The Fisherman’s Cap (memoir)
I’m not sure exactly when my father started to wear a fisherman’s cap, but I think he was well into his fifties. It coincided with his hair-loss having reached a stage that a comb-over couldn’t be trusted in a strong wind. Dad eventually amassed quite a selection of these caps, mostly made of corduroy, but he also had some made of denim or navy blue felt. Complete with his well-trimmed beard, he was our very own Captain Birdseye. Despite his convincing attire, however, Dad was no sailor. His sea-legs would let him down in a matter of minutes after the B and I ferry left Dun Laoghaire pier on a voyage to England and he’d have to take to his cabin for the rest of the journey across the Irish Sea. On longer trips like Rosslare to Cherbourg, he was invariably sick. On these occasions he was happy to let someone else navigate while he attempted to sleep, leaving strict instructions that no-one was to waken him until the boat had docked.
There are photos of all Dad’s grandchildren wearing one of his fisherman’s caps. From tiny heads engulfed in blue corduroy to toddlers peering out with one eye covered, Dad’s hat was a popular prop. As they got older, if they were ever bored, he’d say ‘Hold out your arm. Now make a fist and hold it up slightly.’ Then he’d toss the hat across the room trying to land it directly on the closed fist, accusing them of moving if he missed. Then they would do the same and this time, he would deliberately move, so that the hat fell on the floor to wails of ‘Oh Grandad. That’s not fair. You moved!’
When cancer struck and the treatment stole every last rib of hair from his head and beard, the fisherman’s cap was more important than ever. It made his otherwise bloated face recognisable and helped put the swagger back in his step. It’s impossible to quantify the confidence that cap gave him. He was himself again, at least on the outside, the captain of his own ship and he could navigate the choppy waters of his life with his own personal flair.
When he passed away, Dad was laid out in a wicker coffin, as he had requested. It looked like something baby Moses would have floated down the Nile in, although I can’t imagine Dad would have enjoyed that journey much. He was wearing his best suit with a matching handkerchief chosen by my mother, carefully arranged in his pocket. His beard had grown back and was carefully trimmed and his remaining hair combed to perfection. But there was something missing.‘He doesn’t look like himself without the cap,’ somebody remarked. A quick scan through his collection on the ‘under the stairs’ cupboard door yielded the perfect accessory for his final voyage. He was ready for off, equipped with everything he needed. The captain was back at the wheel.
