The Margaret Ann cut through the black waters of Tramore Bay, her diesel engine throbbing like a steady heartbeat in the predawn darkness. Skipper Frank MacDonald stood at the wheel, his calloused hands guiding the fifty-foot trawler with the ease of a seasoned sailor with thirty years' experience at sea. Below deck, the scent of frying potato chips mixed with the ever-present tang of salt and diesel. Eighteen-year-old Jimmy Power flipped the golden slices in the pan, his brother Buddy nearby coiling ropes with the quiet efficiency that came from a lifetime around boats.

It had been a frustrating night. Three hours earlier, their nets had bulged with a £100 catch—only to tear open from the weight, their hard-won prize disappearing into the dark waters. Now, as they prepared a late supper, none suspected this routine fishing trip would become a fight for survival.

The First Whiff of Disaster:

Jimmy wrinkled his nose. "You smell that?" he asked Buddy. A strange, acrid odour drifted through the cabin—something sharper than the usual engine smells.

Before Buddy could answer, Frank came barrelling up from below, his face ashen. "Engine room's on fire!" he shouted.

Tom Doyle, who'd been checking their remaining gear, dropped everything. The four men scrambled for the fire extinguisher mounted near the wheelhouse. Buddy grabbed it first, yanking the pin and squeezing the lever. Nothing happened. He tried again, slamming it against his palm. "It's jammed!"

Already, tendrils of smoke curled up through the deck plates. The smell of burning oil grew stronger, carried on gusts of hot air that made their eyes water. Frank made a quick decision. "We need to head for Brownstown rocks—it's our closest shelter!"

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea:

As Frank swung the wheel, the first flames burst through the engine room hatch. The fire spread with terrifying speed, fuelled by decades of soaked-in fish oil and diesel. Within minutes, the wheelhouse windows glowed orange from the reflected flames.

Tom peered through the smoke. "Frank, those rocks—the current's pushing us straight onto them!"

The skipper cursed as he saw the danger. One wrong move and they'd be smashed against the jagged outcrops. He spun the wheel again. "Then we’ll make for Saleen Strand!

The Margaret Ann surged forward, flames now licking at the wheelhouse roof. The men pulled on lifejackets with shaking hands, each knowing what the others were thinking—two massive oil tanks and compressed air cylinders sat just feet from the inferno. If those went up they were in trouble.

The Raft:

Jimmy and Buddy worked frantically, lashing together wooden deck planks and empty air tanks with whatever rope they could find. The makeshift raft looked pitifully inadequate, but it was their only hope.

At 1:40 a.m., the trawler shuddered violently as she struck a sandbar about 100 yards from shore. The impact threw them all off balance. "Now, launch the raft!" Frank shouted.

Tom and Jimmy went first, paddling furiously through the smoke-choked air. The raft sat dangerously low in the water, each wave threatening to wash them off. After what felt like an eternity, they reached a second sandbar, collapsing onto the wet sand.

Back on the Margaret Ann, flames now engulfed the entire superstructure. Frank and Buddy pulled the raft back using the attached rope, their silhouettes outlined against the hellish glow. As they climbed aboard the raft, a tremendous whoomph sounded, as the wheelhouse collapsed inward in a shower of sparks.

The Long Wade:

Buddy and Frank made their way to where Tom and Jimmy were, on the sandbar. For ten heart-stopping minutes, the four men clung to the raft as waves threatened to tear them apart, their ordeal was far from over. Between them and Saleen Strand lay a treacherous stretch of water—in places waist-deep, in others over their heads.
Buddy took the lead, probing ahead with an oar. "This way!" he called, only to curse moments later as the bottom dropped away unexpectedly. The cold seawater sapped their strength, each step becoming a battle against the sucking sand beneath their boots.

Jimmy later recalled, "We'd go left—the water got deeper. We'd go right—same thing. It was like the sea itself was against us."

After an hour of exhausting effort, they finally stumbled onto Saleen Strand, collapsing on the pebbled beach. But safety still lay four miles away at Ballymacaw.

The Kindness of Neighbours:

Dawn was breaking as the bedraggled fishermen reached the village. Nicholas Murphy, the local shopkeeper, took one look at their smoke-stained faces and immediately put the kettle on. As they sat in his warm kitchen, wrapped in borrowed blankets and sipping sweet tea, the reality of their escape began to sink in.

Buddy examined his blistered hands. "The lights had been flickering for hours," he murmured. "Must've been an electrical fault."

Frank stared into his tea, thinking of the Margaret Ann—his livelihood for fifteen years—now just a burned-out hulk on the sandbar. £1,700 to replace, the insurance would say. But no money could replace the memories, the years of trust built between man and vessel.

Echoes of the Past:

For the Power brothers, the trauma cut deeper. Just the previous week, their father Connie had descended the cliffs at Dunmore East to recover the body of John Byrne, one of the five Co. Donegal fishermen who lost their lives when the trawler Jack Buchan capsized in heavy seas. Now they'd stared into the same abyss.

As news of their escape spread through Dunmore East, other fishermen nodded grimly. They all knew the risks—the sea gave bounty, but demanded respect. Frank MacDonald had earned his stripes anew this night, bringing his crew home against impossible odds.

In the days that followed, investigators would comb the wreckage, debating whether it was indeed an electrical fault or some other cause. But for the four survivors, the why mattered less than the simple fact they'd lived to tell the tale.

As Frank told the Cork Examiner reporter before heading home to his worried wife: "The sea tests every fisherman sooner or later. Last night, she tested us hard. But by God's grace and a bit of quick thinking, we're here to see another sunrise."

Epilogue:

The remains of the Margaret Ann became a temporary landmark on the sandbar, a cautionary tale for passing vessels. Frank MacDonald would return to the sea within months, though some said he never quite looked at his new trawler the same way. The Power brothers and Tom Doyle continued fishing, their bond forged stronger by shared survival. And in Dunmore East's seaside pubs, their story joined the oral history of the village—another chapter in the eternal dance between man and ocean.