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Welcome to Dunmore East Harbour: 

A Portrait of Place and People

The harbour in Dunmore East is more than just a picturesque landmark—it’s a living testament to the community that has shaped its character for generations. This section celebrates the harbour’s timeless beauty through captivating photographs, while also honouring the fishermen, families, and local faces whose stories are woven into its piers and waves. From the bustle of the daily catch to the quiet moments of reflection by the water, these images capture the essence of what makes Dunmore East so special.

Take a visual journey through the heart of the harbour, where tradition meets the tide, and every picture tells a story.

Seen from up by the lighthouse, this colourised photo looks down on the harbour in the 1950s when the place was full of movement and purpose. The pier is busy with fishermen in caps and heavy working clothes, shifting fish into barrels and wooden boxes with the kind of effort that was taken for granted at the time. You can nearly imagine the smell of salt, and fresh herring rising up from below, the sort of harbour air that stayed with you long after you had gone home.

In the middle of all that work, there is a quieter little moment too. A woman in her autumn coat is walking hand in hand with a small child, passing through the scene as calmly as you like, as if the business of the pier was just part of the day’s background. Behind them stands the convent school, solid and watchful, looking down over the harbour as generations would have remembered it.

What I like about the photo is the way it catches the whole village in one glance. There is hard work, there is family life, and there is that feeling of the harbour being the centre of everything. The boats, the barrels, the people on the pier, and the school above it all seem tied together, each belonging naturally to the other. It’s a glimpse of the life that kept Dunmore East going.

Taken from the Lookout Wall, this photo catches one of those quiet, useful hours in the harbour back in the 1950s, when not everything was drama and spray, and a great deal of life went on in a steady, ordinary way. Lying side by side at low water are the RNLI boat Annie Blanche Smith and the pilot boat Lily Doreen, resting easy on the strand as if they had earned a pause after minding everyone else’s business for long enough. There is something almost companionable about them there, settled down together like two old sea-going sisters with plenty behind them.

Down below, a lone man is bent over a small fishing boat drawn up on the stones, busy at some job that could not be put off. He may be repairing, painting, or patching something that had seen better days, but whatever the task, he has the look of a man well used to it. Nearby again, three others stand on the dock in a little knot, deep in conversation, no doubt putting the world right in the way men in harbours have always done. It could have been fish, tides, weather, football, or some mixture of the lot.

What makes the picture for me is its plain honesty. No posing, no ceremony, just boats at rest, a bit of work being done, and a few men talking where men have always talked. The harbour wall behind them says all that needs saying — solid, weathered, and minding its own business, much like the people who belonged to the place.

This photograph brings us back to a fine summer’s day in Dunmore East, around 1930, when the harbour was full of quiet excitement and the yachts were getting ready for a race. In the foreground are the handsome wooden boats, their pale hulls catching the light, while men on deck fuss with ropes and sails in the way sailors always have when something important is about to begin. The masts rise up like a little forest of their own, and the calm water below gives back a trembling reflection of the whole scene.

Behind it all, the cliff stands watch over the harbour, lined with grand Georgian and Victorian houses looking down on the activity below. With their big windows, neat gardens, balconies and stone walls softened by ivy, they remind us of the time when Dunmore East was a fashionable seaside retreat, a place where people came not just for the sea air, but for a certain style of living. You can almost picture the owners and their guests pausing to admire the view, keeping half an eye on the racing and half on one another.

What I like most about it is the mix of worlds in the one frame. There is the serious business of sailing and seamanship below, and above it the calm elegance of the houses, as if the village was trying to be both working harbour and holiday resort at once. For a moment, caught in the sunlight, it manages to be both.

This photo shows Harbour Master, Captain Desmond Carroll and his young son David sitting up on the high harbour wall in Dunmore East in 1952, caught in one of those fine little moments that would have meant nothing much at the time and everything later on.

Captain Carroll has the look of a man who never really stopped keeping an eye on the sea. Even standing there at his ease, he seems half tuned to the tide, the weather, and whatever might be moving beyond the harbour mouth. Beside him is young David, proudly wearing a captain’s hat of his own, and looking very much as if he knew he was in important company. There is something lovely in that — the father in the full dignity of his role, and the son beside him, already sharing in it in the small serious way children often do.

This photograph captures David Carroll in his punt, The Turmoil, sometime during the 1960s. Behind the high wall he kept a lobster pot, and it’s likely he was heading out to haul it when this image was taken. Navigating through the tangle of moored punts required no small measure of skill, patience, and harbour knowledge — something David had in abundance.

Like so many short trips from the harbour, it was a quiet test of seamanship, carried out without fuss or audience. One can only hope the effort was rewarded when the pot was finally lifted.

This photograph captures Captain Carroll mid-stride on the quay, walking up from the lighthouse with a purposeful bearing. Dressed in his crisp Harbour Master’s uniform — a navy jacket with brass buttons gleaming, cap set just so — he carries a weathered notepad in one hand, its pages likely filled with tide calculations or maintenance notes.

The original version of this photo hangs in the lifeboat station, from where David Carroll was able to get a copy. He is almost sure it dates from June 1956, after Dunmore had been battered by yet another storm. The van in the picture belonged to Seamus Murphy, who lived in “Cledagh” over Mrs Burke’s shop. 

Every detail whispers of a working harbour, with Captain Carroll the steady hand guiding it all.

This photo shows lighthouse keeper Martin Glanville standing on the pier in Dunmore with the same straight-backed bearing you would expect from a man in charge of a light. He is neatly turned out, looking up along the quay with that calm, watchful manner that comes from years of keeping an eye on sea and weather. Behind him, the greenery of the park falls away towards Men’s Cove, softening the scene a little, though Martin himself looks as steady and solid as the pier stones under his feet.

There was always a certain precision about men like him. Whether or not the story was true that he had once been in the police, he certainly had the look of someone who liked things in order. You could easily imagine him checking his watch, noting the time, and taking in every rope, boat, and movement in the harbour without appearing to do very much at all. Men like that often said little, but missed nothing.

And yet there was more to him than routine and duty. I’m told he had a great fondness for horse racing, which seems a fine thing for a lighthouse man to have, as if all that steadiness needed an occasional flutter to balance it out. You can picture him coming back from the Galway Races with a few thoughts on the runners, perhaps more hopeful than successful, and ready enough to discuss them with anyone willing to listen. To the people around the harbour, he must have seemed part of the place itself, one of those familiar figures you imagine will always be there. When men like that are gone, a place can look much the same, but never quite feel it.

This photo shows the old pilot boat Lily Doreen out on the open water, and there is something very fine about the sight of her. She sits well on the sea, steady and sure of herself, with her masts rising high and her hull taking the swell as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You can almost imagine the sound of the water along her side and the pull of the wind in the sails as she made her way out to meet whatever ship was due in from beyond the horizon.

The Lily Doreen was no ordinary boat to the people of Dunmore East. She had her own place in the life of the harbour, and plenty would have known her as well as they knew the faces of their neighbours. Built first as a sail trawler in the 1920s and later turned into the pilot boat, she had the kind of strength that mattered in bad weather, and the sort of shape that allowed her to move well when the wind was with her. Many a pilot must have stood aboard her, hands on the same rails, eyes narrowed against salt and spray, heading out on work that was important and not always easy.

There was a kind of beauty in boats like her, though nobody at the time would have bothered saying such a thing out loud. Beauty was simply there in the way she carried herself, in the set of the sails, and in the confidence with which she went about her business. This photograph catches some of that. It leaves her as people would like to remember her — proud, capable, and out on the water where she belonged.

From the vantage point of the Island, this photograph captures the chaotic excitement of Dunmore’s annual regatta in full swing—a kaleidoscope of bobbing boats, sunlit sails, and the shimmering harbour alive with movement. The real stars, though, were the Olympic-class swimmers cutting through the water like arrows, their strokes sending up sprays of silver as they raced from the pier to the Island and back. The crowd leaned forward as one, eyes fixed on the churning wake, voices rising in cheers that bounced off the harbour walls.

But it wasn’t all serious competition. The Duck Race—that whimsical flutter of rubber ducks tossed into the tide—sent children (and more than a few adults) wild, shouting "Quack! Quack!" as if their encouragement might will a winner home. Nearby, the Greasy Pole challenge drew roars of laughter as daring souls wobbled across the slippery timber, arms wind milling, before plunging into the brine to the crowd’s delighted jeers.

And what’s a perfect family day without ice cream? Gertie Burke’s cones, sliced straight from the block, melted sticky-sweet in the summer heat, while grandparents shared tales of regattas past and toddlers waved flags stained with raspberry drips. The Island, with its ringside view, was the place to be—where the salt air mixed with laughter, and for one golden afternoon, Dunmore’s harbour became a stage for joy.

The summer of 1955 brought unusual activity to Dunmore’s harbour as work began on the crumbling foundations behind the lighthouse and in the harbour itself. Day after day, the rhythmic clang of hammers on stone echoed across the water as the Board of Works carried out repairs, but the real magic happened beneath the surface—where diver Bob Lewis became the talk of the village. He worked from the raft by the steps (normally John Roche’s berth, forcing his boat to relocate around the corner, as you can partially see in the photograph).

Bob was a serious man, not known for joking around. While working in Dunmore he always stayed with George and Maisie Roche. Each day, clad in his heavy copper helmet and weighted boots, he would descend into the murky depths to repair what the sea had stolen. The photograph captures the spectacle his work created: crowds gathering by the quayside, women and children staring in awe, fishermen pausing their work to watch.

There was something mesmerizing about witnessing a man disappear beneath the waves. Once Bob submerged, the show became one of imagination rather than sight—just the occasional trail of bubbles marking his progress, the taut air hose snaking into darkness. Yet the crowd remained, as if their collective gaze could will him safely back to the surface.

The children would count the minutes until his helmet broke through the water again. The fishermen would nod at another job well done. And Bob? He’d simply wipe his faceplate and prepare to descend once more—Dunmore’s silent guardian, holding our pier steadfast against the tireless tide.

Over the years, people have wondered what the crowd in this photo was looking at. I can now reveal that they were watching diver Bob Lewis in action. Bob’s work was described above.

I seem to recall hearing that people used to bet on how long Bob would stay underwater during each dive. The person who guessed closest to the actual time won the pot, which was held in the wheelbarrow visible on the left side of the photo. Everyone could place a bet—except Bob, for obvious reasons.

The photo was taken by Padraig Kennelly from Tralee in 1955 and was later used as a postcard.

Should you visit Dunmore nowadays, the harbour would still strike you as a place that has held on to much of its old postcard appearance. The same curve of water is there, the same rise of ground above it, and the same feeling that the quay has tucked itself in neatly between cliff and sea and has been content there for generations. At a glance, you might think very little has altered.

Where sailboats once drifted about looking elegant and giving visitors something to admire, there is now an adventure centre and yacht club, replacing the Island and made more for activity than for daydreaming. It does not have the same old-world charm, perhaps, but there is good sense in it. A harbour cannot live on appearance alone, and there is much to be said for a place that gives young people something energetic to do while also providing useful work. With the fishing industry no longer what it once was, something had to take its place, and the adventure centre has done that well enough.

That is the way of places like Dunmore. They keep their shape, their character, and a good deal of their beauty, even as the purpose of things changes over time. The harbour may no longer be quite the same as the one in the old photographs, but it is still doing what any good harbour should do — serving the people who live around it, and finding new ways to remain part of the life of the village.

For years I was sure this fine photo dated from the 1950s, until David Carroll put me right. “That’s the 1930s,” he said, and I’ve no doubt he was correct. It is an easy mistake to make, though, because the harbour changed so little over the years that one decade could pass for another without causing much argument. That was often the way in Dunmore. The years moved on, but the harbour kept much the same face.

The first thing that struck me was the group of boys in the foreground, turned out so neatly that it surely must have been a Sunday. In those days, Sunday dress was a serious business, and even young lads who might have spent the rest of the week tearing about the place could look surprisingly respectable when the occasion demanded it.

Beyond that, the photograph is a lovely glimpse of the harbour in its finest days. The punts lie quietly at their moorings, the water is calm, and the quay looks much as it always did, steady, familiar, and quite unconcerned with the changes going on elsewhere. It is the kind of scene that reminds you how much of life in Dunmore once revolved around that stretch of water.

This photograph captures Dunmore East’s 1949 regatta, with spectators gathered in their hundreds on the Island. The Lily Doreen can be seen anchored in the harbour, decorated with the International Code of Signal Flags for the event. Swimming races would have been started from a plank extended over the vessel’s far side.

In the outer bay, a naval vessel can be seen, indicating that the Navy still maintained a local presence several years after the war. It may have been on routine duty or perhaps ensuring the rowdy "Duck Hunt" (that chaotic highlight where swimmers chased rubber ducks across the harbour) didn't descend into complete maritime anarchy.

Along the quay, eleven motorcars are neatly lined up—symbols of post-war modernity and social change. Their polished bodies reflect a period of renewed confidence and economic recovery.

The image provides a clear record of Dunmore’s regatta as a key community event, when the harbour temporarily shifted from its regular fishing work to organised sport and recreation.

This photograph captures a busy day on the pier in 1955, with the fishing fleet waiting to unload their catch. The boats are at rest, their work paused, as if awaiting the next tide. The smell of breakfasts being cooked fills the air.

To the right of the picture, the pilot boat Betty Breen and the Agnes Palmer sit side by side. To the left of the Betty Breen is the BCK 172, a vessel that would later be known as The Coreopsis. Owned by Jerry Doyle of Kilkeel, she passed through the hands of Dick Power in Tramore before finally finding her way to Tobins of Helvick. Each change of ownership finishes a chapter of a trawlers life at sea—of storms weathered, catches hauled, and livelihoods sustained.

These boats may have long since sailed their last voyages from Dunmore, but here, in this captured moment, they remain forever moored in history.

The seas off Dunmore East have always been treacherous—storm surges, hidden rocks, and sudden squalls had tested sailors for centuries. For Stephen Whittle, Coxswain/Mechanic of the Dunmore East lifeboat for 25 years, every emergency call could have meant the difference between life and death for all concerned.

On many stormy nights, flares lit up the sky over Dunmore. A fishing vessel, a cargo ship, or a lone yacht—battered by towering waves—would have sent up a distress signal. The crew was in trouble, and their last hope was their flare and a mayday call crackling over the radio.

Stephen Whittle and his team were always on standby, ready to launch into the darkness and guide the lifeboat through walls of spray. As coxswain, Stephen had to navigate not just the waves but also the fear in his crew’s hearts. The wind would howl like a banshee, but Stephen always kept a steady hand on the wheel, his eyes firmly locked on the radar.

When they reached a stricken vessel, they often found those on board soaked and shaking, clinging to the rails. Stephen would manoeuvre the lifeboat alongside, timing each swell perfectly, while his crew hauled the men to safety.

Back ashore, rescued men would clasp Stephen’s hand, their gratitude unspoken but deep. For Stephen Whittle and the crew of the Dunmore East lifeboat, heroic acts were a way of life. Each mission was just another night doing what they had trained for—lives saved because of the RNLI’s relentless readiness.

"Though Stephen Whittle's name may not have echoed far beyond Ireland's shores, to those he and generations of lifeboat crews saved from the treacherous sea, these men were nothing less than heroes.

In Dunmore East, where the ocean’s fury looms ever-present, the legacy of Stephen, and all who served in the lifeboats over the years, continues to inspire new generations to selflessly risk their own lives to help others in their hour of need."

This image captures a legendary Dunmore East lifeboat crew from the 1950s, featuring Johnny Dunne, Maurice Power, John 'Rocky' Power, John ‘Bulligan’ Power, Dick Murphy, Paddy Billy, and John ‘Bulligan’ Power Jnr—a fearless team who routinely braved the treacherous waters off Dunmore East.

Research in the Irish Newspaper Archive reveals that these men were involved in numerous daring rescues throughout the 1950s, saving countless lives from grounded trawlers and violent storms. Renowned for their skill and courage, they were rightly celebrated as Dunmore’s finest heroes of their time.

The photograph shows them on a calm day, likely just outside the harbour, their relaxed demeanour belying the dangers they regularly faced. But when Arctic gales roared and others barricaded their front doors against the storm, these men launched the lifeboat without hesitation—racing into the chaos to rescue those fighting for survival at sea.

True Dunmore heroes, each and every one.

"Here is just one example of their many rescues, this one took place in December 1954. No dramatic fanfare, just Dunmore men doing what they did best: saving their fellow fishermen from the wrath of the sea."

Fishermen Rescued by Lifeboat:

The crew of the Dunmore East lifeboat, under Coxswain Patrick Power, late yesterday evening rescued two Passage East fishermen, James Elliott and William Ivory, from the rocks off the Wexford coast.

They had been out fishing in a 19ft. boat Marian, owned by Mr. John Baldwin, Passage East, when they got into difficulties in a strong north-westerly gale.

Mr. Arthur Westcott-Pitt, secretary of the Dunmore East Lifeboat, who was informed of their plight, alerted Coxswain Power and his crew, who immediately went to their assistance.

The two fishermen had been stranded on the rocks for hours. The boat had broken down and filled with water. The sails had been blown away.

The lifeboat, with a rocket gun, managed to get a line across the fishing craft, which it towed into Passage East.

The 1920s were a prosperous decade for Dunmore East, as the small village buzzed with unprecedented activity. With record-breaking herring catches flooding the quays, an influx of young Scottish and Donegal women arrived to help process the haul. Their hard work and expertise injected new energy into the local industry, propelling Dunmore East to the forefront of Ireland’s herring trade.

A Hive of Activity:

The quay had always been a bustling hub, but the arrival of these young women brought an extra spark. Their presence not only boosted efficiency but also added a touch of glamour to the traditionally male-dominated workforce. The atmosphere crackled with excitement as the herring season reached new heights.

The Rise of the Kipper Trade:

A key driver of this employment surge was the booming trade in cured kippers. The herring was meticulously cleaned, salted, and smoked before being dispatched by rail across Ireland. Demand for these delicious smoked fish soared, and the skill of the Scottish and Donegal girls ensured that every order was met with precision.

Economic Prosperity:

The economic impact of this seasonal workforce was immense. Their labour not only supported the fishing industry but also invigorated local businesses, creating a ripple effect of prosperity. The kipper trade, a cherished Irish tradition, flourished thanks to their expertise and dedication.

More Than Just Work:

Beyond the quay, these young women brought new life to the village. On Sunday nights, they livened up the fisherman’s hall with fresh dance steps that left the local lads—dressed in their Sunday best—struggling to keep up. Their spirit and vitality left a lasting impression on Dunmore East.

A Lasting Legacy:

Once known primarily for its coastal beauty, Dunmore East became a thriving center of the herring industry. The combination of abundant catches and the invaluable contributions of these young women cemented the village’s reputation. Their determination and skill broke barriers in a male-dominated trade, leaving an indelible mark on the region’s history.

Dunmore East in the 1920s wasn't only a fishing village—it was a place where hard work, tradition, and a bit of dancing shaped a community’s future.

On a crisp May morning in 1952, the crew of The Tulip made an extraordinary catch in the waters off Dunmore East—one that would become the talk of the village for years to come. Their nets hauled in not the usual herring or mackerel, but a magnificent 30lb Irish Republican Sturgeon, a fish so rare in those waters that its capture was nothing short of remarkable.

For the fishermen—Frank McDonald, Tommy McGrath, Johnny Rooney, Dando Whitty, and Muck Murphy—it was a moment of pride when the fish was brought ashore. The sturgeon, glistening and grand, was a prize unlike any they had seen before. Word spread quickly around the village and most people got to see it, the nuns even closed the school early that day to allow the children go and see the rarity. After the people in the village got fed up looking at it, the fish was transported to the Dunmore East fisheries shop on High Street, Waterford to be displayed there. For two days, crowds gathered, forming long queues just to catch a glimpse of this aquatic oddity. People marvelled at its size, it’s strange, prehistoric appearance, and the sheer improbability of it being caught locally.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Ernest Hemingway’s book, The Old Man and the Sea, had just been published, filling imaginations with tales of epic battles between man and monstrous fish. While this sturgeon was no giant marlin, for the fishermen of Dunmore East, it was their own brush with legend.

And then, just like that, the fish was gone—sent straight to the dinner table of President Seán T. O’Kelly. It was said the president enjoyed his meal, perhaps unaware that he was eating a piece of local history.

Today, the story of the Dunmore sturgeon remains a curious footnote in the village’s maritime past, a reminder of the days when the sea could still surprise even the most seasoned fishermen. Who knows what else lies beneath those waves, waiting to be discovered?

Heroism at Sea: The Dunmore East Lifeboat Rescue of 1970

On November 25, 1970, amid gale-force winds and towering seas off Hook Head, the Dunmore East lifeboat crew performed an extraordinary act of bravery. Under the command of Coxswain Stephen Whittle, they battled treacherous conditions to rescue three fishermen from the sinking trawler “Glenmalure”. Tragically, one crewman was lost, swept from the bridge before help could arrive. The lifeboat crew’s unwavering courage and skill that night would later be honoured in a ceremony that celebrated their gallantry.

A Rescue against the Odds

The “Glenmalure”, a Kilmore Quay trawler, had foundered in the violent waters near the Waterford Harbour estuary. The lifeboat crew located the vessel’s survivors clinging to a life raft in mountainous seas. Despite the perilous conditions, Coxswain Whittle and his team executed a daring rescue, pulling three men to safety. The operation, described as both hazardous and heroic, underscored the lifeboat service’s vital role in safeguarding lives at sea.

Honours and Recognition

In 1971, Coxswain Whittle’s leadership during the rescue earned him the Royal National Lifeboat Institution’s (RNLI) silver medal for gallantry, presented by the Duchess of Kent. Later that year, on December 1st, the entire crew gathered at Dunmore East’s Ocean Hotel for a formal ceremony. Lieutenant-Commander W. L. G. Dutton, RNLI Chief Inspector of Lifeboats, presented certificates to the crew in recognition of their service.

The honoured men included Coxswain Stephen Whittle, mechanic Brendan Horgan, assistant mechanic Sean Kearns, and crew members John Whitty and Joseph Murphy. Also present was John Power, the lifeboat’s second coxswain, whose role in the rescue was equally pivotal.

The ceremony was attended by “Glenmalure” skipper Jimmy Bates, who publicly expressed his gratitude to the crew for saving his men. The event not only commemorated the 1970 rescue but also paid tribute to the broader legacy of the Dunmore East lifeboat station.

Celebrating a Legacy of Service

The occasion also honoured two retiring members of the lifeboat community. William (Bill) Barry, who served over 21 years as the station’s mechanic, received a certificate of service. Arthur Wescott-Pitt, retiring after nearly three decades as secretary, treasurer, and crew member, was presented with a commemorative vellum scroll. Their dedication, like that of the “Glenmalure” rescuers, exemplified the RNLI’s spirit of selflessness.

A Testament to Courage

The Dunmore East crew’s actions in November 1970 remain a powerful reminder of the risks lifeboat volunteers face—and the lives they save. This story, marked by both tragedy and triumph, continues to inspire. As Lieutenant-Commander Dutton noted, their success in such dire conditions was a feat of “great skill and courage,” a phrase that perfectly encapsulates the RNLI’s enduring mission.

Today, the rescue of the “Glenmalure” stands as a testament to the bravery of ordinary individuals who confront the sea’s fury to bring others home. Their heroism, honoured over half a century ago, still resonates in Dunmore East and beyond.

This colourised photograph captures a moment between two popular Dunmore personalities - Canon Dermot Jameson and Sheina Mosse, who would later become the wife of Noel Colfer. The image shows Sheina selling a flag to the Canon on the morning of the 1941 Regatta, a simple yet poignant picture of harbour life during wartime.

The annual Dunmore East Regatta took place on Thursday, 21st August that year, drawing enthusiastic crowds from Dunmore, surrounding areas, and Waterford City. The event proved remarkably successful, blessed with fine weather and spirited competition that matched or even exceeded previous years. While some events like the sailing race for yawls, the Ladies' Swimming Race, and the girls' under-16 swimming competition were cancelled due to insufficient entries, the day was far from quiet.

In a humorous twist of fate, several sailing competitors were notably absent, having abandoned the races to take advantage of a fortuitous shoal of fish spotted that day. The cheerful atmosphere was enhanced by the Barrack Street Brass and Reed Band from Waterford, conducted by Mr. M. P. Flannery, whose musical selections provided a pleasant backdrop to the festivities.

The ever-popular pillow fight, held on a pole extending over the water, once again drew crowds and laughter as competitors inevitably took their turns taking " a ducking" in the harbour. The quay itself was a colourful spectacle, with the Dunmore lifeboat and other boats in the dock, along with several buildings around the village adorned with bunting.

Credit for the event's success went to Mr. John Murphy, Honorary Secretary, and his dedicated committee, whose efforts maintained this nautical tradition even during challenging times.

The all-important Regatta result were as follows:

Sailing Race for Yawls — Cancelled.

Open Pair-Oared Race for Boys under 15 years — Messrs. Murphy and Shipsey, 1st; Messrs. Campbell and Lawlor, 2nd. Three competed.

Pair-Oared Punt Race — Messrs. Jepson and Murphy, 1st; Messrs. Kennedy and Madden, 2nd. Three competed.

Open Pair-Oared Punt Race — Doherty Bros., 1st; Messrs. O’Mahony, 2nd; Messrs. Heffernan and Power, 3rd. Four competed.

Pair-Oared Punt Race — Messrs. Power and Kelly, 1st; Messrs. Roche and O’Mahony, 2nd. Four competed.

Sculling Race (one oar) — Mr. Whittle, 1st; Mr. Heffernan, 2nd.

Pair-Oared Boats (to be rowed by amateurs—ladies and gentlemen) — Mr. and Miss Jepson, 1st; Mr. and Miss O’Mahony, 2nd.

Swimming Race for boys under 16 — Master Breen, 1st; Master Healy, 2nd.

Pillow Fight on Pole projecting over water — D. Murphy, 1st; — W. Kennelly, 2nd.

Race for Four-Oared Yawls, not exceeding 24 ft. — M. Fitzgerald's Crew, 1st; Mr. Walsh's Crew, 2nd.

Racing Boat winners.

Pair-Oared Punt Race (confined to Army) — Pte. Heylin and Vol. Dalton, 1st; Sgt. McKenna and Pte. T. Furlong, 2nd.

Pair-Oared Punt Race (confined to the Marine and Maritime Inscription Service) — Messrs. Kelly and Walsh, 1st; Messrs. Connors and Walsh, 2nd.

Four-Oared Yawl Race — Won by Heffernan's Crew.

Open Pair-Oared Punts (to be rowed by lady and gentleman) — Mr. and Miss Jepson, 1st; Mr. O'Mahony and Miss Power, 2nd.

Punts (rowed by one man) — P. O'Mahony, 1st; T. Whitty, 2nd. There were three competitors.

Marine Tug-of-War — Won by Mr. O'Connor's crew.

Tug-of-War (on land), confined to members of the Army, Marine and Maritime Inscription Services, L.D.F., and L.S.F. — Won by the L.D.F.; Army, 2nd.

Tug-of-War — Kilcor and Woodstown defeated a scratch team.

"This image of Canon Jameson and Sheina Mosse, paired with these accounts of the regatta, captures Dunmore's remarkable resilience - how even as war raged, the people of the village clung to their traditions with quiet determination, finding normalcy and joy in simple gatherings by the sea."

There are some sights from childhood that stay with you forever—vivid, almost dreamlike, as if they belonged to another world. For me, one of those was the SS Sisyphus, the Board of Works’ bucket dredger, making its slow, laborious journeys in and out of Dunmore East’s Harbour.

To my young eyes, the Sisyphus wasn’t just a dredger—it was a steamboat straight out of the American South, the kind you’d see in films and TV shows, chugging up and down the Mississippi with gamblers in waistcoats and saloon girls in frilly dresses. The great clouds of steam billowing from its funnel only added to the illusion, while the constant rotation of the buckets seemed almost like a paddlewheel, churning the water as it carried its passengers toward some grand adventure. I even imagined that the little house on the raft—visible in the foreground of the photo—was where cheaters at cards were held until the guards could come and lock them up in the barracks. After a day spent in the convent school, hoping the nuns wouldn’t ask me anything, I was entitled to a few fanciful thoughts.

In reality, the Sisyphus was a far more practical vessel. Its job was to drag the bottom of the harbour, scooping up mud and silt with a chain of buckets that descended through the bow. The system was hardly efficient—clanking and groaning as the buckets lifted their heavy loads before tipping them unceremoniously into the hold. But there was something hypnotic about its movements, a rhythmic, almost Sisyphean struggle against the sea (fitting, given its name).

Yet, for all its mundanity, the Sisyphus had a certain romance to it. Steam ships were already a rarity by the time I was a child, and the sight of its funnel belching smoke as it worked the harbour lent Dunmore East an air of industry from another era. It was a relic of a time when machinery was still visible in its workings—when you could hear the hiss of pistons and the clatter of chains, when labour was something you could see.

These days, dredgers are sleeker, quieter, and more efficient. But none of them will ever capture the imagination the way the SS Sisyphus did—at least not for a wide-eyed child who, for after school moments, thought Dunmore East might have its own little piece of the Mississippi.

The photograph captures Dunmore East on a day swallowed by fog—thick, damp, and persistent, likely around 1967. It was one of those mornings when the harbour disappeared behind a grey veil, the kind of fog that seeped into donkey jackets and left shirts clinging with moisture. The Board of Works crew called it a "wet time" day—not from rain, but from the mist's heavy, soaking presence.

In the photo, Eddie Cullinane stands apart—ever the eager one, ready to work despite the gloom. It might have been a Monday, with the heads of some of his work mates still woolly from the weekend, as foggy as the weather itself. Eddie can be seen leaving the shed with his sleeves rolled up, impatient with the delay, while the rest of the crew loitered in the shed's shelter. You can also see one man hesitating in the doorway, peering into the mist. I can hear him now: "Are you sure it’s safe out there, Eddie? You could fall in the dock!" Eddie, never one for idle talk, would have shot back something like: "Anything would be better than listening to all this pub talk from ye lot." That was Eddie—a man who’d rather be working than wasting breath, even on a day when the fog seemed determined to keep the world at a standstill.

Eddie got plenty of days to do the work he loved, but this fogbound Monday in 1967 kept him idle. The persistent mist obscured the harbour, reducing the crew's normal productivity to slow movements and complaints. What makes the photo compelling isn't just the weather—it's the contrast between Eddie's determination to work and his co-workers’ hesitation to brave the fog. The image captures a typical worksite dynamic: bad weather, reluctant labourers, and one man who'd rather work than talk.

This postcard of Dunmore East Harbour dates from 1903 and eventually found its way to England. At the time, Dunmore maintained a direct mail connection with the UK, making it easy for postcards like this to travel swiftly across the Irish Sea. The early 20th century was the golden age of postcard collecting, and images of busy harbours, ships at anchor, and seaside villages were in great demand. This card and many such scenes were produced by Valentine’s of Dundee, one of the most successful postcard publishers of the era. Dunmore’s direct postal link reflected its strong maritime ties with Britain, while also helping to spread the village’s image far beyond the shores of Waterford Harbour.”

By 1970, the newly established yacht club in Dunmore had taken the place of the Island, giving the harbour a bright, modern, and colourful character. Seasoned sailors could be seen racing across the bay, while juniors darted about in their small craft, learning the ways of the wind in the safety of the harbour. 

This was a popular postcard in 1974, probably sold in the Bay Cafe or Mrs. Burkes shop.

These are the herring women of Dunmore, photographed during the 1920s, when each season they returned to the village like the shoals of silver fish themselves, gathering on the quay to gut and pack the catches that helped propel Dunmore East to the forefront of the herring trade in Ireland. Many came from the distant Highlands of Scotland or the hills of Donegal, drawn by the promise of steady work and, to their surprise, better conditions than they had expected. 

The pay was generous for the time— thruppence an hour, more than they could ever hope to earn back home—and though the days were long, from 7:00am until 9:00pm, there was an air of joy about the place. A half-day every second week was looked forward to, unless the shoals were thick in the bay, in which case the girls soldiered on without complaint. Even the rain brought small mercies, for a wet day meant a five-minute break every hour and a chance for a hot cup of tea.

Yet life here was not only about work. The women brought colour, energy, and laughter to the village. At night, when the day’s fish were gutted and the knives put down, they spilled into the local bars, where the sound of the Highland fling, the chatter of Gaelic, and the joy of youthful voices filled the air. Some admitted they stayed not for the work, but for the nightlife, the craic, and the friendships that blossomed in this small fishing port. 

Crowds from Waterford city and beyond would even travel out just to watch them at work, marvelling at the speed of their hands and the spirit they carried with them. Hardworking by day, lively by night, the herring women added greatly to the charm of Dunmore, making the 1920s a golden chapter in the life of the village—a time remembered as one of happiness, energy, and prosperity in the best little fishing village in Ireland.

This image is taken from a newspaper report dating from the 1920's and has undergone some enhancement, the original can be viewed here:  Original Newspaper Photo 

This photo captures two groups strolling down to the quay on what looks to be a warm summer evening, perhaps in the hope of securing a few fish for supper from a friendly fisherman. On this occasion, however, it looks like all the boats are out at sea. Most likely, they had travelled out from town in the horse and cart visible in the picture, waiting patiently to take them home again.

This was long before the convenience of frozen fish fingers—back then, people were willing to go to great lengths for the fresh taste of the sea. A trip to the harbour in Dunmore was as much a social outing for Waterford people as it was a practical errand and I’m sure they enjoyed their jaunt. One can only hope their efforts were rewarded, and that they didn’t have to make the long journey back to Waterford fishless.

At the start of the 20th century, Dunmore East was in its golden age of sailing. The harbour was still wide and open, with room enough for yachtsmen to spend entire afternoons circling gracefully in the sheltered waters. Fishermen worked on undisturbed, though from time to time an irritated crewman might let fly a herring at a passing pleasure sailor—a salty reminder that not everyone was impressed by their leisurely sport. For the most part, though, it was all plain sailing, Dunmore was Ireland’s version of the Riviera. 

When the rest of Ireland was still trying to figure out how bicycles worked—and even debating whether motorcars really existed—the people of Dunmore were already soaring above the village in aeroplanes, snapping photographs from the sky. Many claimed to own private aircraft, neatly housed at the famed “Pitt’s Dunmore East Aerodrome” whenever they weren’t airborne. Money was plentiful, fishing was taking off, and the whole village was, quite literally, flying high.

Those who didn’t take to the skies were often looked down upon by those who did. On some occasions, passengers were strapped into armchairs fixed to the wings, all for the thrill of a true bird’s-eye view—making them the original armchair travellers.

This photograph was taken during one of those legendary flights. It’s often said that the people of Dunmore have a special gift for seeing the bigger picture—and now you know why.

This photograph, likely taken in the 1950s, captures a trawler on the Dock Strand being scraped and sanded in preparation for painting. In those days, it was always the crew themselves who carried out such maintenance — skilled men who could turn their hand to almost any task.

This photo was taken by John Hinde in the early 1960s and features local man Dave Harris as a child, longing to go sailing. TG4 produced a documentary series some years ago about famous postcards, and this one was featured. The link below leads to the clip about this particular postcard. 

https://youtu.be/96mzij8ejzc 

This photograph of my father, Ernie, was originally meant to be released as the follow-up postcard to 'The Boy on the Wall'. However, after 'The Boy on the Wall' soared to the top of the postcard charts and remained there for 25 years, 'The Man on the Pier' was quietly shelved. Ernie missed his chance at fame and fortune. While 'The Boy on the Wall' went on to sell over two billion copies worldwide, this remains the only known print of 'The Man on the Pier'. Life can be cruel. 

This colourised photograph from around 1960 offers a glimpse of the harbour on a day when little seemed to stir. The water lies still, broken only by the faint movement of the tide against the quay wall. Fishing boats, their season perhaps between runs, rest at their moorings — paint faded, nets stowed, engines silent. The usual clatter of work and voices has given way to a rare calm that seems to settle over the entire scene.

Along the roofs of the quay sheds, overlooking the sea, two nuns make their way slowly, their dark habits outlined against the pale sky. From a distance, they appear almost like silhouettes, their steady pace adding a human rhythm to the stillness of the harbour. Below them, the sheds and stores stand in muted tones, their weathered facades showing the wear of years of salt and wind.

It is an ordinary moment, and yet it speaks volumes about its time — a working harbour caught between tides, between seasons, and between eras. There is no sense of spectacle here, only the quiet dignity of place. The photograph holds that balance perfectly: movement and stillness, sea and land, work and pause. In its simplicity lies its beauty — a harbour breathing in before life begins again.

This photo likely dates from the 1940s. It appears to have been taken near the lighthouse. The man bending over on the left of the photo is believed to be Richie Fanning. The name on the fish boxes reads William Murphy, Dunmore, who was a grand uncle of Joefy Murphy. 

I’m not sure when this picture was taken, but it was before the Board of Works ever heard of Dunmore.

This photograph, dating from the late 19th century, captures a quiet moment beside the Lifeboat Station in Dunmore East. By the time it was taken, the lifeboat had already been stationed here for about fifteen years, its crew having braved countless storms and saved many lives, having launched from this spot. 

In the foreground, a group of men stand chatting on the sand — perhaps fishermen exchanging the day’s news, or simply enjoying a pause between fishing trips. Nearby, another figure sits apart, seemingly lost in thought, gazing out across the bay in quiet contemplation.

Above them, the convent overlooks the scene. One imagines the nuns within at prayer, their voices mingling faintly with the rhythmic sound of the waves lapping on the Dock Strand.

It’s a simple yet deeply atmospheric image — a glimpse of everyday life in a coastal village where work, faith, and the sea were all part of the same unbroken rhythm.

This photograph of the Dunmore East lighthouse was taken in the early years of the 20th century, most likely around 1900. The exact date is uncertain. The wooden boxes stacked along the pier suggest that fishing activity was still taking place when the image was taken.

The lighthouse, standing at the end of the pier, appears much as it does today, though the surrounding harbour has changed considerably over time. The scene shows a working quay, with sailing vessels moored alongside. Fuel expenses would have been low at the time due to the use of wind to power the vessels. All that would have needed to be bought for a trip to sea were a few rashers and sausages, and maybe a pan of bread to keep the crew going.

In this colourised photo of the harbour from the mid-1930s, a sense of quiet fills the scene, with little sign of the bustling dock it would later become. The simplicity of the time is reflected by the apparent lone car in the village. Remarkably, even with so much space, the driver still managed to park it on a corner—an enduring Dunmore tradition, it seems. This timeless quirk has carried on through the decades, as anyone familiar with Dunmore today would agree, where parking on corners, or anywhere the driver fancies, still seems to be a thing. The harbour itself, framed by modest buildings and quiet waters, looks almost frozen in time, a far cry from the livelier scenes one would witness on the quay of today.

"The following piece is taken from the book, Dauntless Courage, by David Carroll. This passage gives a good description of Paddy Billy Power’s lifeboat career."

The history of the Dunmore East Lifeboat is one of devoted service in a noble cause. From the first time a RNLI lifeboat was assigned to Dunmore East in June 1884 up until the present day, many lives have been rescued and vessels saved through unselfish efforts of heroic crews who have won the highest praise from sources at home and abroad.

While every crew member is important and vital to the continued success of the lifeboat operation, one name that always comes to mind when people delve into the history of the Dunmore East lifeboat and that is the name of Patrick Power or to give him the name that he was best known as Paddy Billy Power or simply Paddy Billy. Paddy Billy came from Portally and he was born in 1903.

It was the C and S lifeboat that Paddy Billy joined as a crew member in 1925 and was promoted to second coxswain in 1934. At the beginning of January 1947, Paddy Billy was appointed Coxswain of the Annie Blanche Smith.

During his celebrated career as a member of the Dunmore East Lifeboat, Paddy Billy Power was awarded with bronze medals for gallantry on a total of four occasions.

On February 28, 1941, the Annie Blanche Smith put to sea with Second Coxswain Paddy Billy Power at the helm. A Belgian trawler, Ibis had got into difficulty, in heavy seas and with a SSW gale blowing, west of Tramore. For his part in this rescue, Paddy Billy was awarded by the RNLI his first bronze medal for gallantry.

Following the rescue of the MFV St Declan at Falskirt Rock on December 14, 1950, on a night of terrible conditions, he received a bar to his 1941 medal.

On October 4, 1960, another dramatic rescue by the Annie Blanche Smith, with Paddy Billy as coxswain, took place off Dunmore East, when a lone man was rescued from a disabled barge.

For this rescue, he was adjudged by the Committee of Management of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution to have performed the bravest act of life-saving by a member of a lifeboat crew during 1960, for which he received the Maud Smith Award presented annually from a bequest left to the RNLI by the late Miss Smith together with a second bar to his bronze medal.

On March 11, 1964, the Annie Blanche Smith was once more called into action when a Dutch coaster, Jan Brons went aground near Ardnamult or Middle Head, close to Dunmore East.

Displaying outstanding seamanship and great courage throughout the rescue operation, Paddy Billy was awarded a bronze medal, his fourth by the RNLI, with bronze medals also being also being awarded to second coxswain Stephen Whittle and assistant mechanic John Power for their gallantry.

In November 1966, Patrick Power retired after serving for nearly 42 years on the Dunmore East Lifeboats, the last 20 of them as coxswain. This followed shortly after Richard (Dick) Murphy had retired, having served as mechanic for 38 years. In a space of a few months two remarkable, dedicated and committed crew members were retired. Two excellent replacements succeeded them, William Barry as mechanic and Stephen Whittle as coxswain, who himself was to continue in the proud tradition of Dunmore East lifeboat coxswains, displaying great seamanship and courage.

Paddy Billy died on June 25, 1980.In an obituary in Irish Lifeboats 1981, written by Mr John Tod, he concludes that Paddy Billy was a lifeboat man par excellence and his example will be long remembered in Dunmore East.

The Henry Dodd Lifeboat — Dunmore East’s First Lifeboat (1884–1911)

In the summer of 1884, a new era began for the people of Dunmore East. For the first time, a Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI) vessel was stationed in the village — a 37-foot, 12-oared, self-righting lifeboat named the Henry Dodd. Her arrival marked the beginning of a proud, enduring tradition of lifesaving along the Waterford coast.

A Gift from Sussex:

The Henry Dodd was built by T. & W. Forrestt of Limehouse, London, at a cost of £394-10s-0d, and was transported by rail to Bristol, then shipped to Waterford aboard the Waterford Steamship Company’s SS Reginald. The boat was funded through a legacy from Mr H. Dodd of Rothersfield, Sussex, whose generosity ensured that the small fishing village would have the means to save lives at sea.

A new boathouse and slipway, constructed beside the existing Coastguard station by Mr F. G. Kent of Dunmore, cost a further £613-5s-0d. The Reverend William Gillmor, MA, was appointed Honorary Secretary, and John Salter, of HM Coastguard, became the first Coxswain. When Salter retired in 1886, Captain Christopher Cherry succeeded him.

Early Years and Exercises:

The Henry Dodd was formally placed on station on 7 July 1884. Her first half-yearly report, adopted in February 1885, described a capable crew and a well-built boat, though no rescues had yet been required. Three training exercises were held, with Lieutenant Tipping, RN, attending two of them. The report praised the vessel’s steadiness in heavy seas and noted the crew’s growing confidence under their new coxswain.

During 1885, despite frequent gales and the tragic wreck of the Venus B off Ballymacaw, the lifeboat was never called into service. It was not until the evening of 8 December 1886 that the Henry Dodd made her first rescue — the trawler Agenoria of Tenby, driven onto the rocks at Loftus Bay during a violent storm. In appalling conditions, the crew of three were saved. This marked the first successful rescue in the history of the Dunmore East RNLI.

Courage in the Gale:

Over the following years, the Henry Dodd and her crews were tested repeatedly. In December 1889, she launched to the aid of the Queen of Youghal, a small ketch with torn sails battling a north-westerly gale near Hook Head. Both crewmen were rescued and brought safely into Dunmore.

Just three weeks later, on 8 January 1890, she put to sea again when reports arrived of a large steamer in distress off Slade, County Wexford. Battling a whole gale from the south-south-west, the Henry Dodd’s foremast broke near the step, forcing the crew to anchor temporarily and re-step it amid towering seas. Pressing on, they reached the SS Torredon of Glasgow, laden with Spanish grass for Liverpool. The ship was badly damaged from a collision, and six of her crew chose to abandon ship. The lifeboatmen took them aboard and landed them safely at Fethard.

For their bravery, Lord and Lady Butler of Waterford invited the crew to their home, where each man received a gold sovereign and a photograph of the lifeboat crew taken by Julian Butler. The event was widely reported and remembered as a proud day for the Dunmore station.

Tragedy and Inquiry:

Not all of the Henry Dodd’s stories ended in triumph. On 13 December 1893, while a relief lifeboat temporarily replaced her during maintenance, tragedy struck. The substitute boat capsized in heavy seas while returning from a false alarm involving the barque Allegro. All but one of the fifteen crewmen were recovered; Philip Boucher, a young local man and pilot’s son, was lost. The inquiry revealed that an inexperienced relief crew had been assembled in haste, some regular members being away at work or fishing. The loss of Boucher deeply affected the village and was even debated in the House of Commons by local MP Patrick Joseph Power.

The End of an Era:

After 1893, records of the Henry Dodd’s active service ceased. By the mid-1890s she was affectionately known locally as the “Harry Dodd.” The 1895 Annual Report confirmed that she had not been launched that year, though generous donations still flowed from supporters such as Mrs Malcomson, Sir Robert Paul, and the Waterford Harbour Commissioners.

By 1911, her days as Dunmore East’s guardian were over. She had spent an impressive twenty-seven years in service, during which time she saved 16 lives. She left behind a legacy of courage, community, and compassion that set the foundation for nearly a century and a half of lifesaving on the Waterford coast.

"As author David Carroll reflects in his book, 'Dauntless Courage', “The arrival of the Henry Dodd in 1884 began a tradition in Dunmore East of the highest altruistic endeavour — risking one’s own life for others. Little did those men know that the same activity of saving lives at sea would continue more than 140 years later.”

This photograph captures a moment in time aboard the Lydia Ann, with Ned Power at the wheelhouse window, pipe firmly in place, keeping a steady eye on proceedings. On deck stand Johnny Furlong and Paddy Regan, both men seasoned in the ways of the sea. It’s believed they were seine netting when this picture was taken, with eight coils a side — I’m not sure what that actually means, but it sounds impressive, I’d say it probably means they were catching lot of fish.

Ned Power’s pipe was as much a part of him as his cap or his calm command of the boat, some swore he even slept with it in his mouth. His son, Paddy, once tried to follow in his father’s footsteps, taking up a pipe of his own. The experiment didn’t last long though. After a few heroic puffs, the smoke burned his throat, came back out his ears, and nearly alerted the local fire brigade. Deciding that pipes were for wiser men, Paddy marched straight over to Gertie’s and sensibly bought himself ten Major instead.

This photograph features Johnny O’Grady from Coolum, Ballymacaw at the front of the picture, with Mick Power seated in the middle. Unfortunately, the identity of the third man at the back remains unknown.

Johnny O’Grady tragically lost his life to the sea on the 31st of October, 1966, leaving behind a young family. 

A group of fishermen on the pier in Dunmore East in 1962 take time out to pose for a photo for the newspaper.

They are, left to right: Stephan Whittle; Mick Doyle from Arklow; Sean Kearns; Paddy Whelan of Falloon, Mick Whittle; Liam Reagan; Jim Roche from Ballyhack; Brian Furlong from Kilmore Quay; Geoff Power; The man sitting on the bollard is unknown. 

This photo, taken by David Campbell in the summer of 1969, features Stephen, Mick, and Raymond Whittle, along with David Campbell’s children. Raymond Whittle was still a small boy at the time. The harbour development was ongoing, as shown by the mound of earth to the left of the yacht club. It is a very relaxed and easy-going photograph for two men who led such exciting lives on the high seas.

This photograph almost certainly dates from the 1950s, a time when the old harbour was still whole and unaltered, before progress began chipping away at its edges. On the left of the image, a large crowd has gathered on the Island, drawn there as people always were — by curiosity, habit, and the promise that something might be happening.

Whether it was a Regatta day or simply another ordinary afternoon spent watching the harbour do what harbours do is hard to say. More often than not, it was enough to know that a boat might be coming in, that fish might be landed, or that there was news to be had. The Island offered the perfect vantage point, a natural grandstand from which to observe the steady rhythm of arrivals and departures that defined life around the pier.

Looking at it now, one can’t help but feel that something valuable was lost along with the stones when they blew it up. Perhaps it’s time to start a ‘We Want Our Island Back’ campaign — and who knows, with a bit of luck and a government grant, the Island might yet rise again.

This photo, showing the Dock Strand, probably dates from the early 1960's.

The star of this photo is the RNLB Annie Blanche Smith, which I may, or may not, have given the correct colours. On her deck are John “Bulligan” Power Jnr., Rocky Power (I think), John “Bulligan” Power Snr., Johnny Dunne, and possibly Paddy “Billy” Power and Dick Murphy. I’m basing the line-up on another photo, likely taken on the same day.

In the background, my sister Barbara and my mother, Margaret Rutter, can be seen on the left, while on the right of the group I think it is Mary McGrath and her son Thomas. I don’t know for sure who the other people are, one of the women is possibly Ann Colfer. The photo dates from the late 1950s.

Two minutes can be the difference between survival and tragedy.

On a storm-lashed October evening in 1960, Captain Samuel Owens of New Ross found himself in exactly that narrow margin, as his barge was driven helplessly toward the rocks near Creedon Head on the Waterford coast.

Captain Owens, a retired sea captain and Harbour Master of New Ross, was bringing two barges from Bristol to New Ross, with a stop at Dunmore East. He was manning one barge and towing the other when the weather turned savage. As he left the harbour, a force nine gale was starting to blow from the south-east, and heavy seas were already sweeping over the Dunmore East pier.

When the engine of his barge broke down about half a mile from shore, Owens made the hard decision to cut the towed barge adrift. He then fired flares into the darkening sky, knowing he was now at the mercy of wind, tide, and rock.

At approximately 6.30 p.m., the flares were spotted off Middle Head. Within minutes, the Dunmore East lifeboat Annie Blanche Smith was launched under the command of Coxswain Paddy “Paddy Billy” Power.

“When we arrived,” Power later recalled, “the barge was only a few feet from the cliffs. We managed to bring the lifeboat close enough to get him off, though the lifeboat herself was damaged in the process.”

The rescue, however, was far from straightforward.

Geoff “Bulligan” Power, the youngest member of the crew, later described the moment:

“It was blowin’ a fierce gale and the captain was manning one barge and towing the other when he went up on the rocks. We had to go and see if we could get him off. The sea was running bad and he did the captain act and refused to get off his barge.

The crew put their eye on me and, as I was the youngest member, I was picked to try and clamber aboard the heaving barge and persuade him to get off.”

Leaping onto the violently pitching deck, Geoff found Captain Owens angry, stubborn, and unwilling to abandon his vessel.

“He was angry and furious,” Geoff recalled, “but I persuaded and cajoled him, and eventually we got him off. We managed to tow the barges ashore. I came home that day thinking you had to be a bit of a diplomat as well as a bit of a seaman to crew a lifeboat.”

Once Captain Owens was safely aboard the lifeboat, the abandoned barge was secured and brought ashore. The Annie Blanche Smith herself suffered damage to her bows and was later sent to Cork for repairs — a small price to pay for a life saved.

Arthur Westcott-Pitt, Secretary of the Dunmore East lifeboat station, later said plainly:

“Capt. Owens had not got a chance. The minute he left the harbour he was a doomed man.”

For his leadership and courage that night, Coxswain Paddy “Billy Power” was awarded his third RNLI bronze medal for bravery — his earlier medals having been earned in 1941 and 1950. The entire crew later received bravery awards for their part in the rescue.

The famous photograph taken by a Munster Express staff photographer shows the crew standing in full rescue dress shortly after receiving their awards — a quiet, dignified record of a night when professionalism, courage, and human persuasion stood between a man and “certain death.”

One might think convincing a man to leave a sinking vessel would be easy. But captains are rarely willing to abandon their ships. To lose one vessel in a gale might be bad luck; to lose two could be seen as carelessness. Without Geoff Power’s calm persistence, Captain Owens would almost certainly have gone down with his barge — and his name would today be carved on the memorial wall in Dunmore East.

Instead, because of the courage of the Dunmore East lifeboat crew, he lived to walk ashore.

And two minutes became a lifetime.

There are places that call people back year after year, and for the Dunmore East of the 1950s, the Boucher family needed no second invitation.

Every summer they packed their bags and made for the village, taking lodgings with Davey “Muck” Murphy at the top of Island Lane. The connection with Dunmore was already there. Denis Boucher, who served as Transport Manager for Arthur Guinness in Dublin, had earlier worked with British Rail in Waterford. Dunmore was familiar ground and, like so many who came first as visitors, the family soon felt almost local.

This photograph captures one of those bright holiday moments down on Stoney Cove, as a small crew prepares for an expedition to explore the neighbouring coves. Commanding operations on the right of the photo is Denis himself, steady and watchful. Providing the launching power is his son Peter, sleeves rolled and ready for duty. In the bow sits Peter’s sister Trich — “being bossy as always,” Peter would later joke — while in the stern are Judith Hitchman and Ruth Murphy. Margaret Mae Murphy, Ruth’s sister, is also in the punt.

Judith Hitchman recalls:

“The Murphy family lived in Cledagh, in the house where there is now a Chinese restaurant at the end of the Circular Road, over what was Burke’s shop at the time. Their father, Seamus, managed a soda pop factory in Waterford, and their mother was called Floss. All our families spent most of our summer days on Stoney Cove.”

“I wonder if the Murphy parents had the nicknames Soda Pop and Candy Floss.”

Judith also remembers:

“In those days, lifejackets weren’t used when we went out in punts. But my father didn’t allow us to set foot in any boat until we could all swim the width of Stoney Cove (which before the harbour development, was almost twice the width it is now). By the time we were six, we were all proficient swimmers.”

The little craft carried a fine name: Patsy B. It was christened for Trich and, as far as anyone is concerned, the “B” stood for Boucher rather than Bossy — though some might have debated that on any given day.

The punt itself had been built by Capt. Desmond Carroll, the harbour master, who turned out many such boats in his spare time. As David Carroll later recalled, “Any boat with oars was called a punt in Dunmore — we could never say ‘dinghy’; that was too posh, only for the yachtie types!”

For Peter, those carefree summers were more than holidays. Days spent roaming the harbour, watching the lifeboat and pulling at oars left their mark. The spark lit in Dunmore followed him into a cadetship with Irish Shipping, a career in which he rose swiftly through the ranks and ultimately reached the very summit of maritime service in the United States.

Peter has sailed in every ocean except the Adriatic and Antarctica and has visited 145 countries. On one occasion he spent four months as a Navigating Watchkeeper and Skipper of icebreaker landing craft in Alaska and the Arctic, in temperatures that we in Ireland wouldn’t even want to think about. He lived in New Zealand for two years and in Canada for three — one year in French Canada and two in British Columbia.

While on vacation in the Bahamas one time, he was offered a job as a Second Officer on a cruise ship. That opportunity led to him settling in Florida, getting married, starting a family, and building a career on cruise ships as a Safety Officer and Staff Officer.

As of this year, he has been based in Miami for 60 years. He has been married for 56 years and has three daughters and four grandchildren, two boys and two girls. The eldest boy was born in France and his wife is from Morocco, so Arabic has now been added to the English, Spanish, and French already spoken in the family.

Not a bad voyage for a boy who started out pushing off from Stoney Cove.

It is indeed proof, if any were needed, that some of the finest sea stories begin in Dunmore East. If you listen closely, you might still hear them carried on the incoming tide.

This photo is the same as the previous one, except the boat is a different shade of colour in this version.