An Cosantóir

www.military.ie the defence forces magazine | 25 mother in the bombing, has been here every year since and this time she is pregnant. The circle continues. For 30 years I have struggled to accommodate the events of that day. To find a space in my life for it where I am no longer defined, ruled, or marked by it forevermore. I haven't always been successful. Some hurts are just too great to get over; they leave a great wound, a hole in your soul. you can't fix it so you put a psychological plank across it or you walk around it. But it's too deep, and it never goes away. Some days it's full to the brim with nightmares and if you're not careful you can fall in; some days it overflows. I avoided the memorial service for so long because it terri- fied me, immobilised me and scraped away at old wounds I was already trying unsuccessfully to hide. But last Tuesday in West Cork something happened, something I am reluctant to define, categorise or, even worse, intellectualise. There really isn't a name for it, and if there is I don't want to know it; that would minimise it, trap the magic and put it in a box. It began with a text message from an old crew member, "… got your number from Mick… Cork County Council are putting out invites to the service…looking for old crew members of the Aisling..." After a few more calls a lift is arranged. The evening before the service a few former comrades meet up, unplanned, in a hotel bar. Brian and Terry, and Ken and his wife are here, and Tom, Elton, Cha and Dermot too. "John is on site somewhere," Cha tells me. It doesn't take long for the sailors' tales to begin: the night 'Chin Chin' brought the donkey on to the ship; the day the cook gave out Crisp & Dry to use as suntan lotion. But as the night darkens, so does the mood. "How were you after that day?" "How have you been?" "Haunted," comes the reply. I feel the weight and I hear the sadness in the voice. "Never told the wife" becomes a recurring refrain. "Sure how could you?" the response. At the service the following morning the sun shines and more old comrades appear; people not seen for 30 years are welcomed, hugged, respected. Old wounds and griev- ances reluctantly begin to ease. Something is moving, shifting imperceptibly; I can feel it, we all can. More arrive: Willy, Pecker and Mossy. Friends trauma- tised, wounded, and profoundly affected by what they witnessed that day – but today we are here together. Someone suggests a photo and we line up. What begins as an impromptu photo takes on a life of its own; there are 27 of us now and the line is long. Suddenly we are faced with a barrage of cameras and I feel as though I am in a football team facing the press. The day ends and as we say our goodbyes, there's a sense that perhaps some of the fear, uncertainty and guilt may have moved on just a little. As we begin the long drive home the seabirds continue to call and the sun contin- ues to shine on the waters of West Cork but maybe, just maybe, there's a little more light in the sky; and maybe a little more good in the world too. Perhaps Ahakista has worked its magic after all. About the Author: Since leaving the Defence Forces Jim worked in the media, both print and television, including directing a documentary for RTE in 1998 about children living in the sewers under Bucharest. He has travelled extensively in North and West Africa, including walking for 10 days through the Sahara Desert in Morocco in 2004 and a 12-day journey by camel in the desert north of Timbuctu in Mali in 2006. Since 2006 he has worked in the homeless sector, cur- rently managing a homeless hostel in Dublin that caters for 60 men ranging in ages from 20 to 82. DSM recipients (l-r): L/Sea J McGrath, Lt Cdr J Robinson, PO M Mahon and A/Sea T Browne. The 30th anniversary gathering at the memorial garden at Ahakista

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