by Anne Cholawo
Next day we set off in plenty of time. It had snowed a little overnight, but the sky was clear and blue. Jill had not been feeling very well and about halfway to the harbour she told me that she did not think she was up to the trip. She was always so game that I often forgot there was a twenty-year age gap between us. The sun was shining, but the wind was cold and a late November trip in an open boat is not the best thing if you are not feeling good. Jill went home and I took the Heron over the harbour bar on my own.
I had not travelled far from the harbour mouth when from out of nowhere came a fierce snow blizzard. It swept down across Soay sound, obliterating everything. In an instant my situation changed from chugging along in fine sunny weather with the landscape sharp and distinct all around me, to a complete whiteout. I could see only a few yards in front of me. Sea, sky and land dissolved into white-grey nothingness. I fumbled for my grubby piece of paper and alarm clock. I knew from my calculations of the compass bearings and the Heron’s average speed, that it was approximately due east for ten minutes from the harbour mouth until the end of Soay sound and then a slight change in course, approximately east-southeast for Elgol. It would then take the Heron perhaps thirty minutes to reach Elgol jetty.
I guessed that I had been about five minutes out of the harbour before the snow started, so I altered my timing to five minutes before changing course to east-southeast. Then I kept a close eye on the time by propping up my alarm clock next to the Heron’s compass. The blizzard did not let up. For that whole trip I had no visible point of reference. Sometimes it felt as if the boat was not moving at all and the only way to judge the Heron’s progress was by looking over the stern at her wake. It disappeared into the grey, swirling snow after just a few yards, but at least the wake proved that she was moving forward. The alarm clock showed me that I had been travelling for about twenty-five minutes, so I gradually slowed the boat. If I was correct, I should be seeing some sign of land soon, but there was still nothing but white, swirling snow. Just as I was beginning to think my careful calculations had been a waste of time, I saw a grey, blurry oblong shape a few yards ahead. As I drew closer I realised I was looking at the stern of a fishing boat. I then saw that she was lying alongside the jetty. By some miracle I had come in exactly on course.
As I came alongside, two figures were standing waiting to take the Heron’s mooring ropes. It was a local Elgol fisherman, Alistair, and Tex. A few minutes later I was inside the wheelhouse of Alistair’s fishing boat, all three of us downing a good stiff dram to warm us. Tex had been very worried when the blizzard came down so thickly, knowing full well that I was already on my way to fetch him. Luckily, Alistair happened to be at the jetty and they had been keeping track on the Heron, watching her progress on his boat’s radar screen. It was very comforting to know that I had been monitored throughout my voyage.
Less than ten minutes after I arrived at Elgol, the blizzard stopped. Tex and I steamed back to Soay in blazing sunshine all the way.
* * *
Jill had always been keen on crafts. She was an accomplished seamstress, embroidered beautifully and was also a skilled knitter. She could spin her own wool too, and kept a spinning wheel by the stove in her sitting room. Then she became interested in willow weaving and started going to basket-making courses on the mainland. She churned out an astonishing array of basketwork and as large bolts of willow were not cheap or easy to get to Soay, Jill decided to grow her own. She bought several varieties of willow and planted them in her garden.
Coincidentally, DJ began basket making around the same time. In summer months, Leac Mhor and Glenfield House became a hive of industry and the conversation was mostly about weaving. They urged me to have a go too, but I simply did not have the time. However, it was very pleasing to watch the baskets grow and take shape. They smelled deliciously green and sweet. Early one spring there was a basket-making course on the Isle of Muck that Jill was keen to do. We agreed her quickest journey would be to go direct from Soay in the Heron and I decided that if stayed on Muck I could use the week to scrape and anti-foul the Heron while Jill was on the course.
By sea, Muck is around twenty miles from Soay and for us, as amateurs, this would be a long journey in the Heron. I looked at my superannuated sea charts and noted hazardous reefs along Muck’s coastline that would need close attention. Local knowledge is the best source of information, so I telephoned Jenny MacEwen to ask how to come into Port harbour safely by boat. I carefully wrote down her instructions. I must line up a particular pine tree with a particular house, which should take us safely through the deepest part of the channel and into the harbour.
When I visited Muck a few years earlier I had no idea how much knowledge and skill were required to bring a large boat safely through the reefs scattered around the island. I’d seen rocks and half-submerged reefs with rolling swells tumbling across them as we steamed into Port, but it had meant nothing to me. I was just another passenger.
It was the first day of May when Jill and I set off in the Heron. The weather had been bright, dry and blustery for several weeks and our faces and hands were already dark red-brown. I telephoned Jenny as we left so she knew we were on our way and we steamed out through the deep, slow swell that often seems to surround the Small Isles. My estimate of how long the journey would take was a little optimistic as I decided at the last minute not to go between Rum and Eigg, which would have been the quickest route. I had heard there were treacherous shallows and submerged rocks between the two islands. Not having sonar, radar, a plotter, or any idea where this hazardous area was, I thought it would be better to go round the southeast side of Eigg. It seemed a long time before we came to the northernmost tip of Eigg and motored along its coastline, passing the old jetty and the knife-edged Sgurr. It was reassuring to see the lifeboat and coastguard were on exercise in the area.
Thankfully nothing went wrong and we were soon approaching Muck. My instructions had been not to turn toward the island until the pine tree and house were directly in line, and once I had turned the Heron’s prow toward the harbour mouth I made sure not to deviate from the markers. Even so, it was nerve wracking. It was half tide and we saw reefs on either side appearing and disappearing beneath dark-green water, looking uncomfortably close. Jill climbed to the nose of the boat and kept lookout, making sure we didn’t find ourselves piling up on some unseen rock. It felt sinister and unsettling from our relatively low position in the Heron.
Next morning saw the start of the basket course and a good spring tide. I went back down to Port to take advantage of it by beaching the Heron for her annual bottom cleaning. Compared to Soay, beaching the Heron on the sand in Muck’s main harbour was a real pleasure. Once I had found a means of tying her off securely, she sat there quite happily, rising and falling with the tide.
On our way home, Jill and I thought it would be fun to take DJ and her friend, who had come over from Eigg to do the same basket course as Jill, back to Eigg in the Heron, instead of them having to wait another day for the ferry. A motley crew of women and dogs were stowed away in the Heron and we navigated carefully out of Muck harbour. We then headed for the west side of Eigg where the holiday cottage they were staying in was situated, facing Muck and Rum.
We saw the bothy fairly soon, high up on the cliff. I took the Heron in as close to the shoreline as I dared and Jill rowed DJ, her friend, dogs and all their supplies to the nearest beach. I watched as they disembarked and unloaded dogs, luggage and supplies. Soon, Jill was rowing back toward the Heron but she was barely aboard when we heard shrill whistling and shouting from our ex-passengers and saw them waving frantically. Jill got back in the dinghy. When she arrived on shore I heard a lot of laughing, yapping and barking, and everyone and everything went back into the dinghy which set off and slowly disappeared around a hump in the land. When Jill finally returned she confessed she had offloaded everybody onto a little island some way from the beach and the party was nearly marooned. From the Heron, the island looked as if were part o
f the main beach.
We made the journey without mishap – though this time I took the risk of motoring between Rum and Eigg, keeping close to Eigg as I had been told that the hazard was nearest to Rum. However, just past Eigg and Rum snow began to fall in slow, big fat flakes. We got the tarpaulin out and took shelter. The most comfortable passengers were Tork and Kelpie, curled up asleep beneath the canvas and looking very warm and comfortable – I was much colder steering home with the tiller.
* * *
One last anecdote concerning the heroic Heron before we move on. It begins with Tex and Petros. Since Tex had given up fishing, Petros spent long periods of time lying on her mooring in the harbour. Boats deteriorate very quickly when not in use and Petros was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. The wheelhouse roof was rotting and leaked when it was raining. Tex made an emergency cover out of tarpaulin, but water still found its way into the cabin. The damp began to affect the electrics and the engine’s starter-motor. It became a matter of hope whether the engine would start. Very often Tex had to hit the old-fashioned starter-motor with a hammer. It sometimes needed two people to get Petros going; one down in the engine room dealing with the starter-motor and another up in the wheelhouse, ready to push the red start button at the right time. I was happy to help, but it also took some time to get Tex going and half the day might be gone before we got down to Petros and coaxed her into life.
Tex would need a cup of tea first and then a quiet smoke on his pipe. The pipe had to be cleaned and refilled and it always took several matches to get it going. Since Jeanne’s passing, Tex never had any matches on his person or around the house and I got into the habit of bringing a box with me to try to speed up his smoking ritual. Otherwise, precious minutes would be wasted while he looked around for alternative ways of lighting his pipe. One particular summer, I seemed to be Tex’s only source of matches.
At around this time, Tex had obtained a second-hand, fibreglass dinghy which he was repairing with the intention of using it as his new tender for Petros. His old Avon inflatable was finally beyond repair and the fibreglass boat, though a little heavier, was light enough to be launched by one person. Tex spent a lot of time working on the dinghy’s oars, removing the old flaky varnish, then sanding them down and coating them with layers of new varnish until they glowed with the rich lustre of honey-coloured gold.
It was nearly the end of September and there had been an unusual spell of good weather. The equinox gales, which usually begin in September, had not arrived yet. Making the most of the good spell, Tex had taken Petros to Elgol to pick up hay for his ponies. At first she refused to start and he flattened the battery in trying. She was moored in the harbour at the time and, luckily, so was the Heron and Peter just happened to be on board. Together, they managed to jump-start Petros from the Heron’s battery. Tex collected his hay and after offloading it left Petros on her mooring in the bay, in front of Soay House. The following morning – after Peter had returned to the mainland – I was listening to the shipping forecast and heard with surprise that a severe southwesterly gale-force nine was due for our area very soon. We would have to get the Heron around to the harbour for safety right away or we would miss the tide. I pulled on my waterproofs and hurried to tell Jill. Her response was gloomy.
‘I saw Tex yesterday,’ she said. ‘He would like us to wait until he has tried to start Petros, in case she needs jump-starting again.’
We had very little time to waste, so I hurried down to Soay House to get Tex moving. Tex, of course, was in no hurry at all. A cup of tea (made by me) was the first order of the day. I was hopping up and down while he luxuriously lit his pipe (with my matches). Finally, we were out of the house and he proudly took out his glistening pair of oars from his new storage shed: the old telephone box. We carried down his beautifully painted dinghy to the sea and, while he made himself comfortable on the aft thwart, I was given the freshly varnished oars to row. We were within reach of Petros, with Tex lying back nonchalantly smoking his pipe, when I began to notice that he was staring at me with mute disapproval. As I pulled faster on the oars his frown darkened.
‘You know, I’ll never let you use those oars again. Look at what you’ve done to my new varnish,’ he pointed at one of the oars with his pipe.
‘Where?’ I couldn’t see anything.
‘There! Can’t you see it?’
‘No I can’t.’
‘That’s what you get when a good pair of oars is handled by a damned amateur.’
‘I didn’t want to row your damned dinghy in the first place!’ I was spluttering with indignation.
‘It’s going to be the last time you ever do, I promise you that!’
‘Good, that suits me fine. Here . . . have your bloody, shiny new oars!’ I thrust them at him.
‘I’ve a good mind to turn this boat right around and take you back to the shore, with that attitude.’
Tex had hold of the oars, but was not using them. The dinghy began to drift off aimlessly with the wind as we stared each other down.
‘OK, you do just that, it’s absolutely fine by me.’ I folded my arms, scowling.
We had reached an impasse. Tex never backed down, even it when it was in his own interest to do so. I had become the monster he had created. In huffy silence we shifted seats, and he turned the boat around puffing smoke like an old steam engine. Back onshore I stamped all the way down the track in a very black mood. I got back to Leac Mhor fairly quickly, but even before I rechecked the tide book, I could tell from the sea level that we had missed the tide. Now both the Heron and Petros were stuck in the bay. Neither of them would get over the bar in the harbour.
It happened by chance to be Jill’s birthday that day, 22 September. The pair of us spent most of it staring out of her kitchen window anxiously watching the Heron as she bounced up and down on her mooring. Morning moved into afternoon and the wind began to increase. The tide had turned and was on the way in again. Wind and high seas had made it impossible for us to take the Heron into the harbour and we just had to hope she would hold out on her mooring. She was only partially protected from the storm where she was and every so often the tumbling seas threw her up in the air and we could see nearly all her undersides as she tugged at her anchor chain. It was now early evening.
The storm was still in full force, but we decided that there was not much more we could do, so I left Jill and went outside to go home. I was about halfway there when something made me turn around to check the Heron again. Even as I looked she went side-on to the wind and began to rapidly move out to sea toward the far side of the bay. Running back to Leac Mhor I met Jill coming out her gate; she had seen the Heron leave her mooring too. Without really knowing what we were going to do, we carried the Avon dinghy down to the shore. Jill hesitated. She wasn’t keen to go out in the rough swell, but I needed her if we were to save the boat, and she was good ballast too. I was still pretty sore at Tex, and so I was very abrupt and rude to Jill, for which I later apologised.
‘Just get in,’ I ordered imperiously, and she did. It wasn’t difficult to row toward the Heron; the wind was taking us that way anyway. All I had to do was keep the dinghy straight with its stern to the wind. Our combined bodies made a fairly good sail and we began to catch up on the Heron.
We were almost there when we saw Oliver rowing hard toward the Heron from his beach. He had seen her drift past his house. The wind had taken the Heron out into deeper water where she began to pick up speed. Luckily, because she still had her anchor, she finally caught and held near to shallow reefs only yards from the opposite shore, saving her from being grounded and probably broken to pieces by the pounding waves. Even so, she was trapped in the long, sweeping breakers and thrashing about wildly. We arrived at the Heron at about the same time as Oliver, and with some difficulty we all got aboard her. We were very lucky Oliver was there. The anchor chain and rope were jammed hard into the fairlead and it was difficult to free them because the boat was tugging so violently. While
Oliver was doing that, I started up the engine ready to pull her into reverse as soon as he had released the mooring. Finally, he managed to get it loose and let go the anchor, and then I reversed the Heron at full power against the breaking rollers. I turned her nose to the sea and we motored out into the bay.
With nowhere to anchor her and the mooring for Golden Isles even more exposed to the wind than the Heron’s, we couldn’t do much more than keep her facing into the wind and wait. Oliver said he thought the wind would swing west at some point and the bay would be more sheltered, which meant the Heron could go onto his mooring until high tide the following morning. We were not wearing waterproofs and it was very cold and wet waiting for the wind to alter direction. However, Oliver was right. About an hour later it shifted and we were able to put the Heron on Golden Isles’ mooring. Safe at last.
All through the storm Petros lay happily at her anchor in the bay. The following morning, Jill and I were on the Heron getting ready to take her into the harbour when I saw Tex, pipe in mouth, rowing slowly out to Petros. A few moments later I heard her start on the first attempt and Petros left for the harbour before us. Tex had been blissfully unaware of the drama of the night before. He had fallen fast asleep in his chair in the kitchen.