soon I see bits of ocean, and finally, a white stretch of beach with turquoise waves pulsing gently against the pale beach and the large black boulders jutting up across the terrain.
I had been told by some locals that it is the scene of many a shipwreck, but the beautiful summer day easily conceals such dark moments from the past. The sun has only just began to lower, gilding everything with the warm glow of afternoon, so I stop at a car park and get out to stretch my legs, bounding down toward the beach below. In the distance is a colorful hooker, sails furled in cheerful primary colors against the clear afternoon sky as it cuts through the waters of the bay. I step carefully down from the rocks onto the white expanse and see clearly that the sand is not sand at all, but broken bits of coral carried to shore by the clear waters. And the sea! It laps at the land gently, foaming eggshell white before it recedes again. I smile and slowly pick my way along the coral beach, examining bleached pieces of coral and shells, pink, white, tan, and some a sparkling navy blue. Before I realize how close I�ve drawn to the waters, the chill Atlantic waters sweep over my shoes with a splash and I retreat swiftly back.
Then, from a black crevice between one of the rocks, I see something flash in the sunlight for just a moment before clouds cover the sky and the wind picks up, cold and damp. Paying it no attention, I reach out and pull the object free, examining as it sets in my palm. It is a small compass, old and engraved with tiny triangles and arrows beneath its cover of broken glass. A needle lies listlessly against the letters �NW.� Broken, I assume.
Then the needle trembles and, as the wind gusts suddenly with a howl as keen as any banshee, it spins faster and faster. The sun disappears altogether, replaced by foreboding clouds, and I feel the spray of the ocean against my face as the waves crash heedlessly against the shore. I gasp and curl against myself, clutching the compass tightly in my hand as the cold rips right through me. Suddenly, I can no longer feel the porcelain fragile bits of coral beneath me. Now there seems to be the slick grainy feel of seawater soaked wood. I close my eyes tightly, but can feel the pitch of the ocean, and then with a jerk and a deafening crash, I�m thrown across the slippery wooden planks. The cold engulfs me as I land in the freezing sea and I struggle for the surface with the pounding heartbeat of the waves sounding in my head. Somewhere on the foundering schooner are my shipmates, and just a few miles inland is a girl with nut brown hair and sparkling eyes waiting for our return. It�s of Bridie I think as I struggle to stay above water. But then the waves pull me under again and as I struggle to rise back above, I see the hull of the ship and the letters written upon it, �Mighty Sampson.� My arms are tired and my lungs burn, and as I open my mouth to scream, I relax my hand and let the compass fall down through the cold, black waters.
With a gasp and a shiver I open my eyes and wince against the glare of the sun. I glance down and the compass is at my side, fallen onto the sharp pieces of broken coral. I leave it lie and spring quickly to my feet and hurry back to my car.
It�s been many months since that day on the beach, and now here I am, half a world away, once again in Liberal, Kansas. But still the memory of that day haunts me, and sometimes, when I think back to Ireland, or even when I hear stories of the Mighty Samson, the raging river that pulled so many down into its deadly torrent, I feel myself back in that bay with the currents pulling me down to an untimely death. Sometimes, the haunting beach of Carraroe is not so far away anymore.
Copyright © 2006, Tina M. Bridenstine.