A Drunk Fool

Would you believe me if I told you that I once met a pirate right here in Dublin?

Well, he wasn’t a pirate at the time, but he used to be one — or so he claimed. I have no way of confirming it, but if you had met him, you would know that he was most likely telling the truth.

This happened about three years ago on a rare sunny Friday evening. I was walking along the Grand Canal, desperate to find a quiet spot near the water to sit peacefully for a while. At first, I tried one of the benches along the main path, but on a sunny day in Dublin, there was nothing peaceful about it. Moving further up, I finally found a spot semi-hidden by overgrown plants, tucked right next to one of the stone bridges.

I had only been sitting there for about five minutes when a voice drifted out from behind the bushes: “What is a young girl like you doing here on a Friday evening?”

I peeped over the greenery and saw an old man sitting on the other side, almost completely hidden in the shadows under the bridge. He held a fishing rod and looked like he had been rooted to that spot for hours.

“You know there are no fish in this canal, don’t you?” I replied.

This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him around. The canal was part of my regular walking route, and he had already caught my eye twice before.

The first time, he was sitting next to the Patrick Kavanagh statue — the bronze, life-sized sculpture of the poet lounging on a bench. On that day, the old man’s bicycle was propped carelessly beside them. He was wearing a black rock-band t-shirt, a black beanie, and tight blue jeans. The only things that betrayed his age were his wrinkled face and a long, white, unkempt beard. Sitting right next to the famous poet’s contemplative, dignified posture, this old man looked wonderfully comical.

The second time, I watched him dodge oncoming traffic on his bicycle, cutting between a double-decker bus and a taxi with a recklessness that made my chest tighten. Most people his age walked the canal with the careful, dignified posture of a quiet retirement. He was riding like a teenager who had just stolen a getaway vehicle, completely unbothered by the chaos trailing in his wake.

“Ha, diversion tactics!” his voice boomed, pulling me right back to the present. “Well, one has to find ways to pursue their hobbies, however unfruitful the results might be.”

His comment made me smile. “Well,” I said, answering his original question, “being pregnant makes you realize your life is about to change, and you suddenly have no idea who you’re going to be. A bit of time to sit and think on a Friday night is exactly what I need.”

“Oh, a baby is on the way? Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I said. My tone must have matched the way I had thanked a coworker earlier that week, who had informed me over lunch, with great ceremony, that in her culture, being a mother was the single most noble thing a woman could become. She’d said it kindly, meant it as a gift. I had smiled and thanked her. But, underneath I wondered what if it wasn’t noble, what if it was just frightening, and no one around me seemed to have room for that version of the story.

“Not too thrilled,” he noted, catching my drift instantly.

“I am thrilled about the baby,” I admitted. “I just don’t know if I’m ready for everything else.” He remained quiet, letting the space open up, so I kept going. “I feel like everyone expects me to automatically know how to be a mother just because I’m a woman. But I don’t know a thing about it, and honestly, I’m terrified.”

The old man stared out at the water. “You know, I once had a parrot, many, many years ago.”

I rolled my eyes behind the cover of the bushes, assuming he was about to compare raising a child to owning a pet bird.

“Cheeky bastard! Ruined my life,” he continued.

My interest was piqued. “A parrot ruined your life?”

“I used to be the captain of a ship,” he said, casting a sideways glance that held a flash of old defiance. “We didn’t exactly sail under the most… legal of flags, you see. Long, tense excursions, constantly dodging the authorities. I bought the parrot for company. When you’re the captain of a rogue crew, you can’t be their friend. Otherwise, they won’t take your orders when the navy is on your tail.”

It was hard to picture him commanding a ship, but the intensity in his voice held me.

“Initially, the parrot would repeat everything I said. It was funny, it made the men laugh, and everybody loved him. Then he turned on me. He started saying the nastiest, most vicious things about me. Calling me weak. Doubting my leadership. It was horrible. He tortured me for weeks.”

I got the distinct feeling the bird was just repeating the mutinous whispers passing around the deck at night, but I kept quiet.

He paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “One night I got drunk on rum and decided to teach him a lesson. I almost had him by the neck, but he slipped right through my hands, flew up into the rigging, and just sat there cursing at me. Eventually, he flew away entirely. But the damage was done. The crew lost all respect for me. Every time we docked at a port to fence our cargo, I would lose a few men. After a while, the whole crew was gone. Just me and an empty ship.”

I let out a soft laugh, picturing a disgruntled captain in a drunken wrestling match with a tropical bird. “So the grand adventure just… ended?”

“Like a damp squib,” he agreed, looking down at his line. “And there really are no fish in this canal. I’d better find a different hobby.”

He began dismantling his rod and gathering his things. As he stood up, hoisting a weathered backpack over his shoulder, he offered a warm nod. “It was lovely talking to you. Best of luck with the little alternative cargo.”

“Same to you,” I replied.

He began to step away from the bridge, his boots crunching on the gravel. He had only gone a few steps when I called out after him, “Can I ask you one last thing? What made you want to be a pirate in the first place?”

The old man stopped in his tracks. He thought about it for a second, turned around with a wry smile, and said, “Well, I wanted to have a good story to tell my grandchildren.”