The Absence of Protocol!
by Peggy Hernon
I am sorry for anyone who isn’t in the west of Ireland on this glorious morning. When the first flight of the day left Inis Mor I was reluctant to go inside to do paperwork and record books. The last of the dew sparkled on the grass, the sun was already warm on my back, and the sky was so eye-achingly blue it seemed it would never be otherwise. The world felt young. I leaned against the Fire Truck, closed my eyes and turned my face up to the sun
Although it says “Aerphort Inis Mor” on both sides of the fire truck, everyone knows it should say, “Michael Conneely’s Fire Truck”, so absolute is his guardianship. Michael is our Fire Crew Chief who trains and supervises the eight-member fire crew, and who is responsible for seeing that the vehicles, equipment and gear are kept in top condition. And, as the father of twins, there isn’t a portable baby buggy made on the planet that he can’t fold down to baggage size in under one minute. The fire truck returned to the island yesterday from its spring maintenance service so Michael has scheduled a full crew training session with the truck for later today. That thought opened my eyes and I headed inside to check tea, coffee & biscuit supplies for when they’re finished.
“An bhfuil rothai agaibh?” asked the caller politely. I’ve heard some version of this often enough to know what the Irish-speaking caller wants: aircraft tyres. “Fan noimead” I honked back at him in flat Yank and headed out the back door to see if we have any. Aer Arann Islands is constantly replacing tyres on the three Islander aircraft and every so often they send us a load of used tyres as they are in demand out here. Years ago the private boat owners of Aran discovered that used aircraft tyres make ideal bumper-buoys for small boats as the tyres are exactly the right size, made of high quality rubber, and come with a hole in the middle for the rope. The Aran boats tied up at Killeaney pier all look like they’re wearing jet black dangly earrings. Rather chic. I told the caller we had four on hand and he said he would be over later to pick them up.
“See you, Des”, “Thank you, Des”, “Later, Des”, “Good on ya, Dessie” is the litany from passengers disembarking from the 10:00 a.m. Aer Arann Islands flight from Inverin. “Des” is Captain Des Collins, the pilot who returns each greeting with a word, a nod, or a smile. Ten minutes later, the litany was repeated when I seated my outbound passengers, and an elderly lady passenger added, “Such a nice boy is Dessie”. Des was born, raised and educated in Galway, and lives in Galway. No matter his academic degrees or professional qualifications, Des is first and foremost a local lad. Although Des and his wife Nancy have three young local lads of their own, the older Aran residents remember Dessie as a teenager when he worked as a crewman on the Aran passenger boat, the Niamh Eanna. Des learned to fly in the Galway Flying Club, and left the sea behind when he qualified to fly Britten Norman Islanders. “Went Upmarket” was the local phrase for Des joining Aer Arann Islands in 2002. Des knows everyone, and not just the Aran residents; he knows people from the business and service sectors who travel between Inverin and Inis Mor. I once thought I would actually get to introduce him to someone he didn’t know, a man who came from a company in Mullingar to calibrate our airport weighing scales. “Hello, Tommy. Long time no see”, said Des, his face lit up with recognition of a former classmate. I gave up.
The 10:30 am flight from Inverin, bound for Inis Meain and Inis Oirr, stopped briefly at Inis Mor to drop off two passengers from TG4, a news presenter and a cameraman who held a bulky camera on his lap. I know better than to offer to hold the TV camera while he disembarks. Mothers will hand me their new born babies to hold while they disembark, but a cameraman will never part from his camera. An offer of help, or God forbid, an outstretched hand in his direction will get me a chilly look. I just held open the aircraft door while he scrambled & grunted his way out, an exit worthy of the Hulk. When he was clear of the door we exchanged smiles and hellos. We’re used to each other. TG4 comes here regularly to film island news or events; today it’s a visit by a Minister.
Whatever else the media might say about them, this Government has regularly visited Inis Mor, including a visit by Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, who was wisely wearing an anorak on that icy cold day. In my years working here, enough Ministers, TD’s and Senators have arrived and departed from Inis Mor that we keep the Tricolour handy and only have it dry-cleaned when the Dail is in recess.
The Tricolour was flying for the 1130 flight that brought the Minister and his party to an opening ceremony on the island. The Minister disembarked and seemed puzzled for a moment at the number of people at the airport, then his island hosts moved forward and he smiled and extended his hand. He shook hands with everyone, including our eight crew members here for the training session and the man wearing a quartet of aircraft tyres on his left arm. No matter, we’re citizens all. I’ve found the protocol of Arain is the absence of protocol; here our elected officials are usually addressed, not by their title, but by their first names. That informality is likely to rub off on visitors as well. The Mister Smith who arrives on a Friday is likely to leave us on Sunday as just plain John. The clergy though, for the most part, still use their titles. Some years back, the Bishop and a companion priest checked in for their return flight to Inverin after administering Confirmation on Inis Mor. I stood up when they came in and said, “Good afternoon, Your . . uh, Your . . um”. The word wouldn’t come. It starts with “e”. Your Elegance? No. Your Expediency? No. The ghosts of a dozen nuns who drilled ecclesiastical titles into my head hovered expectantly, but no joy. I looked blankly at the Bishop to find he was smiling at my struggle for the right word. “Father”, he said, “is fine.” Leaning against the fire truck to watch departure I remembered the right word and waved goodbye to His Excellency. Yes. The ghostly nuns took off in a huff when I decided his graceful rescue of me was actually nicer than if I had come up with the right title for him.
Des is sitting out until 1415. After lunch he took himself and his Irish language workbook into the sun at the south side of the airport building. Des has been taking refresher Irish courses for about a year, and he now can speak with the crew in Irish. Before Irish, Des and the crew spoke that other difficult language, Engine. If Dessie keeps improving, they might start speaking Engine in Irish and I’ll never get a word in.
Michael Conneely and the crew have been generating clouds of dust and testosterone in the training session with the fire truck. The drivers went first - starting, stopping, speeding up, turning, reversing and parking – with Michael in the passenger seat. One of our relief crewmen is a tour bus driver with a license to drive a 45-seat coach, but this cuts no ice with Michael, the bus driver takes his turn with the rest. After driving comes hose work and the session ends with a good washing down of the fire truck
The morning has flown by. I take a look at the afternoon schedule and then at the clock. I have ten minutes. Grabbing the mobile phone, I head for the sun at the south side of the building where Des and Michael Conneely are talking lawn mowers in English. I sat down and turned my face up to the sun.
I am sorry for anyone who isn’t in the west of Ireland on this glorious morning. When the first flight of the day left Inis Mor I was reluctant to go inside to do paperwork and record books. The last of the dew sparkled on the grass, the sun was already warm on my back, and the sky was so eye-achingly blue it seemed it would never be otherwise. The world felt young. I leaned against the Fire Truck, closed my eyes and turned my face up to the sun
Although it says “Aerphort Inis Mor” on both sides of the fire truck, everyone knows it should say, “Michael Conneely’s Fire Truck”, so absolute is his guardianship. Michael is our Fire Crew Chief who trains and supervises the eight-member fire crew, and who is responsible for seeing that the vehicles, equipment and gear are kept in top condition. And, as the father of twins, there isn’t a portable baby buggy made on the planet that he can’t fold down to baggage size in under one minute. The fire truck returned to the island yesterday from its spring maintenance service so Michael has scheduled a full crew training session with the truck for later today. That thought opened my eyes and I headed inside to check tea, coffee & biscuit supplies for when they’re finished.
“An bhfuil rothai agaibh?” asked the caller politely. I’ve heard some version of this often enough to know what the Irish-speaking caller wants: aircraft tyres. “Fan noimead” I honked back at him in flat Yank and headed out the back door to see if we have any. Aer Arann Islands is constantly replacing tyres on the three Islander aircraft and every so often they send us a load of used tyres as they are in demand out here. Years ago the private boat owners of Aran discovered that used aircraft tyres make ideal bumper-buoys for small boats as the tyres are exactly the right size, made of high quality rubber, and come with a hole in the middle for the rope. The Aran boats tied up at Killeaney pier all look like they’re wearing jet black dangly earrings. Rather chic. I told the caller we had four on hand and he said he would be over later to pick them up.
“See you, Des”, “Thank you, Des”, “Later, Des”, “Good on ya, Dessie” is the litany from passengers disembarking from the 10:00 a.m. Aer Arann Islands flight from Inverin. “Des” is Captain Des Collins, the pilot who returns each greeting with a word, a nod, or a smile. Ten minutes later, the litany was repeated when I seated my outbound passengers, and an elderly lady passenger added, “Such a nice boy is Dessie”. Des was born, raised and educated in Galway, and lives in Galway. No matter his academic degrees or professional qualifications, Des is first and foremost a local lad. Although Des and his wife Nancy have three young local lads of their own, the older Aran residents remember Dessie as a teenager when he worked as a crewman on the Aran passenger boat, the Niamh Eanna. Des learned to fly in the Galway Flying Club, and left the sea behind when he qualified to fly Britten Norman Islanders. “Went Upmarket” was the local phrase for Des joining Aer Arann Islands in 2002. Des knows everyone, and not just the Aran residents; he knows people from the business and service sectors who travel between Inverin and Inis Mor. I once thought I would actually get to introduce him to someone he didn’t know, a man who came from a company in Mullingar to calibrate our airport weighing scales. “Hello, Tommy. Long time no see”, said Des, his face lit up with recognition of a former classmate. I gave up.
The 10:30 am flight from Inverin, bound for Inis Meain and Inis Oirr, stopped briefly at Inis Mor to drop off two passengers from TG4, a news presenter and a cameraman who held a bulky camera on his lap. I know better than to offer to hold the TV camera while he disembarks. Mothers will hand me their new born babies to hold while they disembark, but a cameraman will never part from his camera. An offer of help, or God forbid, an outstretched hand in his direction will get me a chilly look. I just held open the aircraft door while he scrambled & grunted his way out, an exit worthy of the Hulk. When he was clear of the door we exchanged smiles and hellos. We’re used to each other. TG4 comes here regularly to film island news or events; today it’s a visit by a Minister.
Whatever else the media might say about them, this Government has regularly visited Inis Mor, including a visit by Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, who was wisely wearing an anorak on that icy cold day. In my years working here, enough Ministers, TD’s and Senators have arrived and departed from Inis Mor that we keep the Tricolour handy and only have it dry-cleaned when the Dail is in recess.
The Tricolour was flying for the 1130 flight that brought the Minister and his party to an opening ceremony on the island. The Minister disembarked and seemed puzzled for a moment at the number of people at the airport, then his island hosts moved forward and he smiled and extended his hand. He shook hands with everyone, including our eight crew members here for the training session and the man wearing a quartet of aircraft tyres on his left arm. No matter, we’re citizens all. I’ve found the protocol of Arain is the absence of protocol; here our elected officials are usually addressed, not by their title, but by their first names. That informality is likely to rub off on visitors as well. The Mister Smith who arrives on a Friday is likely to leave us on Sunday as just plain John. The clergy though, for the most part, still use their titles. Some years back, the Bishop and a companion priest checked in for their return flight to Inverin after administering Confirmation on Inis Mor. I stood up when they came in and said, “Good afternoon, Your . . uh, Your . . um”. The word wouldn’t come. It starts with “e”. Your Elegance? No. Your Expediency? No. The ghosts of a dozen nuns who drilled ecclesiastical titles into my head hovered expectantly, but no joy. I looked blankly at the Bishop to find he was smiling at my struggle for the right word. “Father”, he said, “is fine.” Leaning against the fire truck to watch departure I remembered the right word and waved goodbye to His Excellency. Yes. The ghostly nuns took off in a huff when I decided his graceful rescue of me was actually nicer than if I had come up with the right title for him.
Des is sitting out until 1415. After lunch he took himself and his Irish language workbook into the sun at the south side of the airport building. Des has been taking refresher Irish courses for about a year, and he now can speak with the crew in Irish. Before Irish, Des and the crew spoke that other difficult language, Engine. If Dessie keeps improving, they might start speaking Engine in Irish and I’ll never get a word in.
Michael Conneely and the crew have been generating clouds of dust and testosterone in the training session with the fire truck. The drivers went first - starting, stopping, speeding up, turning, reversing and parking – with Michael in the passenger seat. One of our relief crewmen is a tour bus driver with a license to drive a 45-seat coach, but this cuts no ice with Michael, the bus driver takes his turn with the rest. After driving comes hose work and the session ends with a good washing down of the fire truck
The morning has flown by. I take a look at the afternoon schedule and then at the clock. I have ten minutes. Grabbing the mobile phone, I head for the sun at the south side of the building where Des and Michael Conneely are talking lawn mowers in English. I sat down and turned my face up to the sun.
