On the deck of the SS Costa Riviera a half dozen strayed revelers from Irish Festival Cruises raise their near-empty glasses to the dawn. Paddy Clancy, guru of that renowned group the Clancy Brothers and Robbie O’Connell, is so overcome with the beauty of it all he strips down to his shorts and dives into the Jacuzzi. You say, “How can anyone dive into a Jacuzzi?” Your point, dear reader, is well taken. I don’t know how Paddy did it and he doesn’t know but you could say God watches over children, and people in a certain ecstatic condition. You could say also, “This is Irish Festival Cruises and aren’t we here to enjoy ourselves and who better to show us than the Clancys – Paddy, Bobby, Liam and the nephew, Robbie?”
And with Jacuzzi Jets soothing his Tipperary tissues Paddy sings to a sun turning the Caribbean sky a heartbreaking blaze of scarlet, pink, gold. It’s worth staying up for, this dawn, and easier than getting up. That’s what this cruise boils down to — those who stay up or those who get up.
Paddy Clancy is the stay up type; his wife, Mary, has more sense. She retires at a decent hour so that she’ll be fresh for the yoga class she teaches at nine. She’s been teaching yoga for years in Tipperary and Waterford. It tones the body, clears the head and helps you cope with a spouse who can’t pass a Jacuzzi without diving in head first.
“Yoga?” you say. Of course. An Indian discipline taught by an Irish woman on an Italian ship in the middle of the Caribbean.
What could be more exotic?
Yoga — and more. In a nearby lounge you’ll find a “meeting” in progress, a place of solace for those who have given up the drink, a refuge for anyone grappling with the problem. The day rolls on. You think you’ll find a deck chair and imitate a lump but Mary Rowley has other plans. She’s the cruise organizer and driving force and she’s offering you a variety of workshops: Gaelic (Dermot Henry and Gabriel Donahue), Storytelling (Tommy Sands), The Irish on the American Stage (Mick Moloney), Jargon (Paddy Clancy, Frank Patterson, Paddy Reilly). You want to act?
Malachy McCourt will show you basic techniques. Paddy and Bobby Clancy will get you going on bodhran and harmonica, Liam and Bobby on spoons, Joanie Madden and Scamus Egan on tin whistle. There’s an all-star lineup to teach you songwriting: Robbie O’Connell, Gabriel Donahue, Dermot Henry and Tommy Sands. Wander into the Riviera Lounge and you’ll find Danny Golden and Rosemarie Timoney teaching Irish dance.
Midnight Saturday the ship’s horn booms and we leave our berth at San Juan, Puerto Rico. We’re already in good form: we’ve had the dinner and, if that’s your fancy, a drop of wine. The first evening concert is underway: The Clancy Brothers and Robbie O’Connell, Jigsaw (Gabriel Donahue, Joanie Madden, Eileen Ivers), Paddy Reilly, The Dermot Henry Band and, to wind it up, The Clancy Brothers and Robbie again.
Wind it up? There’s no such thing. Entertainers and passengers mingle, drinks are bought, a guitar appears and we’re in for the night, boys and girls. You never thought you had a voice? At two a.m. with this crowd you’re a Vatican soprano. If you’re hungry you can make your way to the midnight buffet for the strength that’s in it. You can wander out on deck and watch the twinkle of lights back in old San Juan. Back at the Riviera Lounge the singalong is in full swing.
A woman from Michigan says, “Don’t these Clancys ever get tired of singing?”
Does the Pope get tired of prayer?
Around three you set out for your cabin.
You can’t find it. You wander up and down, forward and aft, starboard, larboard and around the poop deck.
A crew member takes pity, leads you to your cabin. You bless him, tell him you’ll light a candle for his intentions.
At the ungodly hour of six forty-five you’re up in the restaurant, La Dolce Vita, and who’s sitting there but Jim Mc Kague who manages things for the Clancys and Robbie. Jim is bright-eyed and wants to know if you stayed up or got up. He stayed up and you’re almost ashamed to admit you got up. He’s polishing off a half-dozen boxes of cereal with milk and fruit. He’s healthy. Works out. Avoids coffee.
An example to the rest of us.
Mary Clancy joins us. A little fruit, juice, cereal. She shakes her head over people around us loading up on eggs, sausages, bacon. The Cholesterol Celts. Ready to keel over. Burial at sea. I feel guilty over my coffee, my buttered croissant. I promise to mend my ways. I might take up yoga. Sling my leg around my neck. But to what purpose?
And look at this! The breakfast is hardly over and the Irish (and others) are strewn around on deck chairs exposing themselves to the sun. There’s Mick Moloney, scholar, musician, exposing his tender Irish skin to the sun. You’d think a man with a Ph. D. would know better.
But you have to understand that our passengers come from all over: California, Massachusetts, Alaska, New Mexico, Pennsylvania, Ireland (of course), and even Liverpool, England. You can’t blame them for seeking the sun — and a lovely sun it is and soon it’s time for a workshop (there’s no “work” involved) or a chat with people around the pool.
Dave Yates and his wife, Marilyn, are from New Jersey and this is their second cruise. “It’s the togetherness of this crowd,” says Dave. “You can go to a concert and see the Clancys and Robbie from a distance but here you’re liable to be sitting next to them at lunch or, yeah, in the Jacuzzi.” Marilyn says, “It’s an exhausting, relaxing cruise. You know. And everyone’s so.. Personable.”
There are other passengers on the ship — the unfortunates who did not sign up for Irish Festival Cruises — and they have to make do with the entertainment provided by Costa Cruise Line.
Mary Rowley says some of them hear about our good times and try to wheedle their way into the various concerts. No go. You can’t even buy your way in. Go back and listen to some guy singing “I Did It My Way ” And here are Tom and Bernie Tolizzi of Marlboro, New York. In May, 1993, they’ll celebrate forty-nine years of marriage.
Tolizzi? On an Irish cruise? “Sure,” says Bernie, the wife, “I’m Irish and he loves the Irish, the songs and everything. We were here last year and we’ll keep coming.” She laughs. “You know he’s got this T-shirt, ‘Pray for me, my wife is Irish.’”
This cruise is like a community, all together and having a hell of a good time. Some people don’t even want to get off at the different islands. They want to keep sailing west past St. Thomas, Martinique, Caracas, Aruba, Serena Cay in the Dominican Republic. The intrepid ones go shopping and stagger back on the ship duty free and much lighter in the purse. Weaklings (like myself) are content to sit in a cafe with a rum that is “a torchlight procession going down your throat.” There are people who read guidebooks and seck out ruins. There are people who swim and snorkel. More power to them, but the weaklings (like myself) feel a responsibility towards the economy.
You’re back on the ship. You take a shower before you dress for dinner. (Don’t start your proletarian whine that you would never dress for dinner. Dress you will, by God, or you’re over the side.) Look at this menu — course after course. Already I’m having an anxiety attack deciding between Smoked Alaskan Salmon or Paté Maison.
Yes, waiter, I’II have the salmon and, yes, I’ll have the Consommé with aged sherry. The brother, Malachy, has a comment,
“It’s far from aged sherry you were brought up.”
The sibling thing. The elegance of my choices bothers him but I move on to the pasta course, the Agnolotti di magro alla panna which is “A delectable, truly Italian pasta. Freshly made, stuffed with vege-tables, served in a light cream sauce.”
Leave room for the salad and the entree.
More decisions: Halibut, Roast Prime Rib of Beef (au jus, of course), Escalopes of Veal.
Mick Moloney, Robbie and Tommy Sands are pulling at their ears, making faces, muttering. They can’t decide. (I’ve settled for the veal.) And what’s this?
They, if you don’t mind, are served two entrees. That’s the reward for not being able to make up your mind. During dessert I protest but I’m shushed by Roxanne O’Connell, wife of the above Robbie. She tells me, “Eat your sparkling ice cream bombe on parade.”
Paddy Clancy says, “It’s far from the bombe you were brought up.”
Our last night out the Caribbean shows a bit of its power, the ship rolls, and the Clancys sing: “There’s a big ship sailing, rocking on the sea, rocking on the sea, rocking on the sea.
Hi, ho, rocking on the sea.” Paddy Reilly launches the last show.
With the ship a-rolling it isn’t easy to perch on a high stool and sing of Athenry. But nothing will stop these performers and nothing will keep the passengers away. Mick Moloney, Eugene O’Donnell and Seamus Egan are next. That Seamus — he’s pure concerto. The ship might rock but Brendan Grace rocks us even more. The lad from the Liberties would have you laughing on your own deathbed. To wind it up there are the veterans, the ones who, you could say, started it all: the Clancy Brothers and the nephew, Robbie O’Connell. There’s a grand finale; no one wants to go to bed. We hang on. Another drink, another song. It is a community. They’re drifting off. You take time to wander out on deck for a last look at the Caribbean moon.
Back in the Riviera Lounge entertainers and passengers join in: “It’s not the leaving of Liverpool that grieves me…” and while you look at the moon you recall the dozens of people you’ve met — the Irish, Irish-Americans, their spouses and friends of all nationalities, the lady from your own town, Limerick, who went to England in 1943 to work in a munitions factory, met a Yank, married him and came to live in Lin-denhurst, Long Island. You think of the liveliness and real scholarship in the workshops, the talent of these musicians, and the rowdy, perceptive humor of Brendan Grace. All your life you had scorned the idea of the cruise — but this was different. This was merriment and music, an adventure into your heritage and into yourself.
Oh, yes, we’ll do this again next year and the year after for we’ve told our families we want to be buried at sea during an Irish Festival Cruise.
Frank McCourt recently appeared at the Irish Arts Center in New York City with his brother Malachy in Couple of Blagards.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in the May June 1993 issue of Irish America. ♦
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