Choppy seas, hand-built boats and the echoing shouts of 'Coinnigh libh' - welcome to the Tory Island currach race

IT'S LATE afternoon and the sun looming in over Mount Errigal makes bobbing silhouettes of the six crews lining up for the start, their currachs bunched so close together they look joined by their oars. On the pier, the crowd presses closer and the roars grow louder. Then the signal comes, the oars rise, and the real yelling starts.

From the edge of the pier, the king of Tory, Patsaí Dan Mac Ruaidhrí, gazes out with a satisfied grin. "We have been very lucky with this weather," he says. The waters are choppy, but the sun has shone since morning. "We're always a worried, nervous community. Nobody knows the strength of the wind or the strength of the Atlantic waves. But, thank God, we have great belief in St Colmcille [ the island's patron saint] and we put trust in Colmcille that he will protect us."

This is the second year in a row that the summer race has been held on Tory, but the last one before that was 25 years ago. Seeing how other island communities had revived the tradition, locals decided to tap the intuitive craftsmanship that had lain idle for decades on Tory. Oak, canvass and tar were sourced from the mainland and currach-makers such as Brian Doohan were put to work.

"It was always in my family," says Doohan. "My father made the currachs, and my uncles were the same. It's been long down the family. And my sons are learning it, too." He takes a tradesman's pleasure in describing the distinctive quirks of the two-man Tory currach - the shape, the angles, the feel of the slats underfoot, and the trade-off between stability and speed in the water.

"The craftsman needs to have a model in his head, and that's passed along from generation to generation," says Michael Rogers, another builder.

The old-style tar has been difficult to find, so a substitute used for roof-tarring has been used on the newer boats. But otherwise the design has remained the same. "It never changes. They're built as we always built them," Doohan says, standing over an elegant red-finished frame that he made with children in the local school over the winter.

Many of those standing on the pier have memories long enough to have known the currach as a vital part of island life. "They were very important here, because it was one of the most powerful small crafts, and it kept many people in the community alive," says Mac Ruaidhrí. "I remember my father, God rest him; for 26 years we had nothing but the currach. We used to fish a lot with two-pocket nets."

The talk on the island yesterday was of a late visit the previous night from two gardaí from the mainland, who donned their uniforms and ordered the pubs and the community hall to finish up at 1.30am. "We're not used to that," says one man. "It didn't go down too well." If there was any residual anger, there wasn't much sign of it on the pier yesterday afternoon.

Out at sea, less than 20 seconds had passed before one of the crews dropped an oar and saw it carried out of reach on the swelling waves. The race was down to five. The remaining crews made a congested turn at a buoy placed about 300m from the pier and lined up for the four-minute return straight. As they lifted and plunged, rose and dipped, their own straining roars were so loud they could be heard from the shore. "Coinnigh libh!" came the echo. "Coinnigh libh."

It was a close race, but a little more than seven minutes after the stopwatch started ticking, 27-year-old Séamus Doohan and his brother Josie (22) crossed the finish line to the giddy sound of their own names resounding across the inlet. The king of Tory handed them their trophy.

With an eye to this day, the pair started rowing for the first time earlier in the year, and they had been training almost every day as it drew close. Their currach, Josie explains afterwards, belonged to their grandfather and was showing signs of its 65 years before Séamus took the time to restore it in all its elegance over the winter.

"It was rougher than I thought," says Josie. "The wind was pushing the side of us, so we were always forcing it against us. A lot of it is technique - you could have all the power in the world and you still couldn't do it."

Mac Ruaidhrí looks a contented man, meanwhile. Last year there were three currachs in the race; this year there were six, and plans are afoot to build more of them. "With everything else being replaced, we can't forget the currach. For so long, they were the future for this community. I'm glad to see them in action, even if it's only for a race once a year."