“Ice cream, anyone?” my father cheerfully suggested as we stopped at a petrol station. “It’s only seven in the morning, Dad,” I replied, feeling groggy and chilly. After living in Turkey for a decade, the Irish summer felt like a cold snap in Antarctica to him. “No worries, we’ll burn it off on the currach,” he said, brimming with enthusiasm. I was home for just one day a year, and this marked the beginning of our cherished father-son escapades. “Alright, I’ll take a water too,” I conceded.

Having grown up surrounded by the ocean and boats, my father’s passion for the sea clearly influenced me. I learned to sail, became a certified powerboat driver, and could swim effortlessly. However, after the economic downturn in 2008, we had to part with our small speedboat and seek stability. Eventually, my father recovered and proudly acquired a currach, a traditional Irish boat made from wood and animal skins. Nothing could keep him away from the water.

I had a strong dislike for the currach; it was a challenge to get it into the water. This was especially true when we reached the harbor near Mount Brandon. “You grab the bow, I’ll take the stern, and we’ll place it on the trolley to ease it down,” he instructed, knowing the routine all too well. I too was familiar with the drill after countless trips. “How about I take the heavy side instead?” I suggested, considering his age; he was in his sixties now. Carefully, we maneuvered the traditional boat into the Atlantic, just as the weather started to turn.

“The waves are going to ruin my tobacco! Where’s the dry bag?” I shouted as the wind picked up. “What do you need cigarettes for out here?” he countered, trying to scold me for smoking despite his own cigar habit. “I just wanted to light one on the island!” I said, feeling the salty spray hit my lips, awakening me from the haze of city life.

We pressed on through the waves. I was rowing, a task I despised, particularly with the slender, awkward currach oars. Yet, they proved effective when used properly—a testament to Irish craftsmanship. The boat rocked as we approached O’Leary’s Island. What typically took forty-five minutes dragged on for nearly two hours. My father snapped proud photos of me as I navigated the rocky waters.

“It’s too rough to moor close to the beach; we’ve lost control!” he yelled. He was right; while we were aware of the rocks, one wrong wave could spell disaster for the currach. “You’ll need to jump in and pull her in!” he suggested, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh no, Dad! It’s freezing!” I protested as the Irish rain poured down.

I realized my glasses were lost as soon as I submerged. Diving to the bottom yielded no results; I was effectively blind. Upon resurfacing, I noticed the currach drifting away. My father waved and shouted, “I’ll circle back for you!” I signaled back and swam towards the island, surprisingly finding the water quite bearable.

Upon reaching the shore, I dashed toward the rocks to relieve myself. I despised doing it in a wetsuit. Out on this deserted island, I figured I was safe from prying eyes. After zipping up, I ventured into the grassy expanse filled with sheep, but my father was nowhere in sight. O’Leary’s Island offered panoramic views of the ocean, but today’s rolling waves and misty rain obscured everything. I sat down and waited.

Being soaked in a wetsuit while waiting in the relentless rain didn’t lend itself to seeking shelter. Although an abandoned house sat nearby, I preferred to endure the elements. I kept moving by walking and swimming to stay warm. As I mentioned earlier, the water felt warmer than the air, but after an hour, I began to feel anxious.

Determined to find my father, I circled the island but saw no sign of him. Even as the rain subsided, my vision remained clouded. I felt frustration mounting, thinking, Dad, where are you? My worry escalated; we typically carried radios or phones during these outings, and I had neither. Panic set in—what if something had happened to him? What if a wave had taken him?

I needed to think quickly, but what could I do?

The island featured an ancient beehive monastery and graveyard where monks once lived in solitude. I climbed to a higher spot for a better view, avoiding the beehive hut itself out of superstition. All I wanted was to catch a glimpse of the currach; if I saw it moving, I’d know he was okay, but if it sat still, I’d worry. Scanning the horizon, I found nothing. I descended from the rubble and sat among the weathered graves, feeling a chill.

“What are you doing here?” a voice cut through the wind. I looked up to see a tall figure cloaked in gray. “What are you doing here? This place is supposed to be abandoned,” I replied, baffled. “I asked you first,” he said, his coat fluttering. “I’m waiting for my father,” I explained, still crouched by the ancient graves. The figure turned toward the tombs and remarked, “You’ll be waiting a long time, boy.”

Despite the numbness in my hands and legs, I stood up. The cold air stung my ear. “He’s out at sea!” I shouted over the howling wind. “They’re all at sea, lad,” he responded, his voice rough like the coast. I was unsure why he was speaking to me or who he was. “Are you the shepherd?” I asked. “The boatman. I bring the sheep here in summer,” he replied, leaning on his stick.

He turned and started walking toward the cottage, and I followed cautiously, curious about where he was headed. Eventually, he glanced back and asked, “Would you like a cup of tea?” I looked at the abandoned cottage and replied, “No, thanks. Do you have a phone?” He shook his head and continued into the gray mist.

I wasn’t interested in tea with a mysterious figure on an island. I opted to head back to the shore, feeling abandoned by my father, hope, and rationale. I decided to sit on the beach and await a passing boat, hoping to flag one down for help.

I lost track of time on that beach, but I must have dozed off long enough for the clouds to part and the sun to reemerge. I felt as though I’d been transported to a different realm—the sky brightened, and the wind and wave sounds faded, replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the rocks. Suddenly, I heard the familiar sound of oars slicing through water. I sat up and spotted the currach rounding the island’s head. Relief washed over me, but I was also angry. I waded into the water, grabbed the bow, and pulled him in.

“Where have you been?” I shouted, expecting an apology. “What?” he replied nonchalantly. “Where were you? I’ve been here for hours freezing! Were you in trouble?” I pressed, needing to know why he had left me. “I was with John,” he said as if it were no big deal. “John? John from Fenit? How did you run into him?” I asked, incredulous. “He was out fishing, so I tied up next to him for some tea,” he explained casually. “Tea? You had tea with John? Did you tell him you were out with your son?” I asked, wide-eyed. “I did,” he said.

“Really? And what did John say? Did he not wonder where I was?” I probed further. “No,” he replied simply. “Right, okay. I’m freezing. I want a drink and to use the engine on our way back. My arms are numb,” I said, frustrated.

As we sailed back toward the harbor’s embrace, my father asked, “So, how was the island?” I rolled my eyes and said, “Well, I met a friend—the boatman. He wanted to offer me tea, but I declined.” Amid the engine’s roar, I heard him say, “Oh, that’s Mike. A good man. He speaks in riddles like Yoda.” I nodded, realizing I regretted turning down the tea. “Yeah, Peter Boy, Mike was a good guy. Passed away last year,” he added. I turned to him, sarcasm dripping from my voice, “Very funny.” He laughed and said, “You’ll have quite the tale to tell now about the island, the ghost, and the currach.”

I smiled as I gazed at the now shimmering Atlantic, “I suppose I will, but I’m more excited about sharing a pint with you, Dad.”

I have been Peter William Murphy, and that was, “The Island, The Ghost, and The Currach.”