(This blog entry was found among the debris in the Irish Sea after the floods of Dublin on 23-24 October 2011. This entry is repeated verbatim minus pictures, because they’re mostly naked pictures of Jamey, and no one wants to see that.)
It began with a single drop of rain.
I had gone my first two days in Ireland with nary a rainfall. I skipped through the cobblestone streets of Clontarf, blowing kisses to milkmaids and spouting limericks in all directions.
And then came the rain.
I walked out the door of my castle hotel on Sunday morning to discover a moist substance falling from the sky. Knowing not what it was, I grabbed the nearest Irishman and insisted he tell me what it was.
He told me, and I apologized for the nuisance. We then exchanged pints of Guinness and went on our way.
The skies had opened, and the rain was relentless. I traveled to Dublin city centre by bus. Before I got off the bus, the driver grabbed me by the sleeve and said with a haunted look in her eyes, “Don’t go out there, lad!”
“I can handle it,” I told her. “I can handle a little water–I dilute my orange-mango juice with it at every dinner.”
She pointed to the fare box. “I mean, don’t go out there until you pay the fair. Elevensies halfsies is the fare.”
(All Irish currency is measured by how cute it is to say the numbers. For example, a penny is 1/100th of a Euro, while 10,000 Euros is pronounced with the sound a kitten makes when it stretches after a nap.)
By the time I had my midday tea, the rain was coming down at an angle. The normally crowded streets of Dublin were…well, still very crowded, because this was nothing out of the ordinary for them.
But for me it was a sign of doomsday.
With only my Oxford peacoat to protect me, I stripped down to my Irish loincloth (like an American loincloth, but shaped like a shamrock) and ran through the streets. I just barely caught the bus back to my castle hotel, which I stormed like you would any castle hotel (through the sliding glass doors).
I was home safe. But not for long.
You see, outside the waters were rising. Gaelic beasts of yore were rising from their slumber, tasting the toes of humans on the tides.
I knew I had to act, and fast. It wouldn’t be safe in my completely, absolutely safe castle hotel for long. I had to make a run for it.
So after sleeping in (it’s my vacation, after all), I dressed properly and ventured into the heart of Clontarf (which basically consists of a grocery store and a few quaint shops). I stocked up on chocolate and fish and chips and headed to the wharf.
The time had come. With the help of a number of Irish Rovers and Irish Setters, I pieced together a crude raft out of former Cranberries singers and corned beef.
I tested my weight against it. “She’ll hold together,” I said while looking wistfully at the sea. “Oh, she’ll hold.”
One last piece was needed: The sail. So I threw my peacoat onto one of the Cranberries and lifted it aloft, leaving me flapping nakedly in the wind.
“Set me afloat, boys!” I cried, and the Irish Setters nudged the raft into the sea with their little noses.
I turned to the shore and raised me hand to salute the Irish soil that I had called home the last few days. Then I turned my eyes and heart to the sea, calling out to the wind, “You shall never take me! This day is mine, and I shall survive!”
(Jamey’s journal was discovered a few days later just a few yards from where he set sail. His last words were scribbled in the margins: “Corned beef was a bad choice.”)
For more of Jamey’s “true” tales of survival, click here.