Code Alpha on the High Seas

   What we expected to hear was music--Irish music--night and day.  And that was pretty much the case on board the cruise ship sailing the eastern Caribbean while host to Irish performers, instrumental and vocal and both.  After the major musicians completed evening performances, most passengers retired to their staterooms.  But every night there was a seisiun, from midnight to 4 am.  The traditional gathering is informal, with little planned other than spontaneous music making, and the stage is usually open to whoever wants to share their talent.

   We were not among the die hard fans up late on the penultimate night of the cruise when the ship was slipping silently through the Gulf waters to Miami.  At 4:30 am a loud voice on the ship's speaker system sounded in our cabin.  "Code Alpha, code alpha . . ." followed by a jumble of numbers and letters.   I was annoyed by the unrequested wake up call, especially because other announcements during the day were not conveyed directly into cabins but only to areas outside passenger rooms.  Anita got up looked out the balcony window.  I rolled over and went back to sleep.

   The jarring and unintelligible message was sent ship wide by mistake.  It was intended only for the crew.  The captain apologized the next morning but he did not explain what the content of the message referred to.  Well, there was a reason for that reticence, as we soon discovered.

   The news at first was sketchy.  A passenger had died on board in the early morning hours.  A large older man.  Apparently a massive heart attack.  His name was Tom Pigott, a tour promoter, a businessman and a singer.  He was not on the main stage because he was not a professional performer.  But he was at the seisuns in the wee hours and he made his presence felt.  He received high praise from Paddy Reilly, a great ballad singer who, retired now, was on the cruise enjoying his musical friends.  He told Tom, "By God, man,  you're a real chanter, . . .  a blooming bard you are!"  Piggot's eyes brimmed, and he later said he had so much fun singing on the ship, he could die happy.  It seems he did. 

   In retrospect, there was a premonition--albeit amusing at the time--that preceded this event.  When we embarked from the port of Miami, a few minutes into sail, the captain announced that a passenger wasn't feeling well and there would be a brief delay as the ship allowed him to be conveyed in a tender back to dockside.  There really was no inconvenience, but one old cantankerous, bearded Celt (not yours truly) grumbled to a group in the elevator: "It's a wonder more of us aren't feeling well.  When you get in open ocean, there's hardly any way to get off this fool thing.  You could die here!"  He then fumbled with the buttons as the door opened.  "Is this ten? the old guy asked.  A young bloke (also direct from Ireland) replied with a smile, "I think so.  Take the risk."  I stifled a chuckle.  His remark was clearly an ironic riposte to his doomsayer countryman.  When the young fellow stepped off the lift, he said, "Now, to find my gang in this crowd . . . "  I said, "Take the risk."  He beamed, happy that someone had acknowledged his sly wit.

   I did not know Tom Pigott.  I've learned about him since his passing.  (There's some video of him singing on YouTube.)  There was sadness throughout the Irish group on board after all learned of his death.  The night before we slid back into the Port of Miami, a scheduled Mass on board included many mentions of Tom and the paying of respects to his traveling partner.   A collection was taken up to help her help Tom's family in Ireland with the repatriation of his remains.  His relatives and close friends were the primary audience for the reading from Job which contained this passage:
            

If in bed I say, "When shall I arise?"

then the night drags on;

I am filled with restlessness until the dawn.  My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle;

 they come to an end without hope.

 Remember that my life is like the wind;

 I shall not see happiness again.

   So, as the famous passage from 1Thessalonians 5:2 affirms, "for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night."  Or, as some would prefer, these lyrics from the group singing of "Go, Lassie, Go" on the last night of the cruise.

Oh the summertime is coming

And the trees are sweetly blooming

And the wild mountain thyme
 

Grows around the blooming heather

 

Will ye go, Lassie go?

 

Chorus

 

And we'll all go together

To pluck wild mountain thyme 

All around the blooming heather

 Will ye go, Lassie go?

   May we all rest in peace.

Readings and Writers Making the Cut for The Quest for Sanity and Sanctity in Irish Literature

                 Examples of Some Texts and Authors to be Read and Discussed 

Poem translated from the Irish Language:  "The Lament For Art O'Leary" by Eibhin Dubh O'Connell.  Poems by W.B. Yeats: "The Song of the Wandering Aengus"; "The Stolen Child"; "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death"; "Easter 1916"; “The Mother of God”; “The Magi”; "The Second Coming"; "Sailing To Byzantium"; “Crazy Jane Poems.” One Act Plays: “Calvary” (Yeats) and "Riders to the Sea" (J. M. Synge). Fiction by James Joyce: “Two Sisters” and “Grace” from Dubliners; a section or two from the novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Poetry by Seamus Heaney: “Station Island.”

   The above material represents the kinds of readings we’ll be utilizing in the first month or so of the course.   After we establish some familiarity with the “war horses” above, I want to introduce folks to some of the not-as-well-known Irish poets and fiction writers who also engage with and frame spiritual questions in their work: Trevor and Tóibín, Kinsella and McCann, Boland and Beckett, and others will demonstrate the richness of the repertoire.  Along the way there will of course be song and music, emollients Irish culture regards as essential to preserve sanity and reveal the path to sanctification.

     No choices are written in stone as of now, but these authors and works are what keep coming back to mind as I prepare a settled syllabus.  Readings will be completed in advance of our meetings, and each weekly session will consist of brief background lecture and group discussions.

    There is no book or books to purchase in advance.  I will supply copies of texts in handout for our first two meetings when we gather on Tuesday evening, 7 pm, February 21, 2012.  See you at the Faith Center!   

Floating Books

                                                                               

           No single area on a cruise ship has less claim to the spotlight than the ship's library.  Consider the competition.  The topside deck, the entertainment theater, the multiple bars, food stables for grazing and gorging, shore excursions, workout rooms, spa treatments, rock climbing and more.  About the only enclosure that the library might eclipse is the chapel.  And it would lose that ranking in a rough sea.

          The low status of the ship's collection of lonely floating books is exacerbated by reading material that passengers bring on board.  Not only print books but e-readers and magazines.  What need would they have for more?

          Well, there are those of us who are drawn to any collection of books we have not seen.  We seek to examine the kinds of titles assembled, the possible rationale for selection, and the quality of "literary engineering" that has constructed a bibliotheca to engage sedentary sailors. 

          I found my way to the ship's library on my first cruise a few years ago.  Now with additional exposure on more cruises, I have observed some characteristics and patterns that impart a persona to the ship's library.

                                                                              

          First of all, the books are locked in glass cases much of the time.  The library room is staffed part-time but the main doors are open when no attendant is present.  You browse the cases through their glass covers. You can physically take a book from a shelf only during certain hours.  But you can always see what's there.  There will be a disproportionate amount of popular fiction.  It gets interesting when you peer among these gimcracks hoping to catch sight of a gem.  And you will. They are there.

     On this trip I found Mark Strand's poetry collection, Man and Camel and Jose Saramago's novel, Seeing.  However, my eyes had to scan a lot of piffle from James Paterson and Nora Roberts to fix on the texts worth finding.  Oddly, also available was the Random House Webster's Unabridged Dictionary.  I checked it out as well since I wanted to arm myself to settle a spousal dispute about lexical matters.  The Dictionary was a very oversized volume.  I was quite the sight as I lugged the folio-like tome through the gauntlet of "golden lads and girls" peacocking pecs and flaunting flesh at the pool.  But I paused in my trek to play a game of chess with the huge outdoor pieces.  I mean you've got to break down and party sometime.