The Coastguard Station – Part 1: The Night Watch

"It's not a bad one," said Cathal. "For January."

"It's horizontal rain."

"That's the good kind. The kind you can see coming."

Liam laughed and wrote the wind speed in the log. The coastguard station stood at the tip of a windswept headland in County Donegal, a little white building with a lookout window, a radio and an old stove, with the Atlantic roaring and hissing on the black rocks below. Spray rattled the glass. The light in the lantern turned slowly, throwing a pale beam across the heaving water.

Liam, thirty-one, a weather observer from Dublin, had taken the winter post to escape a messy year. Cathal, thirty-five, a fisherman's son from the nearest village, volunteered for the night watch twice a week. He had a ruddy, kind face, black curly hair and a flask he never put down.

"You're very good at this," said Liam.

"I was born looking at the sea. It is the only thing I know."

"I don't believe that."

"It's true. I can't do sums. I can't cook. I can read a swell." Cathal poured him a mug. "But I make tea like a champion."

They kept watch together through the long black nights, reading the instruments, logging the ships, talking in low voices as the wind keened. Cathal told stories about wrecks and drowned lanterns and the Gaelic names for waves. Liam told him about the strange loneliness of cities.

On the twelfth night, a storm came in. The sea heaved white. The radio crackled. For six hours they worked without a pause, relaying positions to a trawler fighting for shelter, until at last the boat's lights slid safely round the headland.

They sat down, shaking and exhausted.

"Well," said Cathal, hoarsely.

"Well."

"Liam." Cathal looked at him. "I would like to say something. I would like to kiss you, if you would like that."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Safe Harbour.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Safe Harbour.