All winter long in my childhood, our three lake boats lay like part of the furniture of the yard — upturned shapes against the shed wall, collecting frost and leaves, holding their silence. They were parts of our livelihood in those lean mean seventies, though as children we thought of them as playthings. From October to February they hibernated, dripping dry after months of wave and rain, their floorboards stacked indoors nearby, their oars resting like folded arms. I often imagined them talking to one another in the dark — trading stories of sudden squalls, of rocks struck in shallow bays, of whispered confidences between gillie and angler, of trout that flashed silver in the half-light before lying still on the ribs beneath the boards.
We didn’t name them. They were simply the big boat, the middle boat and the small boat. There was only inches between them, but in our eyes there was rank and reputation. The small boat, oldest and frailest, was treated with reverence; we never dared climb on her in winter. The big boat, the boss, could withstand our games and the cloudy moods that sometimes rolled down the lake. Between them sat the steady middle boat, reliable and uncomplaining.
Then February would arrive with a faint brightness in the evenings, and the work would begin. Scrapers bit into old paint, peeling back the hardened blue that had carried us through another season. Sandpaper rasped for hours, raising dust and memory together.
Those boats did more than bring in money to put bread on the table. They brought the world to our fireside. Every summer, anglers from Germany, France, England and beyond gravitated to our small town, drawn by the promise of wild trout and wide skies. They sat by our hearth drinking tea and strong coffee, their clothes carrying the unfamiliar smells of foreign tobacco and aftershave, their voices shaped by languages we did not speak but somehow understood. Through them, our narrow world view widened. They carried stories of distant rivers and cities, of other seasons and other ways of living. In their presence, possibility felt real.
The day each boat left the yard was ceremonial. A holy medal tapped into the hull. A sprinkle of holy water. A quiet prayer not just for a good catch, but for safe returns. As the trailer rolled through the gate and down the road toward the stony shore, the boat gleamed in its new coat, as proud as any bride.
The fishing season opens again this week on Mask, Corrib, Carra, Conn and the other lakes that stitch blue into the green of the west of Ireland. Boats will taste water after their long thirst. Anglers will step between varnished seats, rods poised, hope rising with the first cast.
Spring is always about more than weather. It is about renewal, about sanding back what is worn and laying on a fresh coat of belief. On these lakes, it is about understanding that livelihood and wonder can share the same hull. Respect the water, prepare well, and may every journey end as it should — with a safe return and tight lines.
