Meet the Crew

As the chief architect of adventure and leader of the band, Blade Runner wields both the harmonica and the mandalele with an intensity that compels the crew to keep up or be left in his wake. On the water, his prowess is legendary, though he is notoriously hard on the gear; he has been known to "shred a sail" in his relentless quest for the perfect line, habitually treating the ship’s canvas like a disposable napkin. Beyond the rig, he is the mastermind behind the legendary Growler "Shuffle,” leading the crew through the winding streets of a port in a symphony of song and salt. Like a nautical Pied Piper, he conducts this walking ensemble such that an adoring crowd inevitably forms in their wake. For Blade Runner, the voyage is only complete when the streets are alive with rhythm and the world recognises the collective brilliance of the Salty Growlers.

The Player operates under the self-appointed mandate of being the crew's premier style icon. Meticulously turned out, he is rarely seen without his signature hat, a piece of headwear the crew suspects is actually a sentient nautical "Sorting Hat." Legend has it that the hat whispers musical secrets directly into his mind. Whether it is a sophisticated dampener for his immense musical brain or a structural necessity guarding a sacred mystery, it remains a permanent fixture. Beneath this magical canopy, he remains a master of the low-end groove and a multi-instrumentalist with vocals of pure gold. Other than keeping the beat as the Saltee's bassist, he regularly treads the boards with his local musical society, basking in the limelight and feeding off the adoration of the front row with the hunger of a man who hasn't seen a mirror in weeks. Just don't get him started about Reddit!

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The Jackal is a man of legendary reappearances. After a decade-long "disappearance" serving as a roadie for music’s global icons, he re-emerged with a guitar collection that makes grown men weep and a repertoire of chords that haven’t been authorised by any known school of music. You’ll never be in any doubt when he’s on board; his unique, timber-shivering cackle is loud enough to serve as the ship’s secondary foghorn. Despite his years on the road, his loyalty to the crew borders on the co-dependent; he has never missed a Growlers trip. This has been diagnosed as a case of FOMO, so severe it’s considered a medical marvel. Driven by the fear that a single joke might be told in his absence, he is famously one of the last men to leave the session, standing guard over the embers of the night long after the lightweights of the crew have surrendered to their bunks.

A master of the twelve-string guitar, The Professor provides the band’s intricate harmonic backbone—largely because he has calculated the tension of every string to within a fraction of a millimetre. By day, he is a brilliant engineer and lecturer, but the moment he steps onto a deck, the academic charm is jettisoned like unnecessary ballast. In its place emerges a competitive zealot who views a "leisurely cruise" as a blood sport. To The Professor, finishing second isn't just a loss; it is a mathematical impossibility that he refuses to acknowledge. He navigates with the cold, auditory precision of a man who can hear a bolt loosening from three cabins away and rules the crew with a "my way or the highway" philosophy that makes the Admiralty look relaxed. Between barking orders and dominating regattas, he crafts legendary homebrew with the same obsessive attention to fluid dynamics he applies to hull speed. 

One of the select few in the crew to actually possess any level of formal musical education. Despite this academic advantage, he maintains a legendary, near-pathological allergy to practice, preferring instead to be the purveyor of the spontaneous "happening." He has a particular fondness for high jacking the session by breaking into a soulful blues riff at any given moment—mostly because it sounds fantastic and requires zero effort, much to the playful annoyance of the band who are often trying to navigate a completely different genre. However, he is equally famous for his nocturnal "extra-curricular" performances. 12 Bar has the supernatural ability to fall asleep anywhere at a moment’s notice, transitioning instantly from a refined blues lick to a heavy-duty respiratory bass line. His snoring frequently confused with the ship’s engine has been known to cause neighbouring crews to check their moorings in a panic, convinced a large vessel is making a midnight departure .

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As a publican by trade, he is a master of two essential crafts: laying down a driving beat for the band and pouring a pint so perfect it could bring a tear to a sailor's eye. Lately, he has been "promoted" to the role of Galley Boy—a tactical manoeuvre by the crew to relocate him below deck where he can "do less damage" to the surrounding environment. However, his speed of beer consumption remains his most unpredictable musical variable. As the "liquid gold" disappears at an alarming rate, his internal metronome begins to develop a mind of its own. He possesses the unique ability to drag the band’s tempo back by exactly one-half beat; it’s a rhythmic deceleration so subtle yet so persistent that the rest of the band is left in a state of melodic vertigo, forever chasing a downbeat that has mysteriously vanished.

With the imposing bearing of a gentrified Mob Boss, the Gent likes things “under control”. Nobody asks what “The Gent” does for crust, but it is suspected he has a “nice little earner” in identifying and implementing “improvements” in companies behaviour. His  attempts to apply similar to the crew have been likened to a Michelin-starred chef trying to reorganise a food fight. A man of strength and iron will, he has circumnavigated Ireland crewing a rowing boat for charity. As the Growler’s latest skipper, he has found a fresh outlet for his love of discipline and control, although docking may be his kryptonite. As the Growler’s self-appointed Media Mogul  “the Gent” is responsible for Salty branding, formal attire, website and “legal issues”  Given his epicurean proclivities it’s only a matter of time before he forces Haute Cuisine on the Salty Savages. And the hallmark of a true gent? He knows how to play the bodhran but doesn’t.

A man of lethal precision and booming presence, Uncle Assassin currently resides in a gilded "exile" on the French Riviera, a lifestyle that has made his commitment to a Growler voyage the ultimate variable.. The crew spends weeks wondering if he’ll actually emerge from his Mediterranean fortress. However, when he finally steps onto the deck, he melts into a puddle of pure, unadulterated brotherhood. He is prone to bursts of misty-eyed emotion, embracing the crew with a ferocity suggesting he’s just escaped a high-security prison rather than a luxury villa in Cannes. When he takes the mic, his vocal enthusiasm is so immense that it creates a sonic perimeter, leaving the rest of the band fighting for oxygen. Despite his sentimental streaks, he remains the group’s ultimate enforcer of nautical protocol, managing deck security and ensuring the brotherhood is protected with the same vigilance as if they were his own personal high-value targets.

Taking his name from the legendary 80s advert, Kit Kat is a record industry professional who remains blissfully unaware—or perhaps dangerously aware—that he has joined the exact group of "unmarketable" rebels the industry warns against. To see him standing in front of the Salty Growlers with a straight face is to witness a masterclass in professional poise. Easily spotted from several nautical miles away, Kit Kat’s attire is a "riot in a paint factory"—an eclectic collision of clashing colours and aggressive patterns so bright they could serve as a secondary distress signal in a heavy fog. He is the crew’s resident "accidental comedian," a man so naturally funny he seems genuinely surprised when his dry one-liners leave the rest of the crew in stitches. As the permanent "Smiler" of the fleet, he navigates the Growler chaos with a grin that suggests he’s found the ultimate loophole in the music business. 

 The crew’s resident Mancunian and a walking hair-care advertisement, Genoa is the only man who can wrestle a muddy anchor chain while maintaining a mane that belongs on the cover of a magazine. Named for the expansive sail he resembles when his flowing, David Ginola-esque locks catch a stiff breeze, he brings a touch of effortless glamour to the deck. While he stands out as the lone Englishman in a sea of Paddies, his "hard man" credentials are never in doubt; a veteran who played Rugby League to an age well beyond the average, he possesses a core of pure iron. Now a devotee of extreme endurance running, Genoa is frequently the first man off the boat, seen disappearing into the blistering morning sun for a training run while the rest of the crew remains below decks, enduring blistering hangovers. He remains a majestic anomaly: part high-performance athlete, part maritime fashion icon.

The jester and ultimate showman of the Salty Growlers, Magic James operates exactly one frame rate quicker than the human eye—and ear. As the crew’s point man, he is a one-man recruitment drive, capable of drawing a crowd through sheer, manic charisma. He  believes himself to be a polyglot, possessing a mastery of European languages that is, in reality, just the same frantic gibberish delivered with varying accents. His speech and actions are so lightning-fast and structurally hilarious that audiences are frequently left rolling in the aisles, despite the fact that nobody—including his own crew—has understood a single word he has said in over a decade. Also a practitioner of culinary dark arts,  James has turned "raw fish" and "lumpy porridge" into legendary Growler nightmares, proving that while he can make a card disappear, he can make an entire crew’s appetite vanish even faster.

A man who views the world through a high-definition lens and a jeweller’s hammer. As the crew’s Logistics Master, he ensures every boat finds a berth and every crew member settles their dues. He views the ship’s galley not as a place for dining, but as a raw materials warehouse, frequently "liberating" common teaspoons only to transform them into pieces of boutique jewellery. Having recently taken up the guitar, he plays with the intensity of a man wrestling a grizzly bear; and while his technical proficiency is still frantically giving chase to his aspirations, it doesn't stop him from commanding centre stage. As the group’s self-appointed cinematographer, he documents every voyage —though his "signature move" of thrusting his tongue at the lens ensures that every promotional photo he touches is perfectly sabotaged. Most enigmatic, however, is his misty-eyed reverence for seals, treating the local pinnipeds with a tender devotion usually reserved for a long-lost relative.

​The crew’s resident elder statesman. he possesses a youthful face that hasn't seen a wrinkle since the mid-nineties—a miracle of genetics or perhaps a very specific deal with a sea-witch.  He is the band’s ultimate secret weapon for audience engagement; a whirling dervish on the dance floor whose moves are infectious enough to drag even the most stubborn wallflower into the fray. Easily identified by the permanent cloud of premium cigar smoke that serves as his personal lighthouse, he is the only man who can make a Cuban look like an essential piece of safety equipment.​​​​​​

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The crew’s resident "Spiritual Encryptor" and digital arsonist. Doc is a relentless contributor to the WhatsApp group, delivering a steady stream of jokes that either leave the brotherhood in stitches or questioning their life choices. When he isn't laughing, he’s in professional mode: as a master of Cryptology, he’s the only one capable of decoding the secret languages of the Growlerverse (and perhaps the only one who truly understands Magic James). However, his most vital role is as the "Confessor to the Crew." He is frequently spotted in quiet corners of the deck or pub, hearing the dark, booze-fueled transgressions of the brotherhood and providing the kind of solace that only a man who knows all your passwords can offer.

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The crew’s resident "Goat" and a former civil servant who has traded the boardroom for the bow. True to his name, he is the wild spirit of the session, known for rousing vocal renditions—often in Irish—that are so infectious they can turn a room of bewildered strangers into a roaring choir. When it comes to sailing, he is possessed by a primal madness for speed, though he remains blissfully unburdened by the basic laws of physics. He views a sailboat like a bureaucratic department: he issues a command, and is genuinely offended when the wind refuses to follow protocol. He is frequently spotted at the helm, staring in hurt silence at the sails, wondering why the boat hasn't acknowledged his latest directive. Despite his ongoing feud with aerodynamics, his energy is the high-octane fuel that keeps the Growlerverse in full voice.

The crew’s resident Architect and a man of terrifyingly high structural integrity. . His stamina is the stuff of Growlerverse legend; he possesses the internal bracing of a skyscraper, remaining upright and vocal at the session long after the tides have turned and the sun has reappeared. Currently serving as the group’s most diligent apprentice, he harbours a burning ambition to become a Skipper. He can be found trailing the more experienced sailors with a nautical chart, absorbing the mysteries of the sea from anyone willing to explain a cleat hitch for the fourteenth time. He won't be satisfied until he’s drawing the lines — on blueprints and water but never ever on the session. Often found in the company of “the jackal” at sun up, wondering why the bloody crew are interrupting their night cap.

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The Alchemist is the crew’s resident dispenser of both pharmaceutical relief and brutal, unfiltered honesty. He operates under a strict code of professional clinical standards: he does not suffer fools, and he certainly doesn't have a prescription for your "navigational incompetence." If you approach him with a minor ailment or a majorly stupid question, expect a response that is 10% medicine and 90% blistering sarcasm. Despite his vital role as the purveyor of Vitamin Sea and hangover cures, his attendance record is a source of constant crew debate. He famously misses exactly as many voyages as he attends, primarily because he refuses to acknowledge any maritime priority that conflicts with his true religious pilgrimage: The Electric Picnic.

The biological brother of Magic James, Dermot is the crew’s second pharmacist and its primary source of "Nautical Envy." While James conjures magic from thin air, Dermot conjures high-end hardware from the back of his van. He possesses every marine toy known to man: SUP boards, monowheels, surfboards, and even a powered foil bodyboard that makes him look like a Bond villain commuting to work.. However, once the session begins, a different kind of magic occurs. Dermot is possessed by a fierce desire to contribute to the rhythm, usually armed with a tambourine or a determined set of tapping fingers. Unfortunately, while his pharmacy skills are precise, his sense of timing is "experimental" at best. He plays to a beat that exists in a different dimension. He remains the only man capable of turning a simple 4/4 beat into a complex, polyrhythmic jazz odyssey, much to the affectionate bewilderment of the band.

A man who is significantly more surfer than sailor, Matt is the crew’s most flexible asset, reminding everyone to breathe. He treats the Atlantic less like a navigational challenge and more like a giant, liquid yoga studio.. His flexibility is a source of both awe and deep suspicion among the brotherhood; he is the only man alive who can navigate a cramped four-berth cabin by folding himself into a suitcase to save space. Affectionately (and relentlessly) dubbed "Yoga Matt" by the crew, he brings a much-needed Zen to the chaos of the Growlerverse. A true surfer at heart, he views every swell as a potential ride rather than a tactical obstacle, often contemplating his "inner peace" while the boat is leaning at a 45-degree angle.

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Butch is the crew’s resident enigma, a man who treats the concept of a "confirmed itinerary" as a loose suggestion at best. Whether Butch will actually appear on the pier is a mystery that even The Professor's precision instruments can’t solve. When he does materialise, he rarely arrives alone. Butch has a supernatural talent for showing up with a "plus one" who is a total stranger to the rest of the crew—usually introduced with a casual nod as if they’ve all been best friends for twenty years.  He is most dangerous when paired with Magic James; the two of them are "thick as thieves" and prone to wandering off into the local landscape at a moment's notice. For this duo, time is a purely theoretical concept, and a "five-minute walk" can easily turn into a six-hour vanishing act, leaving the rest of the crew checking the horizon for their return.