On The Way To St Kilda
Book Extract
Molio was coming off the big seas awkwardly and being blown hard over in the gusts. What I needed was another hand to take the helm. The easy option would be to turn and run before the sea to the Monarchs, a group of islands some 30 nautical miles to the southeast. Martin Martin had tried that when his boat hit a storm on the way to St Kilda in 1697. They hadn’t managed it but I had a more favourable wind. I reset the self-steering vane and went below to get the chart. I was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of water above the floorboards. That was when I first felt fear. I had left the bilge pump switched on so we must be taking on water at one hell of a rate.
I could feel my control slipping away. A gust screamed overhead, laying Molio flat and throwing me against the galley. I stared at the swirling liquid as if hypnotised. I had read somewhere that Hebridean sailors believe the sea will always carry their body home. Where was home? East coast, west coast? I didn’t know. I didn’t know where my home was. I stared at this void, conscious that the ropes anchoring my life were beginning to part. I picked up the sodden chart from the water and laid it on the bunk. Here was rationality. There were the Monach Islands and before them the rocks to avoid. The recommended anchorage offered shelter from the prevailing wind but if it backed to the west, as forecast, it would be untenable. Alternatives? I traced down the west coast of North Uist, Benbecula and South Uist. Nothing. The only possibility was Vatersay Sound at the south end of Barra, but the entrance was full of rocks. I had a vague memory of a sailing ship being wrecked off the island. So the Monachs then.
Another gust shrieked by pushing Molio back on her side. I felt my anger rise. Turning to run meant giving up on the edge of success. Heading back now meant letting go of it all. This was my only chance. I needed to get control of my boat. I waded back to the galley, grabbed the jar of Mars bars and wedged myself at the top of the companionway ladder. I devoured one and pushed another into a sodden pocket. I sat there for a minute, leaning against Molio, feeling her strength.
The thought of going back along the deck, where wind and waves were conspiring to hurl me into the sea, was not pleasant. If I slipped, or let go at the wrong moment, the forces up there were enough to rip man from boat. I pushed the thought away, tied two cords round my waist, braced myself and went out into the cockpit.
I worked my way along the lurching deck to the front of the mast. As I did I noticed a fulmar, his wing dipping in a trough as he flew close alongside Molio, smooth and serene, his dark eye watching. His mastery of the elements and that steady watchful eye calmed me. I dropped the mainsail and secured the halyard. Molio was already beginning to slide off the wind. I worked quickly round the mast and along the boom. The mainsail suddenly collapsed and as it did, I got the cords round it and pulled it in tight. The sail was tamed. It now became a simple matter to fasten down the leech end, and tie down the reefs along the boom. As I worked, the fulmar glided in close again. It was so graceful in the storm. In the days of sail, fishermen believed that they came back in the next life as gulls. Sailors, I think, would come back as fulmars so as to keep an eye on their brethren at sea.
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A Wild Call is written by Martyn Murray. Martyn worked in nature conservation, living for many years in the wilds of Africa. He sailed with his father in the Western Isles in his youth. He has also written The Storm Leopard and a bite-sized adaption of Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species.