Considering his deep trade union bloodline, Vinny Fitzpatrick would have been entitled to saddle up for work, on Sunday and Monday, wearing war paint and a bandana.
The mood on the Clontarf Road forecourt all weekend had been belligerent, with feisty father of the union chapel Froggy Malone in spit-flecking mode. Froggy had reminded the bus drivers it was their duty to honk their horn in support of their fellow workers on lightning strike.
As the Clontarf buses gunned out across the northside, hooting furiously as they spied picket lines at Malahide, Sutton, Howth, Raheny and Clontarf Road train stations, Vinny’s toot was no more than perfunctory. He knew his late father Finbarr would be spinning in his grave at his indifference towards his fellow workers.
Finbarr was part of the split in 1963 which saw Clontarf bus drivers break away from the ITGWU to form the NBU, later the NBRU; the official body representing the welfare of bus and rail drivers.
For Vinny, the strike tore at his heart as he believed every bus and rail driver was employed to serve the community, to ensure everyone got to work, school, play, the shops, in time.
Once blackballed by colleagues for anti-union sympathies, Vinny kept his fat head down all weekend, desperate for it to end. It helped he had something to look forward to that evening: the Blue Lagoon Row.
The stretch of water between the Bull Island and St Anne's Park was the venue for a unique rowing challenge involving the four pubs fronting Clontarf Road – The Schooner, Foley's, Shingles and The Dollymount Inn.
Nine rowers
Over the Olympic distance of 2,000 metres, each pub had nominated nine rowers to take part in a fund-raiser for the local Sea Scouts troop, who were on their uppers.
The four boats came courtesy of Clontarf Yacht Club and had been hand-crafted in the 1930s by the world-renowned George Yeoman Pocock, whose design won gold for the American eights at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin.
The boats measured just 24 inches across and were sculpted from cedar, which gave them a springy feel. They were sturdy too, and needed to be, to accommodate the bulk of Vinny and Co.
As he arrived at the Causeway, Vinny was miffed to notice the other crews all wore matching tops; Dublin blue for The Schooner; Irish green for Shingles, and Man United red for The Dollyer.
Foley’s were the original Rag Ball Rovers – Vinny had dug out an Everton top from the 80s, which he couldn’t get around his belly. His string vest would have to do.
Vinny took his place in the boat at number seven, with Fran and Two-Mile Boris behind him. Big Dave and Charlie St John Vernon, both powerfully built, were at six and five, with Dial-A- Smile and Kojak to their front.
Macker was at two and Brennie at stroke, from where he would set the rhythm and the pace under the instructions of the cox, Spider.
The former jock was the obvious choice as cox, given his light frame, strong voice and knowledge of steering – albeit in a saddle.
“Are we listening, lads?” bellowed Spider. “Let’s make sure we finish, in the dry. We’ll start slow, hold her steady, and try and save a bit for the end. Brennie will dictate the pace; so everyone stays in his step. Oh, one more thing, I take it youse can all swim?”
Nervous giggles
As the nervous giggles subsided, Commodore Ted Clarkson, standing astride a motor boat, raised his pistol aloft to the leaden skies.
“On a count of three,” he barked. “One, two . . . three.”
With that, a loud shot rang out across the lagoon and the four venerable crafts nosed forward. For the first 50 metres, the line of four held level but soon The Schooner crew drew clear. One of their lads used to row against Seán Drea and was a fighting fit puller in his mid-50s.
From his pitch near the rear, all Vinny could see was the broad back of Big Dave, whose tempo he matched as best he could. In the corner of his eye, he saw the back-end of The Schooner’s stern as she surged clear – already they were racing for second.
Vinny was puffing hard but no harder than the others as Spider had set a pace which reflected the age, inexperience, and infirmity of the rowers. As they put their back into the challenge, running level with Shingles and The Dollmount Inn, Vinny forgot about the rail strike for the first time in 48 hours.
Collective effort
He was on the water, which he loved, and in a boat with his pals, working as a team, which suited Vinny’s character. For him, there was always far more enjoyment from a collective effort than anything done by the individual.
He thought of Pocock, boat builder and rowing philosopher, whose feats were recognised in the feel-good read, The Boys In The Boat, which Vinny had recently finished. In his mind's eye, he spied pint-sized Bobby Moch barking out the orders as Don Hume, Joe Rantz, Shorty Hunt, Stub McMillin, Johnny White, Gordy Adam, Chuck Day, and Roger Morris as they pulled towards gold on the Langer See.
Vinny was snapped out of his daydream by Spider. “Something’s happened to The Schooner up ahead, lads. She’s stopping. Worse than that, she’s sinking,” he cried.
Vinny was desperate to turn his head towards the action but Spider was having none of it. “Pick up the pace, Brennie,” he urged. “Lads, put your backs into it and row. Row like youse have never rowed before.”
The next couple of minutes were back-breaking for Vinny as he slipped his white-tipped oar into the briny. His heart rate shot up; pain seared through both his calfs, his lungs were on fire. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Big Dave’s back, lest he lose his rhythm.
He was vaguely conscious of boats on either side, and of roaring from nearby, and then came the sound of a gunshot and Spider started screaming. “We did it lads, we did it!”
Vinny slumped forward on the verge of blacking out due to oxygen debt. But inside, he was dizzy with delight. This improbable union of boat and men, both past their prime, had pulled through, against the odds. It was a right and proper union, one he was proud to be part of.
