My grandmother hailed from County Mayo in Ireland. Her last name was Walsh. Nana sailed to Boston at the age of fourteen. Most of the other passengers were cattle.
"In the Year of the Crow," she told her grandchildren in her lovely Gaelic accent.
"When was that?" I was curious as to why she did use numbers.
"That's my secret."
That ocean voyage was so traumatic that she never returned to Ireland. Every year my mother and her sisters offered to fly Nana to Shannon.
“I don’t want to see that sea again.”
She was adamant with this decision and she rarely ventured within sight of the sea.
In the summer of 1958 my older brother and I regularly stayed at Nana's house in Jamaica Plains to give my parents a break from taking care of six children.
One weekend my parents proposed Nana taking the ferry to meet them in Nantasket. They were taking our younger siblings to a church event farther down the South Shore.
"You'll save us a long ride back here."
"I'll not take the ferry. We'll take the bus."
"The bus will take hours," said my mother.
"All the same to me, but I'll do it." Nana closed her eyes, as if she were reliving a horror."
"Thank you," my mother hugged hers and they left withe the four other kids for your home under the Blue Hills.
The next day was hot day and we looked forward to the swim in the cool green waters of the Atlantic. The three of us took the train from Forest Hills to Haymarket and then walked over to Lowe's Wharf. The pennants on the SS Nantasket flapped in the light breeze.
The harbor water was calm and a single cloud lay on the seaward horizon.
"Looks like a a fine day for sailing," the purser said taking our tickets.
"I've heard that before." Nana showed no fear climbing the gangway and she sat us inside the steamship. The ferry left on time and the sea breeze was a welcome relief to the hundreds of the passengers. A clown prowled the lower decks to entertain the children. He had a funny wig and big floppy feet. My brother and I were scared by him and we kept our distance from the clown.
The trip was scheduled to last about 30-40 minutes and our passage was uneventful through the inner harbor thanks to the many harbor islands, however as we cleared Georges Island the wind picked up and the sky grew dark. The waves smashed over the bow. No land voyage can prepared landlubber for the methodical quivering of the sea. The ferry rolled from side to side with the gusts of the sudden squall.
Nana was white with fright, as the boat swung from side to side. She clung to my brother and me, while the clown and scores of children slid across the tilting deck.
"Was your trip on the Atlantic this bad?' asked my brother. He was as scared as me.
"The waves were tall as buildings. The ship moved with the wind and the water. Everyone was seasick for days. Cows were swept overboard. They screamed moos in the ocean. I can hear them now."
She unleashed a mournful moo.
It sounded of death.
"And people were lost?" My brother gaped at the waves crashing over the hull.
"Cows only. Thank God," Nana muttered a prayer clinging tightly to us.
Several minutes later the storm ended faster than it began and we landed at Nantasket on schedule.
My mother was standing outside the Waiting Station on the pier.
"Say nothing," Nana advised walking down the gangplank.
"How was the trip?" asked my mother, seeing the abating panic in the eyes of the other passengers.
"So what about a trip to Ireland?"
"Not a chance."
Nana spent the afternoon in the bandshell. Her feet didn't touch the beach. She was glad to leave Nantasket and even happier to arrive back to Jamaica Plains. She kissed us good-night.
"It was a fine day for sailing," I told her.
"That it was."
Nana had a way with words, but an even better one without words.
Her kiss was my ticket to dreamland and none of those dreams involved the ocean.
Maith á aithne agam uirthi.