Aer Arann

by Peg Hernon

The Aran Islands are known for tranquillity even on the busiest summer day, but Arain does have a summer buzz of sorts. It’s the throb of boat engines in the bay, the hum of aircraft approaching in the western sky, the chug of minibuses, the whirr of bicycles, and the rhythmic clip-clop of horses on the narrow road. It’s the sound of children splashing in the shallow pools of the beaches, the gulls and lapwings scolding, fat bees buzzing in the hedges, and everywhere the rustle of dune grass in the summer breeze. The sounds of summer are as energising as the sunlight and aquamarine waters of Galway Bay. The small boy waiting with his father for the arrival of the first flight suddenly broke into a little jig for no reason. Days like this are a tonic.

The two Aer Arann Islands flights from Inverin were full coming in. Passengers streamed up the hill or onto the airport bus and the little lad climbed into the back of the family car with a newly-arrived grandparent on either side of him. At 10:30 am I disembarked a plane load of redheads and heard our red-haired crewman ask them if they had brought sun block. “Factor 75” said the mammy putting on a baseball cap, “buckets of it” and they headed off to rent bikes.

Mid-morning I got a call from an island couple who are booked to depart on the 4:15 pm flight. They were looking for one more seat so their daughter could travel with them. The evening flights were full but I hit the speed dial for Inverin and got Mary Gilmore. I explained the problem and Mary said, “Leave it with me”. While not a guarantee, there is hope in “Leave it with me”. It means seats may become available from a change in routing or passenger numbers, or by the addition of another flight, but nothing is definite yet, hence “Leave it with me”. On the other hand, there is absolutely no hope of a seat if I’m told “not a sausage”. That phrase started out as the full sentence, “We are so totally booked out there isn’t room for a sausage” but it’s been boiled down over time. I’ve worked with Mary for about ten years and she’s a master at solving “Leave it with me” situations that involve passenger numbers, flight times, connecting bus times, and factors I wouldn’t know at my airport on this side of the bay. Once, on a ramble with the dogs I found a patch of hazel growing wild. Magic wands are traditionally made of hazel and I was tempted to cut a rod and send it to Mary as a tribute to her problem solving skills. But as I thought about it I could almost hear Mary’s practical, down-to-earth voice on the phone as she eyed my bit of whimsy, “a biro would have been fine, Peg”.

The 1230 flight from Inverin arrived and parked; the aircraft was sitting out until the first departure of the afternoon at 2:30 pm. It was lunch time. Two of the crew headed for the village for sandwiches, and the pilot and two other crewmen headed off to take a look at a luxury yacht tied up at Killeaney pier nearby. I had rounded up the scattered sections of the newspaper and settled in the sun for a quiet read when I noticed three young teenage girls walking in the airport gate. They were the same three who had been here yesterday inquiring about a package from Galway. They had shown up then at a busy time and I had sent them off with a decisive, “no, nothing” and told them to phone me later. Instead, they’re here again today. It dawned on me that they’re not looking for a package from Galway; what they’re looking for is our student crewman who’s turned into a stunner, a young Prince whose good looks are matched by his good nature, a combination that is, dare I say it - charming. I said hello to the girls and told them that no packages had come in this morning. The sound of voices brought the Prince from out of the fire truck and the trio turned to him as one, beaming. “Leave your phone number and we’ll call if anything comes in for you” I said firmly, and a Princess hopeful in jewelled sandals passed her phone number to the Prince who didn’t look at it. Instead he handed it to me and climbed back into the fire truck. The girl looked with dismay at her phone number now in the hands of the Dragon not the Prince. I watched them trudge off out the gate and up the hill. Inside, I taped the slip of paper to the holder that houses the freight dockets. She had written her phone number in purple ink. You couldn’t pay me to be that age again.

The summer I was 13 Flip Hanley was the new lifeguard at Rockaway Beach where my family had a beach house. Flip, short for Philip, was beyond handsome; he had the dazzling good looks of a movie star and the natural grace of an athlete. He shone with a mix of charisma and Coppertone sun tan oil. One look and every puppy hormone within me quivered. I was smart enough to know it was hopeless. At age 13 I had no chest, waist or bum; what I did have were horn-rim glasses and big feet that had grown in advance of the rest of me. At the beach I watched him from behind a book and picked up snippets of information about him from the teenage girls who flocked around the lifeguard stand at Beach 108th Street. Flip was a freshman at St. John’s University. He bounced the door at McNulty’s Bar on weekend nights, and during the day he rode around on a scooter called, “The Irish Rover”. He was the captain of the Rockaway rugby team, which is why all these years later, I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I still can recite the rules of Rugby. One late afternoon I ran into Flip at the corner delicatessen. He asked me to hold the tape dispenser for him while he put up a rugby flyer in the deli window. I couldn’t speak. I was literally struck dumb by the nearness of him. I was half-way home when I realised I had floated out the door without my change. The change was gone when I got back to the deli and I had to face my mother with a carton of milk that had cost her a tenner.

Mary Gilmore called while I was checking in the passengers for the 2:30 pm flight. The island couple and their daughter would depart together at 3:45 pm on a second flight at that time routing to Inis Mor from Inis Meain, and their original two seats at 4:15 were now taken by a couple who had been on standby. Passengers checked in all afternoon to the sounds of the airport at work - the rumble of baggage trolleys, the voices on the aviation radio or the safety video, and the drone of engines as aircraft taxied in and slowly turned on the apron to be in position to taxi out again. The family of redheads arrived for their outbound flight with nine noses covered in white zinc oxide cream. Cameras clicked, mobile phones rang and chatter flowed in several different languages.

The last flight of the day had taxied out and the crew who were not in the fire truck on aircraft watch were already closing up. The Prince had grabbed a broom and was sweeping out the passenger area. As I tidied up the desk I noticed the purple phone number was gone. The Hotel called. They had a couple who were scheduled to depart tomorrow on the 3:15 pm flight but a work problem had arisen at the couple’s business and they were hoping to leave on the 10:15 am flight instead. I looked at the clock and hit the speed dial for Inverin and got Mary Gilmore. Mary said the 10:15 was full, but she might be able to do something at 11:30 if that was okay. It was. I relayed the man’s thanks and mobile phone number to Mary who said, “Okay, leave it with me.”