I am the last to arrive at the pier. The first thing I see is Horace soaking wet. He has just emerged from the sea; with his dripping jeans clung to his legs, he looked like a seal. My heart swells with pride; our tutor is a free spirit and having a few minutes to spare before the ferry leaves for Whiddy Island he spontaneously jumped into the sea to experience the ice-cold, soul cleansing, brain freezing waters of Bantry Bay.
I climb into the ferry. Paolo, the ferry driver, switches on the engine. Horace is still on the pier talking to a large, bearded man.
"Wait, Paulo," I said, "we're missing our tutor."
"That's not all you're missing," said Paulo revving up the engine.
To my relief, Horace climbs on board, and so does the fat man.
In the marquee, our classroom for the week, Horace introduced us to Max. Max's physique and manner reminded me of Peter Ustinov when he appeared on the Late Late Show in the early '80s.
"You're all women," said Max looking around at the eight women seated in a circle around him. He seemed surprised.
"Now, Max, these women have all paid through the nose to be here, so I expect you to be on your best behaviour," warned Horace. "Why don't you introduce yourself?"
Max did so. Horace suggested we introduce ourselves "briefly" in return. The mood had turned sour, and without understanding why, I said, "Hi, I'm Geraldine, I'm an alcoholic." That broke the ice.
Max took the floor. "I was arrested by one of your gardai, you know," he said, looking around at us wide-eyed at the injustice of his story, "for something I didn't do. It went all the way to court, and I got done for it. Then the Daily Mail wrote about it because the garda knew someone in there and they printed an article about me that's entirely untrue."
"Is your name Ian Bailey by any chance," asked Gillian. We laughed.
"Do you want to hear a joke?" said Max.
I was the only one to answer, "Yeah, go on." I was fascinated by this man with his naked, bulging belly overhanging his still wet pants, his bare feet, and his black jacket tied with one button which could barely contain him.
Max rolled up his sleeves. "A man goes for a sex change. After the operation, he meets a friend. The man said to his friend, "Do you know what the most painful part is of becoming a woman?"
"Is it when they gave you breasts?" asked the friend.
"No."
"Is it when they cut off your reproductive parts?"
"No."
"No, what could be more painful than having your penis cut off?"
"It's when they stuck a straw in my ear and sucked my brain out."
I sniggered. My classmates did not react.
Horace took back control, "Is everybody ready to read their homework?"
No-one spoke. I offered to go first. After I finished reading Max looked around and said, "Is this a writing group?"
Horace clapped his hands together, "It's almost time for coffee, so I'll give you your next writing assignment now." Horace explained how a sense of place is essential in travel writing. "For instance," he said, "in describing my childhood growing up on a sheep farm in South Wales, I could write about a clump of nettles growing out of the bottom of the barn door, and that would sum up my childhood perfectly. My mother, on the other hand, was a stranger to Wales and knew nothing about sheep farming when she married my dad. She called her sheepdog 'Toss' because a neighbour told her it was the Welsh word for sheep. She named two of her sheep 'Prolapse' and 'Uterus.'
We all laugh except Max. "Sorry, Horace, what's a prolapse?"
"You'll know when you have your sex change," said Ellen.
"Ssssh," hissed Gillian,. "Don't encourage him."
Horace looked at Max in surprise, "Are you serious; you don't know? A prolapse is when a woman's womb collapses."
Max closed his eyes and shuddered.
Horace continues, "I want you to imagine an empty space of someone you know very well. Describe that space, and from your description, we should be able to visualise the owner of that space. For instance, I could describe my mother's armchair in such a way that you'll know instantly that she was elderly, faded in places and a woman. "Then peering out the opening of the marquee, he said, "since it's still such a lovely morning, you can write it outside. Go!"
Max stood, "Could I possibly borrow a pen?' he asked. I grabbed up my pencil case and quickly zipping it open, I handed him a fat one. He took the pen and then said, "Now I need some paper." Elaine ripped a sheet from her notebook and handed it over.
We scuttle out of the marque and emerge into the brilliant sunshine. I sat at one of the picnic tables with my back to the sun and facing the door of the 'Bank', which is a pub and café. After 20 minutes, Horace announces 'time up'. I duck into the pub for a pint of water. I spot Max with a pint of cider chatting to a blonde lady.
"I think we've seen the last of Max," I whisper to Ellen as we headed back to the marquee.
"Thank God," she said.
Max did not return. We read our pieces. The morning ran late, but since the ferry was assigned to our group, it would not leave without us. However, Gillian had a business appointment at 2.30 pm and was anxious to get home.
It was now 1.30 pm. Everybody in the class was on board. Gillian pleaded, "Can't we just leave?"
"No," said Paulo, "I am scheduled to leave at 1.45 pm. I am not allowed to leave sooner."
Gillian fidgeted and twisted in her seat.
"Text them that you'll be late," said Ellen.
"I'm old. I don't do technology," said Gillian. She sighed again and glanced anxiously at Paolo.
"Ring your husband," suggested Ellen.
"He's in Cork this morning."
At precisely 1.45 pm, Paolo started the engine, but just then three ladies appeared at the top of the gangway. One of the ladies was elderly. Paolo waited as she painfully inched her way down to the boat. Then Max appeared on the horizon. He seemed surprised to see the ferry still there and started to stroll down the gangway. Paolo waited. Gillian tutted loudly and twisted the watch on her wrist. With Max safely on aboard, we headed back to Bantry harbour.
I climb into the ferry. Paolo, the ferry driver, switches on the engine. Horace is still on the pier talking to a large, bearded man.
"Wait, Paulo," I said, "we're missing our tutor."
"That's not all you're missing," said Paulo revving up the engine.
To my relief, Horace climbs on board, and so does the fat man.
In the marquee, our classroom for the week, Horace introduced us to Max. Max's physique and manner reminded me of Peter Ustinov when he appeared on the Late Late Show in the early '80s.
"You're all women," said Max looking around at the eight women seated in a circle around him. He seemed surprised.
"Now, Max, these women have all paid through the nose to be here, so I expect you to be on your best behaviour," warned Horace. "Why don't you introduce yourself?"
Max did so. Horace suggested we introduce ourselves "briefly" in return. The mood had turned sour, and without understanding why, I said, "Hi, I'm Geraldine, I'm an alcoholic." That broke the ice.
Max took the floor. "I was arrested by one of your gardai, you know," he said, looking around at us wide-eyed at the injustice of his story, "for something I didn't do. It went all the way to court, and I got done for it. Then the Daily Mail wrote about it because the garda knew someone in there and they printed an article about me that's entirely untrue."
"Is your name Ian Bailey by any chance," asked Gillian. We laughed.
"Do you want to hear a joke?" said Max.
I was the only one to answer, "Yeah, go on." I was fascinated by this man with his naked, bulging belly overhanging his still wet pants, his bare feet, and his black jacket tied with one button which could barely contain him.
Max rolled up his sleeves. "A man goes for a sex change. After the operation, he meets a friend. The man said to his friend, "Do you know what the most painful part is of becoming a woman?"
"Is it when they gave you breasts?" asked the friend.
"No."
"Is it when they cut off your reproductive parts?"
"No."
"No, what could be more painful than having your penis cut off?"
"It's when they stuck a straw in my ear and sucked my brain out."
I sniggered. My classmates did not react.
Horace took back control, "Is everybody ready to read their homework?"
No-one spoke. I offered to go first. After I finished reading Max looked around and said, "Is this a writing group?"
Horace clapped his hands together, "It's almost time for coffee, so I'll give you your next writing assignment now." Horace explained how a sense of place is essential in travel writing. "For instance," he said, "in describing my childhood growing up on a sheep farm in South Wales, I could write about a clump of nettles growing out of the bottom of the barn door, and that would sum up my childhood perfectly. My mother, on the other hand, was a stranger to Wales and knew nothing about sheep farming when she married my dad. She called her sheepdog 'Toss' because a neighbour told her it was the Welsh word for sheep. She named two of her sheep 'Prolapse' and 'Uterus.'
We all laugh except Max. "Sorry, Horace, what's a prolapse?"
"You'll know when you have your sex change," said Ellen.
"Ssssh," hissed Gillian,. "Don't encourage him."
Horace looked at Max in surprise, "Are you serious; you don't know? A prolapse is when a woman's womb collapses."
Max closed his eyes and shuddered.
Horace continues, "I want you to imagine an empty space of someone you know very well. Describe that space, and from your description, we should be able to visualise the owner of that space. For instance, I could describe my mother's armchair in such a way that you'll know instantly that she was elderly, faded in places and a woman. "Then peering out the opening of the marquee, he said, "since it's still such a lovely morning, you can write it outside. Go!"
Max stood, "Could I possibly borrow a pen?' he asked. I grabbed up my pencil case and quickly zipping it open, I handed him a fat one. He took the pen and then said, "Now I need some paper." Elaine ripped a sheet from her notebook and handed it over.
We scuttle out of the marque and emerge into the brilliant sunshine. I sat at one of the picnic tables with my back to the sun and facing the door of the 'Bank', which is a pub and café. After 20 minutes, Horace announces 'time up'. I duck into the pub for a pint of water. I spot Max with a pint of cider chatting to a blonde lady.
"I think we've seen the last of Max," I whisper to Ellen as we headed back to the marquee.
"Thank God," she said.
Max did not return. We read our pieces. The morning ran late, but since the ferry was assigned to our group, it would not leave without us. However, Gillian had a business appointment at 2.30 pm and was anxious to get home.
It was now 1.30 pm. Everybody in the class was on board. Gillian pleaded, "Can't we just leave?"
"No," said Paulo, "I am scheduled to leave at 1.45 pm. I am not allowed to leave sooner."
Gillian fidgeted and twisted in her seat.
"Text them that you'll be late," said Ellen.
"I'm old. I don't do technology," said Gillian. She sighed again and glanced anxiously at Paolo.
"Ring your husband," suggested Ellen.
"He's in Cork this morning."
At precisely 1.45 pm, Paolo started the engine, but just then three ladies appeared at the top of the gangway. One of the ladies was elderly. Paolo waited as she painfully inched her way down to the boat. Then Max appeared on the horizon. He seemed surprised to see the ferry still there and started to stroll down the gangway. Paolo waited. Gillian tutted loudly and twisted the watch on her wrist. With Max safely on aboard, we headed back to Bantry harbour.
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