It is difficult to imagine it on those lazy days, when waves barely create a ripple on Sandymount Strand, yet there was a time when the sea approaches to Dublin had a fearsome reputation. Take the word of Captain Charles Malcolm who went to sea at the age of 13, was captain of his own ship at 19, and commanded a frigate at 21. Having experienced all the vagaries of the Pacific, North Sea, English Channel and Bay of Biscay, he believed the bay of Dublin to be "more fatal to seamen and ships than any in the world . . ."
A series of shifting sandbanks posed the main hazard, and as Malcolm noted in the early 19th century, vessels caught in a gale from the east-north-east or south-south-east "must ride it out at her anchors or go on shore, and from the nature of that shore the whole of the crew almost invariably have perished."
Dr John de Courcy Ireland, distinguished maritime historian, has a meticulous record of the toll in recent centuries, and as former honorary secretary of the Dun Laoghaire lifeboat, he had direct experience of some of the conditions under which vessels ran into difficulty, even after the safe-haven of Kingstown (as it was originally named), was built almost two centuries ago.
Significantly, the decision to commission one of the most ambitious construction projects of its time was taken in response to public pressure - "people's power", as Dr Ireland puts it. There was also the remarkable contribution of a naturalised Irish-Norwegian sea-captain, Richard Toutcher. On November 18th, 1807, two ships, The Prince of Wales and Rochdale, sailed out of Dublin with large numbers of soldiers and their families bound for foreign service.
An easterly gale was brewing, and The Prince of Wales was driven across the Bay from an attempted anchorage off Bray Head. Although several on board, including the ship's master, managed to survive in the ship's longboat, over 100 lost their lives as the vessel was smashed to pieces off Blackrock.
Rochdale fared no better. It could be seen from Dalkey the day after it sailed, "showing blue lights and firing guns", but no boat could venture out in the storm. It tried to anchor, unsuccessfully, and was swept past the pier of old Dun Laoghaire village. "People ashore heard shouts and saw men on board firing muskets to win attention," the author writes. "Some people ran along the coast to Salthill in the hope of being able to do something, but the fury of the storm and the bullets from the Rochdale forced them to take shelter. The ship drove ashore with extreme violence at the foot of the newly-built Martello Tower at Seapoint. There were no survivors."
The public outcry was vociferous; and that energy was tapped into by Richard Toutcher, who organised a protest meeting in Monkstown. So began a campaign for the construction of an asylum harbour, which was successfully commissioned and completed in 1813. The "consultancy study" was the first scientific survey of Dublin Bay, carried out by Captain Bligh of Bounty fame, during the winter of 1800.
As a linguist, teacher and polymath, Dr Ireland has always had that rare ability to invigorate history - he seldom speaks from notes - and no more so than in this account of a convicts' creation, hewn from Dalkey Quarry granite which was to become a landing point for British royalty; a famous mail and passenger-ferry port; home of some of the world's finest yachts, some distinguished landfalls . . . and very public property. That sense of community ownership has been carried through generations and extends far beyond the south Dublin port; I once met a Curragh racehorse trainer who felt as passionate about its granite piers as those who live on its shores. Funded by the Dun Laoghaire Harbour Company, the book doesn't dodge the controversy over the £20 million marina - given Dr Ireland's own leading role in the campaign to safeguard public access.
The book is dedicated to Beatrice, Dr Ireland's wife and companion of decades, who died just over a year ago.
Lorna Siggins is Marine Corespondent of The Irish Times
