The Irishman

Hard on the breeze in this past summer’s windy Round Ireland Yacht Race, the talented Conor Fogerty attends to his natural calling. Herb McCormick

We were just a few hours away from the start of the Round Ireland Yacht Race this past June, and I was meeting a few of my fellow crewmembers for the first time. Long story short: I’d raced J/24s the previous summer with an amazing Irish kid named Jack Cummins, who was teaching sailing in my hometown of Newport, Rhode Island. He’d finagled a ride for me aboard Barry O’Donovan’s sweet Beneteau 44.7, Black Magic. One of the lads was laying out the watch schedule and told me I’d be sharing driving duties on my shift with a chap named Conor Fogerty. 

I quickly realized that I took in this information too matter-of-factly, for he repeated the name with extra emphasis: “Conor. Fogerty.” After which came some pertinent Fogerty biographical info.

Professional delivery skipper. More than three dozen transatlantic voyages, including a class win and overall handicap victory in the treacherous 2017 ­running of the solo OSTAR race, for which he was named Irish Sailor of the Year. Hundreds of thousands of miles ­under sail, ­including a circumnavigation as skipper in the Clipper Round the World Race. And so on.

Yes, I’m a bit dense, but not so much that I didn’t understand the accompanying, unspoken message: “You’re splitting wheel time with Conor? You’d better bring your A-game, dude.”

With that, we were off. For the next 700-plus nautical miles, and five and a half sometimes-quite-bumpy days, I was treated to a master class in seamanship from the wily, bluewater Irishman. And more than a few laughs, as well. 

I’ve sailed with many amazing sailors who exude true serenity at sea, who are clearly one with it. The hairier the moment, the calmer their disposition. 

With Fogerty, two moments especially stand out. 

On the final day, getting walloped by headwinds in the Irish Sea, as the leech cord and mainsail battens began to fail, he performed a Flying Wallendas act perched high in the cockpit to address the situation before it became calamitous. Hours before, in the dead of night off Rathlin Island on the country’s northeast point, he put on a steering clinic in a tumultuous seaway in swirling currents that at one stage submerged the entire boat as we were creaming along at 12 knots. It was awesome. 

Overall, as a driver, I think I held my own, but let’s put it this way: I’m no Conor Fogerty.

When you sail offshore, however, the technical aspects of the exercise are only part of it. A lot of hours are filled just shooting the breeze with your mates. And the man had no end of excellent sailing stories. His early years learning the ropes on an old Swan 40 regularly racing from Ireland to Wales. His “longest delivery ever,” when he was hired to sail a Lagoon 50 from Australia to the Caribbean, and rather than bash into the Pacific trades, went the other way: across the Indian Ocean, around South Africa, and north via the Atlantic. His winning move in that aforementioned OSTAR, when he headed way north in the North Atlantic aboard his Jeanneau Sunfast 3600 (wow) to avoid a “bomb” low-pressure system that decimated much of his competition to the south. And all those transatlantics, racing and cruising, Mother Ocean always calling. Fogerty ­always answering. Finally, there were his future plans, which include hopping aboard an Oyster for the brand’s round-the-world rally, or entering the WorldStar 2026 solo round-the-world race, an offshore contest that will set out from Plymouth, England. 

All that said, at the end of the day, I reckon that Fogerty’s most amazing skill was his ability to hand-roll cigarettes in the open cockpit in the breeziest of moments. Smoking was a thing among several Black Magic crewmembers, all of whom were serious characters. At times, I felt I’d been beamed onto the waterborne set of an Irish sitcom. 

When I told him as much, he gave me a bemused smirk, which reminded me of something my mom used to say in the presence of certain company: “He has the map of Ireland drawn on his face.” 

Then he rolled another one.

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