To the people of the isles and headlands of the west coast of Ireland, where giant Atlantic combers thunder at the base of eroded cliffs, the ocean is an enemy. Many a fisherman has come back to port wrapped "in the half of a red sail, and the water dripping out of it."
In Galway black-shawled women last week knelt on the grey cobblestones telling their beads. The men stood by in silence, their weathered faces turned to the driving rain, as the black-and-red-hulled French trawler, Jules Verne, steamed slowly into harbor, its...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
