The idea to raise funds for the Royal National Lifeboat Association (RNLI) was planted 31 years ago. While fishing off the shore of South Wales, my dad lost his paddle in an inflatable kayak, and started swimming to retrieve the lost paddle. Now in the water trying to reach his lost paddle, the strong currents made my dad quickly loose touch with his kayak, and within seconds found himself in a life threatening situation. A RNLI volunteer spotted him and this RNLI volunteer was by coincidence a hobby astronomer who happened to be watching the sea with his telescope, spotted my father and thought that he was paddling too far out for the flimsy kind of craft he paddled. He thus coincidently watched my father as he was about to drown. A quick phone call was made, a RNLI lifeboat from Pwllheli was dispatched, and within minutes my father was pulled aboard a stealthy RNLI craft. Even his inflatable kayak was safely brought back ashore. Without the RNLI and their volunteers, I would have grown up in a single parent household up from age 6.

The most time I could get off from work were 60 days, and since past Ireland circumnavigations took somewhere between 36 and 92 days, I set out paddling within a solid framework and with a clear goal: paddle whenever the weather permits, and as long as you physically can, to close the circle. After averaging only 20 Miles per day during my last trip along the South and West Coast of Australia, I felt there was very little room for non-paddling days caused by bad weather during the 1,050 Miles trip around Ireland, and probably little time for leisurely explorations. Fortunately, I was erring to my advantage on 3 of Ireland's 4 coastlines: The South, North and East coast of Ireland, but not the West Coast, have currents between 2 and at places even 5 Miles an hour. A feature the Coast of Australia does not have. The second feature which helped speed up the voyage around Eire caught me by surprise on the first day: the kayak I used had a skeg, which was new to me; I had never paddled before a kayak with a skeg. Not that I have never seen a skeg or did not know how it worked, but I was very surprised that by using the skeg, I could transfer close to 100% of my paddling energy into forward motion, while spending only a minimum of energy for correctional strokes. These 2 features, the current and the skeg, made such a big difference over the course of the 6 week paddle, helping to double the average mileage from my previous trip. That said, the trip should have been relatively easy, which is what I thought until I got introduced to the lively waters along the West Coast. Depending whom you ask, Ireland's West Coast has either no currents at all, or only very weak currents, so weak that in some places even local fishermen may spend an afternoon arguing whether the current is going South or North. The West Coast featured a brew of challenges for the kayaker: Multiple 20+ Miles crossings, long stretches of up to 300 feet high cliffs, often with no possibilities for landings for many miles, and exposure to the Westerly swells from the Atlantic Ocean and the cold air masses from Iceland. For 21 days of the 26 days on the West Coast of Ireland, Met Eireann, the Irish Weather Service, broadcast a Small Craft Warning, and for 6 of them a Gale Warning. Although the weather during June and July was the worst on record in the history of the Irish Weather Service, I was still lucky with the timing of my trip: I had ideal conditions - sun and little or no winds - during my first 8 paddling days. These ideal conditions helped me to leave 1/2 of the East Coast and the entire South Coast behind. I reached Crookhaven, the beginning of the West Coast, and my first mail stop, a week after I launched in Dublin. During this first week I paddled a 2-shift "Paul Caffyn schedule" which I learned about in his book about his groundbreaking circumnavigation of Australia. Paul Caffyn wrote of his ellaborate lunch breaks with long and lazy afternoon naps, sometimes even a cold beer or two in the middle of the day. He somehow managed all this while making enormous mileage on most of his paddling days. I realized Paul Caffyn made these high daily mileages not despite these bohemian lunch breaks, but because of them. Paul Caffyn made a habit of dividing the paddling day into two 6-hours paddling "shifts", which enabled him to start refreshed and fit not only once, but twice per day. A highly appealing strategy on various levels, which I happily adopted for my Ireland trip (though I replaced the beer with whiskey). My luck lasted only one more day past Crookhaven: In the evening of the paddling day I left Crookhaven and rounded Mizen Head, I wrote in my journal "45 Miles in 7.5 hours of paddling. An awesome paddling day. Everything was just right." I had soft wind and some swell from astern, just enough to let me surf, but not too much so I did not have to use a stern rudder to keep me going straight. In addition, there was a light current with me all day, pushing me towards Scariff Island, my goal for the day. Nothing could have prepared me for the features of the landscape which would appear after rounding first Mizen Head, and later Dursey Head. It felt like if stage hands pushed huge over-the-top, fairy tale-like theater-sceneries painted on plywood past me and my kayak.: The lighthouse at Mizen Head with its hanging rope bridge, Skellig Michael appearing on the horizon, and the highly mystical Bull Rock, with its tunnel going right through it. Even after having landed on Scariff Island, the mysteries did not stop. After setting up my tent on the island, I thought I would share the island with only a bunch of sheep and the local bird colony, like so many previous nights before. Out of nowhere all of a sudden a person appeared standing behind me while I set up my tent. His name was Dave, a friendly kayaker from Canada paddling his folding kayak up the West Coast of Ireland in Paul-Theraux-speed. We became first friendly, and then friends, helped in a big part by a fresh bottle of distilled rye I had picked up in Crookhaven. All evening we shared our experiences from paddling along the friendly shores of Ireland, and talked about our lives back home in Canada and Brooklyn. We passed a beautiful evening with a view to Skellig Michael 10 Miles offshore to our West. Twelve hours later, the weather pattern changed for the worse, and it did not improve for the next 4 weeks.

Temperatures dropped dramatically, the rain did not seem to end, and the wind seemed to always blow from the direction I wanted to paddle in. Met Eireann told of ground frost and hail storms in parts of the country, and locals wore ear mufflers, gloves and down jackets. Both the weather and the weather forecast became unpredictable, turning longer crossings into a gamble with the elements. A gamble I thought I will loose on 2 occasions when the weather deteriorated too fast to reach the safety of the shore. These 2 paddles in high winds and seas somehow left a permanent mark on my psyche, and put me on a permanent unease with longer crossings until today. I felt lucky that I was able to "muscle" my way out of these 2 gales, but I am still not willing to accept the reasoning why my chosen hobby - sea kayaking - would put me in such a precarious situation. During and after paddling out of my personal maritime mayhem, I felt a huge anger towards my hobby, which for the first time was appearing to be dangerous. In addition I developed an anger towards all sorts of things: The weather, the again incorrect weather forecast, the forecasters who read the incorrect forecasts to me on the radio, and most of it all, a huge anger towards myself. This is what I thought about while trying desperately to reach the shore in an off shore wind blowing Force 8. Combined with the exhaustion of paddling for 2 long hours as hard as I possibly could towards shore in these most challenging conditions, a feeling of desperation, total fatigue, and pure scorn had set in when I finally reached the shore close to Raghly in Sligo Bay. After having paddled for the past 20 days in strong winds, having lived in a now moldy tent, and eaten and slept in mostly driving cold rain, I declared (after having made the identical declarations the previous 4 days) this moment as the new and updated “New Alltime Low� of the trip. I was unable to find the reason why I exposed myself to the uncertainties of 20+ Miles crossings, paddle around exposed headlands, or around entire countries at a time and place where Small Craft Warnings are rather the norm than the exception? Is it to get a new perspective for my own life and little problems by experiencing these humble feelings? Thankfully every time I declared a "New Low" during the trip, something wonderful and uplifting happened shortly after which made me forget my little misery within seconds.

On many occasions it was just the sheer beauty of nature, sometimes it was an animal encounter, sometimes a beautiful island, and sometimes all three together, like the island Inishmurray with its monastery from 600 AD and its surrounding ring fortification. Being able to wander half a day on Inishmurray was my highlight of the trip, a moment I will cherish forever. More often than being impressed by the things around me, it was an encounter with an unbelievable warm and friendly person I met who lifted my spirits and made me aware I was at the right place at the right time with the just perfect mode of transportation. Whenever I visited little shops, pubs, community centers, post offices etc. on remote islands, I always felt for a brief moment a certain unease with myself before stepping through whatever door, and back into society and civilization, due to my dirty, unshaven appearance, underscored by a suspicion that I might also smell a little unpleasant. But no matter where I went, I was always welcomed with a friendly conversation and an original interest in the trip I was doing, the kayak, and the gear I used. All this accompanied more than once with a complimentary warm meal or a cold pint of Guinness. Soon after the first pint, stories of the life on Ireland's Western islands, stories of huge Basking Sharks, and tragedies from life lost on the sea were flowing as well. There were 2 stories which touched me the most since I visited both of the islands where the tragedies occurred. Here is one of them: I was finally able to land on Skellig Michael when I re-visited the island 10 days after completing the circumnavigation, now on a sunny day with very little wind and swell. When visiting Skellig Michael, I mentioned to a Wildlife Reserve Park Ranger on Skellig Michael that I was unable to land on Michael Skellig due to the bad weather at the time of my circumnavigation, appr. 4 weeks earlier. The park ranger listened to me patiently, but then took me aside and showed me a gravestone, which was covering the grave of 2 children, the 2 sons of the former lighthouse keeper on Skellig Michael. Both of his sons became seriously ill in the Winter in the 1920's and the lighthouse keeper phoned the Irish Lighthouse Service, asking to evacuate his sons from the island to bring them to a hospital. A long lasting Winter prohibited numerous evacuation efforts by the Irish Lighthouse Service to land - and to evacuate - the 2 children due to the dangerous seas. Since the numerous evacuation efforts all failed due to the high swell, wind, and waves of the long lasting violent Winter storm which made landing on the extremely difficult landing of Skellig Michael impossible, the lighthouse keeper's first son died in December, and since the storm did not end its violent grip on Skellig Michael for 4 1/2 full months, the second son died in March.

Just yesterday, I received an email from Dave, the folding kayaker from Canada, asking if I am still planning to paddle the West Coast again next year, proposing that we may paddle some days together. The dog-eared and salty Imray chart C54 showing West Ireland hangs framed in my bedroom, looking at it, I am thinking about the friends I like to ask if they are interested joining Dave and myself.

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