I was always afraid of the ocean. Well deep water, more specifically. That’s not to say I never went out swimming or getting my feet wet while going for a stroll on the beach. But I couldn’t go out past neck-high water. It just freaked me out.

I moved to Australia in 2008. I was living in a town called Torquay, about a two-hour drive south of Melbourne. I met up with my friend, Harry, who I hadn’t seen for almost a year; he had been with his girlfriend and another guy, Keith, whom he had only recently met. We all checked into the only hostel in the town and after dinner we sat around a comforting fire in the courtyard; drinking beer and sharing stories of our travels to date. Others staying at the hostel soon joined us. There were people from the USA, Sweden, Argentina, Australia, UK, Netherlands and even farther corners of this earth. I noticed most of the guys had longer hair than me, were tanned and looked really in shape. They only wore sandals and board shorts and they talked about waves non-stop. Surfers; The first ones I had met.

Sitting cross-legged around the burning cinder, I struggled for grip with their conversation, so I began to ask questions about the surfing lifestyle. They revealed that surfing is a way of life. It’s more than a hobby and once you start, and feel the natural high it provides, than you will be hooked forever. I felt as though I was being subjected to every cliché in the book . I certainly kept my mouth shut, it’s my way of acknowledging the stereotype. My cynicism soon wavered as they generously offered to take me for my first ever surf. I wanted to experience the rush they praised, but the thought of deep water derails me. I was on the other side of the world, independant, I felt I had overcome tough tasks, and surfing was next on the list. I duly accepted their offer.

In the morning I was woken by Harry’s travelling companion, Keith. Instantly regretting the agreement, I certainly pinned the blame on the empty box of Carlton lager in the corner of the room. I struggled out of bed – a chorus of yawns took charge, stepped into shorts and chowed down some weetabix with a cup of tea. Peering through the kitchen window I could see Harry and Keith attaching surf boards and wetsuits into the back of their van. The sun was only beginning to show itself and the morning chill thawed to make way for a comfortable breeze.

Fuelled by our morning grub, we jumped into the van and made the short drive from the hostel to the famous ‘Bells Beach.’ When we arrived at the shore, Keith handed me a wetsuit and removed a board from the van. I was feeling a little nervous all of a sudden. I changed into the suit hidden within a towel and got lucky with the zip first time. The snap of rubber against my skin made me shiver. I literally felt like I was to be thrown in the deep end.

We made our way – board under arm, down a series of dilapidated steps to the shore.

We reached the sand safely. Keith then showed me how to paddle and position myself on a board. He explained the behaviour of the waves and the best way to catch a hold of one. I remember looking out and thought I was going to drown. There was no way I would survive without supervision but I decided against asking. I staggered into the cold sea and broke through the first sets of swell. I was completely stunned by the power of the waves – I frantically wiped the salty water from my face and chewed mouthfuls of air when given the chance. Mother nature is a force like no other.

The water quickly deepened and I began to breathe heavily. Keith paddled over and told me to lie on top of the board, relax and catch a wave. I didn’t want to let myself down so I popped up into position and paddled forty-yards out to sea. I didn’t look back until I had no choice. Open water. The thought of the deep below me scared me. More than the thought of sharks that probably lurk nearby. Suddenly, I heard Keith screaming toward me. “Look! There’s a wave with your name on it man…Paddle!” I swivelled my neck to peer over my shoulder. A wave was forming and was setting up nicely for to catch. Without thinking I started to paddle, deep and slow motions with my arms. Building my speed. The wave got much closer so I started to paddle much quicker. I was scrambling as fast as I could. I could hear it behind me, chasing me. I could feel the spray around me and suddenly I felt this almighty ‘whoosh’ and the wave swiftly caught hold of my board and hoisted me up on top of itself. Using my arms, I did a press-up and stood up straight. I was up. I was surfing. I looked down a vertical wall of water and with my body leaning forward and my back foot planted firmly to maintain balance, I took a breath and rode down the wave at a thrilling speed until I reached the bottom. It all happened in a heartbeat. I lost my balance and fell into the water; the cold water I was long afraid of. But this time I was warm with exuberance. I was playing in mother nature’s back yard and loving it!

What fear does Stephen hold?

Stephen rambled quickly into the room and acknowledged me with a rehearsed smile and stiff nod of his tired head. I pointed towards the couch: “Good afternoon Stephen. Please, lie down on the couch”. He sat for a moment, hands planted firmly at either side like a child preparing to leap of a high wall. Then he swept his legs up and around, and lowered his back into the tanned leather. He shuffled for a moment, trying to create a groove; “It’s a stiff couch for a reason,” I thought to myself.

My name is Dr David Seymour. My patient that day was a Mr. Stephen Price. He suffers from Chronomentrophobia – the fear of clocks. He came to me for help. He asked if I could cure him. I told him I am purely there for assistance and to find the root of the problem. He must cast his own fears. This is what happened.

When I arrived to work that chilly morning and read my chart, I was rather perturbed. A patient with a strange fear was due to arrive within the hour. I kindly asked the secretary to remove any clocks from the lobby and examining room: “A strange request. Turning the place into a casino?” she said. I could sense her suspicion but simply repeated myself and made my point very clear.

I made my way to the examining room in preparation for Stephen’s arrival. I sat at my desk. I was in game mode. I felt…..I felt challenged. “A fear of clocks” I asked myself rhetorically out-loud. I had heard of the exclusive fear but when you have studied the human brain for twenty years, and can easily fill in the gaps like a simple game of sudoku, then suddenly you open page twelve of the paper only to find an anagram in its place, things bear a new complexity.

I deliberated with myself for roughly an hour before Stephen arrived. I made several phone calls and e-mails with colleagues about Chronomentrophobia. I had many questions to ask him. How does he survive the day avoiding clocks? Is it time he truly fears? Can he remember the cause? Would he arrive slightly late? Or early?

A sudden triple-tap on the solid timber door startled me. “Come in,” I said. It was Stephen. He was a short man with a slim frame. He had silver hairs complementing which surprisingly added to his appearance. His eyebrows were thick and bushy and his eyes a tired blue.

I think it was a half an hour into the session. Stephen lay motionless on the couch. His forehead was glossy with perspiration, his eyes closed softly; they were prone to the odd flicker and his breathing was controlled. He had revealed many details about himself which allowed me to asses the extent of his chronomentrophobia. He told me he once worked for a production team in a news room. Competing with deadlines on a daily basis for over a decade appeared to have taken its toll. It was quite clear to me he began to grow an irrational fear of failing to meet the studios deadlines. This manifested into his life and he slowly began to create a fear of not only time, but clocks too.

“That’s enough for today,” I said. With the snap of my thumb and middle-finger, Stephen’s eyes responded and opened with haste. Rubbing his eyes he appeared gaunt and sleepy. “You have revealed a very interesting source of the fear” I said. Sitting with Stephen for the next twenty minutes I explained in detail many aspects of his recovery plan. He had performed excellently on his first visit and I was remarkably happy with him. I told him to take it easy for the rest of the day and make to ensure he gets a good sleep every night. He didn’t say much. In fact I don’t recall him saying anything at all. He simply nodded and breathed heavily.

Suddenly and sharply Stephen shot up from his seat, turned on his heel and ran out the door. I stood up. “What on earth….Stephen!?” I shouted to an empty room. I peered around the room curious as to why he fled. I looked down and saw that the hair band over the cuff of my sleeve had come loose and revealed my wristwatch. “Fuck it anyway” I half-shouted angrily.

Dermot Ford was a good worker. He never put salt in the coffee machine; in fact he disliked those who did. He was forty-two now, and reasonably successful he thought. Unmarried, no children and his parents were long deceased; Dermot thought these were totally insignificant things to worry about. Sitting in his Escort, waiting impatiently for the electronic gates to open, he pulled down the plastic flap of the cars sun-shield and checked to see if his nostril-hair needed another trim. He could see the skinny faced man he had become in the non-flattering reflection. His nostril-hair was in order but then he noticed that silver hairs were beginning to sprout on his scalp. “I don’t want to dye again, that bloody stuff gave me a rash the last time” he said in an upset tone.

Dermot worked for Pierce and Pierce, a successful consulting company, for fifteen years. He dreamed of running the place someday. He was his employer’s favourite accountant, well at least he thought so, and Dermot was always right. He was only wrong once when he misspelled resistor as ‘resister’ in a crossword he was completing. He could not believe thirteen-across got the better of him. The gates were now almost open wide enough to allow the car through. He glanced in his rear-view mirror; he once again lifted his chin and checked his nostril-hair before driving into the car park. The security officer gave a little wave, and while chuckling lightly he said, “If you came in any earlier it’d be yesterday Ford”. Dermot raised his eyes and sighed. “Why cant people just say good morning” he said aloud to himself, not for the first time.

On this particular day; the day that Dermot Ford will remember more so than any other, it was a frost-bitten morning. The grass crunched noisily under his feet as he walked from his car. The heatless glow of sunrise was so strong he raised his hand to cover his brow. He had been told by his chief executive to come in a little early to get a start on the company’s books. “They asked me because I’m their favourite” Dermot thought delightfully. “Unlike Van Patten and his school-boy antics” he added scornfully.

Dermot stepped out of the elevator onto the fourth floor. It had a large atrium at the front and each aisle was separated by columns of offices on either side. At the front on the near left side was the office with the letters ‘D. Ford’ embossed on the door.  He walked in and sat in his expensive office chair. In and around the desk lay post-its to remind Dermot of his to-do’s. He lifted his glasses and peered down at the assembly of reminders. They read; Pay overdraft in video store, apologise to Van Patten for eating his sandwich by accident, clean car back window(those bloody kids), remind the boss about getting new water bottles(the other water is making me queasy), get a start on balancing the company’s books. Dermot finished reading the reminders and leaned back and tried to get comfortable in his chair. He suddenly stopped, looking curious. There was a white envelope on his desk with his name scribbled on it. “That’s strange” he said. Dermot had been the last to leave on the previous night and first to come in that morning. He was visibly baffled by the appearance of the envelope. He opened it with a small blade he kept near his desk and emptied its contents. Dermot quickly gasped and stood up. Inside was a cheque with his name on it in the amount of 100,000 dollars, and a letter. He nervously picked up the letter and read it slowly to himself;

Dermot,

Van Patten has been up to no good. He is attempting to gain promotion as chief executive. We all know this can’t be allowed to happen. I want you to balance the books with plenty of room for error on his earnings.

Consider the cheque a bonus for your good work.

Burn this letter when you have finished reading it.

Don’t let me down Ford.

Chief Executive Pierce.

Dermot swallowed hard. He had no idea how just how corrupt his colleague’s had been. “I can’t do this…I…can’t” he said quietly to himself. He rushed over to the water cooler and took a drink then spat it back out with a look of disgust. “Ugh, I hate this bloody stuff” he said. He paced briskly around the room, breathing heavily and running his silver tie through his fingers. He ruled out the fact it might be a joke, judging by the legitimate looking signature on the cheque, which he had double and triple checked. His mind was racing madly; Van Patten. Pierce. Frame him? For money? What about my job? Why is it still cold outside? Van Patten. I ate his sandwich. The water is so disgusting. I must decide. My job. If he’s gone I could eventually become chief executive. For money? Fuck it. I’ll do it. Fuck him and his sandwich. Burn the letter.

And just like that Dermot Ford forgot about the right thing and balanced the books falsely to ensure the termination of Van Patten’s contract as an employee of Pierce and Pierce. He had felt there was no other option.

On the other side of the building on the third floor, Van Patten was sitting nervously at his desk in his office. He was balancing the Pierce and Pierce books with an extra zero after Dermot Ford’s salary. He reached inside his pocket, took out his lighter and burned a letter in his hand.

Does the watch hold a mysterious power

Benjamin Mallerman was a quiet boy. Not wholly out of choice, but partly because he had a speech disability. The fleshy string under his tongue was too tight to speak clearly, so Ben didn’t speak at all. “It will ease up as you grow” he was told by the local doctor. Ben was an endearing boy, he was shorter than the other boys, he had matted blonde hair, he was easily intrigued by simple things, his eyebrows were always up on stilts and his clear eyes were a striking bright blue. His knobbly knees were grass-stained and his shoe laces were a discoloured muddy brown. He usually wore a polo neck sweater and a tight pair of faded jeans.

One afternoon, Ben was standing in the familiar surroundings of the Mallerman’s attic. He liked it there. He felt secure beside the big arch window. It did not let in much light but it faced Mrs Morrissey’s sun lounge across the street which made him happy. The Mallermans would often confine Ben to the attic, usually when he had become a problem; like the time he tried to make dinner for himself and set fire to the pot with the handle; an accident no doubt.

The attic was dimly lit; it aged his eyes, Ben’s nostrils twitched due to the dank aroma trapped within the grey walls and the room’s dampness seemed to soak into his skin. For Ben though, it was a retreat. Sometimes he would get in trouble on purpose just so he could climb the splintered steps to be alone.

The attic was packed with discarded items. In among the boxes strewn across the floor lay old photos, weathered clothes, a plastic Christmas tree that Ben remembered as one of his first childhood memories, three paint tins; the dye had hardened down the side like a stalactite, cases full of vinyl’s from the 80’s, a bag of Halloween decorations and other miscellaneous treasures. Ben stood and peered curiously out through the arch window. He saw Mrs Morrissey sitting in her sun lounge; she was playing her Gameboy. Ben smiled; he wished she was his mother and he wondered if Mrs Morrissey knew about their unspoken friendship.

Moments later Ben heard a dull thud on the level below, probably his father having reached the bottom of the bottle and attempting his usual three-pointer from long range. He could hear his father’s footsteps meandering around the bedroom, cabinets opening and closing but Ben always chose to ignore this behaviour. He felt safe up in the attic along with all the insignificant family junk, his father rarely came up; Sometimes Ben would pull up the foldable stairs once he was inside which kept his father at bay, it reminded him of what the monks in the round-towers did when Vikings attacked. The brimming boxes intrigued him. There were so many forgotten memories sprawled across the floor like a collector’s chaotic collage. One time, after the pot with the handle incident, Ben found a picture. It was creased at the corners and the sun had overexposed the camera’s resolution. The photo had been taken outside an unfamiliar house. In the picture were Ben’s parents holding two matching blonde baby boys. Ben slowly turned the picture over and, scribbled on the laminate backing it said “With our two sons Ben and David while holidaying in Canada 94”. Ben remembers how the barely legible writing created a mixed feeling of doubt, anger, fear and nausea all pulling against each other, tripping a circuit in his emotions fuse box.

Standing in the attic looking at the large cardboard boxes, a wave of curiosity rushed over Ben. He began to rummage through the barricade and something caught his attention. The sun reflected its glow into his eye like when a mischievous child finds amusement in the classroom with mirrors and the summer sky; Ben wondered what surface the light had bounced off. He looked down curiously. Nestled in the corner of a box he had not yet noticed, lay a silver pocket watch. He bent over, brushed aside a yellowed table cloth and scooped up the delightful time keeper. He admired the untouched shell lid and wondered where it had come from. “Perhaps an old relative”, he thought to himself. He held the watch up and placed his ear against the cold outer casing. He listened, appreciating the pause between the tick and the tock. The watch excited him; Ben didn’t have a Gameboy or even a football so this tickled his childish mind in a way he had desired for many years. He loved watches and had always wanted one for his birthday. Ben’s adventurous mind leapt off in a tangent; an innocuous thought crept into his head; “What if I could stop time?” he thought to himself. No oppressive parents anymore sounded highly appealing to Ben. He imagined a world where his peers could visit and enjoy a game of marbles undisturbed, a world in which food was always on the table. With the watch in his palm, Ben closed his eyes and with a gentle downward push of his thumb, the tiny gears inside the watch stopped in duty. He slowly opened his eyes, feeling a little odd he navigated his attention away from the watch momentarily. The buzz of the cars on the street had stopped. The crows that would usually lurk above the roof had gone oddly silent. The clamour of drunken footsteps downstairs had stopped. Ben needed to be sure; he kicked over several fully-loaded boxes and the attic filled with noise. He listened. Normally his father would react instantly but this time there was no response from downstairs. “Could it be?” Ben considered to himself.  An uneasy look crept over his face; “it really has stopped time” he thought delightfully. He stood still transfixed in thought, debating the reality of it all. He quickly realised he had stumbled upon something very powerful indeed. Attempting to generate some ideas he paced around the attic. Suddenly he stopped. He was facing the arch window. He could see Mrs Morrissey; she was stood rigid and stony. Her hand was reaching out trying to catch a piece of fallen toast. Ben could not believe his eyes; it worried him immensely because he could always rely on his eyes, perhaps not his speech but his sight surely. He felt a rush of nausea make its way into the pit of his stomach. He looked at the silver pocket watch, confused. He remembered the picture of the mysterious toddler in Canada lay over beside the dented water tank. Ben looked at Mrs Morrissey, the photo and the pocket watch. He couldn’t bear to look at the statue across the street in the sun lounge. Once again, Ben felt the miniscule click release under his thumb and Mrs Morrissey’s toast landed butter side up.

Deciding he wanted to find the details of the photo, Ben walked over to the water tank, grabbed it off the dusty floor and stuffed the watch into his back pocket. As he moved toward the door to his surprise it swung open. It was Ben’s father. He stood gauntly with a look of hollow forgiveness on his face. He appeared to have just woken from a deep sleep after re-uniting his liver with Irish whiskey; his long love affair with Rum was presumably over. Before he spoke Ben held up the photo of the mysterious toddler and pointed at it with intent. His fathers face changed dramatically. Body swaying, his Adams apple did a little hop, his skin turned grimly pale, and his eyes widened. Unexpectedly he made a move towards Ben while muttering profanity under his breath. Ben instinctively reached for the pocket watch but in his haste he dropped the peculiar object and it shattered on the solid attic floor. Pieces of the watch scattered everywhere like a school of fish when threatened. Ben stamped his foot, angrily acknowledging his foolishness. Momentarily he froze, wondering if time would stop but unfortunately for Ben nothing happened and his father was still in pursuit. His insides were burning; his frustration had reached a climax. He turned and looked at his father and with the aid of every painful memory the words, “T…tell me about the t…toddler in the photo, I know he was my br…br… brother”, somehow left Ben’s lips. His father’s face looked for an answer; he was startled by Ben’s tongue clearly tapping against his teeth and the meeting of his lips pushed open by a puff of cold air. Ben felt just as stunned. Many years of hardship had been released in one short, perfect moment. He felt a morale triumph. The day of complete expression had finally arrived. He hoped Mrs Morrissey was watching from her sun lounge. He thought she would be; it was sunny outside.

Royal Flush

“It wasn’t the money then, it was the honour”. These are the words of Christy Smyth, professional poker player, humbly admitting his victory at the elite Irish Poker Open in 2002.

As I walked into the Smyth family home I was greeted with a smile and a handshake. He guided me towards the living room through a beautifully decorated hall and I sat down on a large comfortable sofa. A small doghobbled over and nibbled on my hand briefly, before being tossed out of the room by the man of the house. He offered me a cup of tea but I declined politely. Christy was unshaven, he wore his house glasses, they were definitely too large to wear outdoors and he wore three clearly visible layers; it was chilly evening and he certainly is an older man now. I noticed several newspapers beneath the modest television in the corner; no time for television when your busy playing cards. His daughter Ann-Marie was in the kitchen area, carefully calculating odds with a deck of cards; not only a poker man but a poker family.

“I wouldn’t recommend anyone become a professional poker player, it’s a terrible life,” he says to me. I couldn’t quite find the hint of sarcasm I was looking for. Christy, well known in the poker world, recently founded the Irish ‘Poker in the Pub’ league and has welcomed immediate success. The structure of the league is very similar to the league of the same name in the UK which has become hugely successful. ”I thought the concept was very good so I trademarked the name ‘Poker in the Pub’ here. Paddy Power has it in England. I was in a race to get it with a Dutch company but I got the foot in first”. The idea of this new poker league has caught on rather well. Over 110 pubs across the country have already signed up in an attempt to pull the punters and this solid trend will surely continue to grow.

Christy has been playing poker since the mischievous age of 14. “There was no tournaments back then and I remember we played every Sunday morning after half eleven mass.” Fond memories of a game he has spent his life chasing. He seems lost in thought before saying: “We played all night on Christmas day.” He explained that he was always a fairly disciplined player and never really got lucky over the years. He stands by the fact that he made his own luck. The Irish Poker Open is the longest running European event and began in 1980. Christy played for the first time in 1984 and lasted only an hour. He played mostly cash games in the following years and made very few tournament appearances. He spent years developing his skill as a poker player. Math, calculations, pot odds, risk, potential and luck all come into play: “I just watched all the players at the table, didn’t play many hands, just studied everyone and got a feel for the game.” Little did Christy know his most notable wins would come in his later years. In 2002, it proved to be the year lady luck was clung tohis arm. Not only did he finish well in the World Series of Poker (WSOP)  in Las Vegas, lasting longer than of most of the 1,800 strong field, but he also won the Irish Poker Open in the Clarion hotel, Dublin. Typically though, when questioned on the two prestigious moments, Christy responds with a delightfully witty response: “In that WSOP in 2002, I played for over 13 hours and the best hand I got was a pair of nines”.

Phil Hellmuth, Johnny Chan and Doyle Brunson; Christy keeps dropping poker superstar names like a beginner drops hands at a cash-game. These players have influenced every poker player in the world and Christy is no different. He admits how great ‘live’ players like those named have come under fire from the popular on-line type of player: “Nowadays the tournaments are like playing the lotto and it’s very hard to handle bad players. There was [sic] only 150 people the first time I played in the World Series of Poker.”

Christy has spent his entire life growing up in Dublin with a move to Monaco in recent years. Now, with the launch of his latest league, he has firmly based himself in Dublin his home, once again. No stranger to organizing poker leagues. He also set up the amateur league here in Ireland. Christy is a peoples poker player, he admits more than most that he likes to enjoy table talk and meet new people. Poker is a game which is mostly dominated by the top players throughout the world. Christy proudly says: “Poker is run in a top heavy sort of way and this is a way to give the grassroots a voice”.

A man of stature and class, Christy Smyth, ever the gentlemen, saw me to the door and I asked him has he any favourite hand in poker. “The winning hand”, he replied smugly.

Back in Ireland after their recording stint in Canada, Dublin’s Heritage Centre launched their new EP, “Sidney Maxwell Williamson,” in the Academy 2 on November 19^th.

In front of a crowded house, beneath simple lighting, the lads got straight into what they do best and revved things off with ‘Stolen it Twice’. Ever witty lead singer Conal informed the crowd; “It’s in the key of C major for those of you that care.”

Illustrating the meaning of haste they continued to pump out each song from the latest EP. The newest track, ‘Throw stones it’s easy,’ is one of their catchier songs and notably shifted the somewhat subdued crowd up a gear. The Heritage boys soon followed up with another new one, ‘Free out Here’.

Heritage Centre has a strange, yet gripping stage persona. The odd nod of the head, a wry smile or a swig of a beer was the most common offences. However, one can’t help but find a viewing attraction with singer/guitarist/pianist Conal; the front man provides an awkward sense of genius and there is a definite comparison with Vines singer Craig Nicholls. Ciaran on drums sweats more than his fair share supplying the rhythms. Liam substitutes Guitar for a Korg at every brief interval and adds an inimitable style. Dave and Steve on Guitar and Bass chug along like an old friend and keep things tight, mistakes are hard to come by.

Conal sat down at his Keyboard and announced the new EP is to be sold after the show. He Said: “You can pretend like we’re playing in your living room”. Dave lashed back a mouthful of his Miller bottle before kicking in to ‘Whatever’, ‘I will protect you’ and ‘Hold that thought’, wrapping up the EP titles.

During fan favourite ‘Stars in the City’, Conal broke a string on his Guitar and acknowledged his annoyance by performing an animated wrestle with it, much to the delight of the crowd.

Before playing ‘The Boss’, Conal thanked the crowd and admitted the band; “Have had a great year”. A great year indeed, their debut EP “The City, The Tree and The Fox” was released on the 20th February to a sold out Whelans and they have continued forward with rising success.

As expected, things were finished off with the Heritage classic ‘Death by Science’. Conal’s borrowed guitar required some tuning adjustments but to his credit his vocals needed nothing of the sort.

The crowd had full involvement then and the steady sway of heads, shoulders, knees and toes had invaded the Academy 2.

Darragh Faughey