Rowing for Peace

A team of Irish and Basque rowers are circling Ireland as a gesture for peaceful resolution to the conflicts in Norhern Ireland and the Basque country, here is a little note by one of the Basque rowers.

ROWING FOR PEACE

Alberto Barandiaran / Berria

Strangford, 2003-aug-05

We've gone slowly in the open sea. We've gone far away the coast, to be able to cross the Dundrum Bay. The objective was the lighthouse of St Johns, but we nearly didn't get it. We seemed to be farer and farer, instead of closer. We had a sitting-place free on the boat, so irish Frankie came on board to "Ameriketatik" from the inflatable boat. Once we passed St Johns, we directed to Strangford.

It happens in a lot of places: it's in vain to talk about the loveliness of the environment to the peasant; it's ALFERRIK to tell the farmer what we feel when we climb that mountain. Those places mean work for them, most times a hard kind of living. "Wonderfulness" is a quite new concept, I guess. A concept that normal people didn't know until the end of past century.

That's why is in vain to talk to seamen about the lovely sunrises. Alferrik and absurd, too. For them, the sea is the neverending land that has taken so many lifes, and more than love they are afraid of it. Sometimes they hate it indeed. In past century, coast inhabitants looked at the first tourists who came to have sea bathes like if they were mad. That was a new and strange use of the environment.

Irish don't love sea. This is not usual in an island, but isn't anyway strange. The sea has stolen them more things than it gave. Celts and english came from sea. Millions of irish went away by sea, leaving a lot of towns desertic. Mist, wind, cold rain come from the sea as well. The sea is their frontier, at the end.

When basque fishermen came to irish docks, very poor people appeared asking for fish, often. That non-loved sea was which could provide them with food, and some richness. In the two days I've been rowing we haven't seen more than four ships. Four old and sad ships, as sad as their riders are happy. We've had the wind against us from the start, so we can't even hang the BELA (that tissue you hang from a log and that propulses you when the wind blows). We even had meal by turns; half of the crew ate while the others row, or else we would go way back.

Leaving Carlington, two inflatable boats have passed very quicly by our side. They were UK army's mariners, with machine guns pointing at us. Then we have seen a big fragatte in the very same Bay. This is the frontier.

Suddenly, a big noise. We've thought in the army, but a lightening has crossed the sky. Storm. And we were tired. And the wind against us. The last hour has been a continuous fight. Waves bigger and bigger, we could rarely row, and the coast rocks were near of us. The enter point of the port was near too, but far at the same time. A big wave passed over us. Up and down without rest. Frankie's words have given us strenght, and we have row in these words' rhytm: "Gui-ness! Gui-ness!".

.... ... .