1999 was a notable year for me.  Exactly 20 years ago, I was closing out my final year of college in Dublin. I remember sitting at a 1^stfloor window above a pub on Dame Street, a pint in hand as I watched the crowds and the colors drift on by. Down on the street below was the biggest St. Patrick’s Day parade that the city had ever thrown; until that time, March 17^thwas better celebrated abroad in places where they dye the river green, rather than in Ireland proper. 

The capital city itself was undergoing a sort of renewal. A dozen cranes lined the skies near my flat as the Celtic Tiger prowled with impressive momentum. The currency was still officially punts but shops began displaying prices in £ as well as the dreamy new € symbol. The Saint Patrick’s Day parade of 1999 boasted floats recognizing old and new: Saint Brendan with comically large papier-mâché hands sailed by a ship while a massive Father Jack scowled at everyone and the appropriate curse words. Even more memorable was a massive bodhrán dubbed the “Millennium Drum” that stood upright on a truck. Boom boom.You could hear its low pitch echoing long before it came into view. And it reverberated long after it passed by and headed for Dublin’s North Side. In that year it felt as though the world was turning just a bit more quickly.

The significance of this momentous year was not lost on my 21-year-old mind. In addition to the turn of the century and a city delighted with its economic growth spurt, my life was facing unstoppable transition. I had no clue what the future would hold, but during that afternoon in mid-March I had an electric sense of thrill for existing in that place in time. Ireland was, and continues to be, a sacred space where I feel an unparalleled sense of belonging. 

Once the parade was finished, I bade my friends farewell and wandered around the city. I did this frequently as a student, and on this day like many others I was armed with my trusty Canon AE-1. I snapped black & white photos of Dublin in its final moments of revelry; even now I always seem to be on a futile mission to make things I love both permanent and portable. As I walked, I remember thinking to myself, “Where will I be at this time next year, and how can I possibly top this experience?” I was graduating from college, and this meant that I’d be leaving Ireland. I still couldn’t imagine what was coming next.  

Fast forward 365 days later, and I was falling asleep in one of the pews of the Pensacola Base chapel. I was sporting the world’s most unfashionable haircut and receiving a commission in the United States Navy after 90 exhausting days of foundational training. I’m not saying that Saint Patrick’s Day in 2000 was superior to the one I had in 1999—but good God, it’s one that I never saw coming.

For all of these reasons, in addition to others that strobe brightly in my head, the Saint Patrick’s Day of 2019 particular holds great significance.  A good friend of mine (an Irishman, of course), tipped me off that the Irish Navy had called into London. LÉ James Joyce was moored in the river Thames, just outboard of HMS Belfast. Tours were being offered.

I went down to visit James Joyce late on Friday afternoon—only hours after informing my coworkers that I really am not interested in visiting military things in my off-time. I was handed a visitor’s badge as soon as I reached the fantail of HMS Belfast, itself a ship that was commissioned on Saint Patrick’s Day in 1938 and served the Royal Navy proudly starting in World War II. I walked forward on Belfast’s starboard side until I was amidships and at the brow of LÉ James Joyce. Although in civilian attire, my years of ingrained training ensured that I rendered honors to the flag before stepping aboard. From there a female petty officer brought myself and six other visitors to the bridge in order to wait for the start of our tour.

The public tour was led by a cadet who had been aboard the ship for only a few weeks of officer training. She looked to be about my age, back when I finished my Guinness-marinated Bachelor of Arts. I listened to her overview of the various bridge consoles as I strolled around and took a closer look at the equipment. I am uninterested in posing smarty-pants questions—one because I don’t like to advertise my line of work but more importantly, I really can’t stand those kinds of people. There is also a third and probably more obvious reason in that I’ve forgotten more than I’ve ever learned when it comes to the finer workings of a warship.

LÉ James Joyce is an offshore patrol vessel, the third newest in the Irish Naval Service. She was commissioned in 2015, and late last year returned from a Mediterranean deployment in support of Operation Sophia. As we were brought to the fo’c’sle, the cadet showed us the big main gun, the 76 mm Oto Melara. At around this time she asked if any of us had any nautical experience. I nodded my head that I did, and she asked me what I did. At this point I quietly identified myself, and told her that I was once a Gunnery Officer. What I didn’t mention was that I was around her age while carrying out this duty. 

I didn’t feel so bad about identifying my status as a sailor. As we walked aft, one of the older visitors, speaking with an accent as Irish as they came, suddenly pulled out his Irish passport and showed it to the cadet, “Just in case there is any question, I’m one of you,” he said, “even if I’ve lived over here for many years.” She graciously informed him that he was very welcome aboard and then continued to point out the RHIB and its attributes just over our heads. The man’s action, while slightly awkward, made me smile. It made me think about how we all hold connections to certain values and places, and as we pass through life, we constantly seek ways to retain our place in those spheres. 

We continued to walk around the weather decks, and as we did, the old Irish chap continued to pose questions. Most were about ships that he remembered from his younger years—the LÉ Aisling, for example—which was now sold off to the Libyan National Army. I too remembered that old ship when it was moored in the Liffey not far from one of my college flats. Back when I never imagined that I’d join the Navy. The cadet, however, could not answer his questions about life on board back then: “Sorry I can’t tell you much about that,” she said, “that was before the time when women were permitted to serve on board.” 

We didn’t get to tour the interior of the ship, but even during our short visit I found it a wonder to observe the seeming improbability of my afternoon. It was impossible not to reflect on the irony that an Irish Navy ship was now parked in the Thames, an Irish ensign flying from its fantail with a Union Jack closed up on the mast. And it was tied up to HMS Belfast. On Saint Patrick’s Day. The significance of these factors, here in a modern day where just three years ago I stood in Dublin to witness the 100^thanniversary of 1916 Rising—all of the stock taking made my head swim a bit in reflecting on how time can pass and how much things can change. 

After a brief overview of the fantail, we ended our visit back on the port side. This young sailor did a great job, even though she made about 20 unnecessary self-deprecating remarks about how she is still learning all of the characteristics of the ship. As I made my way to leave, I went to shake her hand. “Ma’am,” she said, “I’m very sorry that I didn’t salute you when you came aboard, but I’ll salute you now.” For me it was an unexpected exchange that, twenty years ago, I never would have believed.

I didn’t catch the cadet’s name, but I thanked her for the tour. I also told her to enjoy every moment of this experience, because it truly is fleeting. Even if you’re tasked to lead tours to a random public while visiting a foreign port. Even if you are young and feel overwhelmed at all of the things you are told you must learn in order to prove yourself professionally. Soon enough, God willing, this cadet will be standing in my shoes in some fashion or another.

As I departed the Irish ship, I rendered honors to the tricolor once more. That cadet may not realize it, but there are still a million things that I don’t know about the maritime and especially all of the naval stuff that people imagine you know just because of your rank. Like whether I needed to be saluting the Irish flag. But I didn’t care. It was Saint Patrick’s Day weekend, and although no one else could know it, this confluence of events held special meaning.

As I finished crossing the brow, two bells were suddenly heard over Joyce’s intercom system. Ding ding. I had just stepped aboard HMS Belfast, but I reflexively stopped and looked behind me. Who where they announcing? Then I realized it: the cadet must have signaled to the Petty Officer to bong me off the ship. I shook my head in disbelief. Maybe I was imagining things. In my mind, I’m still just as I was 20 years ago—one person of many crammed onto Dame Street and taking in the festivities of life. 

But things have indeed changed—and the passage of time is most obvious when you are suddenly juxtaposed with the likes of yourself from a younger era.  It’s now twenty years on, and the reality though is that I still find myself wading through experiences that is both familiar and transforming. I continue to move, to watch and appreciate my sense of belonging. And above it all, I can still hear the beat of that drum sounding through the Dublin streets. Letting the world know where we’ve all come, and reminding us that change is always happening beneath our feet.