When I was 17 I kidnapped a priest. I handcuffed him, and took him from his house up to the church to take his money. I got caught for it and did 10 years in Spike Island prison in Cork. Prison was the best thing that ever happened to me – God forbid I could be somewhere else dead.
My first few months in Spike, I was a lunatic. I couldn’t agree with no one, with the system. Prison officers opened my door? I’d bang them. That only happened for so long: I either did it the easy way or the hard way, so I stuck myself into the education unit there, and got classes every day, eventually taking up woodwork for the first time and making little model boats.
I suggested we do a fundraiser by running a race on the island. Everyone laughed and said: “You’re not going escaping!” I convinced the governor and they gave me whatever I wanted as I was leading other prisoners towards a good way. My brother, who was also inside, suggested raising money for a young Joanne O’Riordan (now a disability activist and Irish Times contributor with a rare disorder characterised by an absence of all four limbs).
Twenty of us ganged up and trained together. We did the Ballycotton 10k in the yard and raced the prison officers for a joke. I then made a 2ft model boat and others made a lovely teddy bear and a painting of a lion. We raffled them off to the staff and raised about £3,500. The buzz was brilliant. She came to the prison with her parents. We were all hard boys – but we cried. Every one of us was touched.
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I’ve been out now for 23 years, and I’ve come a long way. Today I’m a boatmaker and workshop manager at Meitheal Mara (Workers of the Sea), a community boatyard in Cork City where we build traditional currachs with those from disadvantaged backgrounds, with mental health issues, disabilities and kids from the young probation service.
When I left prison in January 2000, I started at Meitheal Mara but soon relapsed. I had to go to this place to dry out because I went on the alcohol and stuff. It was just too much for me when I came out. There was no work and I was scattered.
Fair juice to Meitheal Mara. They kept a tab on me and left the door open. They didn’t label me as a scumbag or an alcoholic, which was brilliant. I’m still grateful for that and this is where I have been ever since.
There’s two or three types of currachs I’ve picked over the years that really gather the group together. One of them is called the Sheephaven, from Dunfanaghy, Co Donegal. This is my favourite. It’s made from hazel and is beautiful to craft with your hands. That’s what our learners love.
I have a real passion for making sure my learners get the best from what we’re doing – and they deserve that.
I take the preservation of this dying craft very seriously. It’s important to keep this tradition alive. They’re not expensive, they’re very economical and the safety around them is really good. The fibreglass boats look lovely and shiny, but they cost money. There’s no love for them. You just go buy it and that’s it.
We build currachs for a reason. They’re being used constantly on the water and it’s brilliant to see our river Lee coming to life. Since it’s been cleaned up in recent years, I see a massive difference. When I look out the window I see seals, otters, birds and salmon along the river.
I do a lot of volunteering too. I travelled to Haiti a few times to teach locals how to build boats. I always said I would not go to another country just to make boats for fun, so in 2016 I raised money, went out there and paid five young fellas to work with me and build three currachs over four days.
One young fella recently came through and I worked with him for a while, looking forward to seeing him every week. A very bright and jolly lad: he looked happy. Working away with his friends here, five or six of us, we had a good laugh. Then one day I got a phone call saying he passed away. Unfortunately, tragic deaths happen regularly here. Them kind of things would get to me, you know.
I’m careful not to put people under pressure, for their mental health. The one rule is to respect each other. If we make mistakes in bits of timber, we’ll put it aside and try again. That way we’re giving the learners confidence. We’re not pressuring them because they got it wrong. I was brought up like that and it didn’t work for me. It made me angry. I thought everything I touched I was doing wrong, so you can never come out of yourself. You’re always being knocked.
I don’t think I have to do all these things to make up for the bad things I did, but when I do these things, I do think about my past.
– In conversation with Conor Capplis