Authors: Iain R. Thomson
Behind the collapsing wave came the respite granted by an ocean which has overreached itself. Disentangling himself, he crawled down a deck stripped of stanchion rails and equipment. The cockpit self draining was emptying, cabin doors undamaged. He toppled down the companionway and lay for a little on the cabin floor. No more water down below. The Valkyrie felt buoyant again. Anderson, wet bedraggled and hurt pulled himself onto a bunk. The boat had saved him and now would save herself. And he slept with the voice of the sea in his ear.
A ship's fog horn wakened him. The wind had dropped and a large fishing boat stood off a cable to starboard. Cupped hands shouted down, did he need help? They too had come through the storm, were bound for the Azores and repairs. Anderson shouted up from the cockpit, “No electrics, no engine, my left arm is smashed.” Two fishermen came aboard and rigged a towing cable. Thirty-six hours later the Valkyrie lay alongside the jetty in the island harbour of Horta; the sun broke through to salute once again the seaman's code of helping a fellow mariner in distress.
Greatly to Anderson's relief, concern for a brave sailor had kept the Azores customs officials from taking more than a passing glance over Valkyrie. A certain container retrieved from his villa in the Caribbean for the time being acted as ballast, and in due course he had a job for it.
Walking up the quay each day Anderson read the names of visiting yachts which their seamen painted over the years on the walls of the harbour; small, famous or otherwise, all recorded by men proud of their ships. “Valkyrie,” he told her, “you're my first true friend.”
Three months and a cracked arm healed, a trim yacht waiting, a souwest breeze and northbound terns skimming the sea, the roving fever in a man's blood returned.
Wind in her main, the Valkyrie dipped her bow towards home.
March sunshine and longer days gave us hot water at the kitchen tap and my first shave by solar power. I’d fitted panels on the roof and a tank in the tiny roof space above the sink gurgled quietly the moment the sun rose over the Hill of the Shroud. Before the arrival of the baby, a bathroom and second bedroom on the east gable in a re-roofed byre, build sheep pens, fence and drain; work a plenty with energy to match. Together we prowled the land with a feeling of possession, though in reality we were no more than squatters staking out a home. Roots of a thousand years meaning nothing in modern law, meant everything to the strength of affinity. Centuries of pressure from the south usurped the old Viking Udal Law. It permitted a settler to enclose the unoccupied land he chose to cultivate without regarding any his superior, no feudal forelock tugging, the stamp of Norse independence. Sandray felt ours by right.
Each day’s work a part of nature’s renewal. Spring air, I’d run to the jetty before breakfast to check the boat, the smell of the tide damp with salt from lines of tangle, bright orange in the keen light. Flocks of waders peopled the shoreline, dunlin or curlew, golden plover, dozens of tiny black legged sanderling running along the tidal froth edge, picking insects. Excited whistling, lisping bird talk, stretching their pinions aloft, a redshank zigzagging away, wing bars white and smart, by mid- morning the tide would covered their feeding, I’d look up from digging to smoke trails on the horizon, their flocks would be hurrying north.
A climbing sun and warmth opened the first daisies, greened a land awaiting skylark song, whatever I put my back too each day there was time to straighten up. Work finished and supper waiting, on the hush of evening a drumming sound would resonate, sheep- like bleat floating from the hill pastures, an eerie wavering at great distance. I’d look up and spot a tiny dot of birdlife diving towards the ground, the snipe were back to their haunts of nest and chick. I’d call to Eilidh and we’d stand at the door listening and happy.
Even with the first signs of her tummy expanding, Eiildh helped me to spread seaweed on the ‘lazybeds’. “I need plenty exercise,” she insisted, having already decided that the baby should be born on Sandray. Excited by just turning the soil, we worked side by side, luxury days which gathered their freshness from the sea. Eilidh had never appeared so bonnie, her clear skin shone tanned and rosy. Unhurried weeks of achievement, we slept the tiredness of simple, healthy work. Each night as I hugged her goodnight, out of the silence still the whistling birdlife hurried to their nesting lands in the north. Other creatures had home making plans, and we felt a part of their plans.
Already the empty ground which surrounded the house was taking on the feel of a croft. Even the pastures, unploughed in a hundred years began to grow the sweet early grass. It needed lambing ewes. We made the decision to bring sheep across to Sandray. The island would be re-stocked, I’d rebuild the fallen stone sheep pens, and Eilidh on a trip to Halasay would speak to her brother. Alone that day of March I worked hard, enjoying the prospects of becoming a shepherd. March blow warm, blow cold, the wind, round to the east, had a searching chill. Any sounds apart from those natural to the island were exceptional. It took me a second to realise I was hearing the throbbing of a heavy engine.
Looking up sharply from the digging I saw what appeared by its size to be an Army helicopter landing on the high ground above the raven cliffs. The birds were circling, obviously alarmed; I could tell from their rapid wing beats. Our raven, as we considered them to be, were very much part of island life. Some weeks previous, I’d shuffled to the edge of the cliff and spied down on their huge nest of heather stalks and seaweed; the site had been in use for centuries. Two young chicks with spiky feathers lay tight together for warmth; lucky parents, hardy birds.
A helicopter on our island, the intrusion infuriated me. Throwing down the spade in rage I set off climbing the hill. Ten minutes from the summit, I could hear the racket of engine and flailing blades starting up. Damn it, I hurried. Moments later the contraption roared out to sea, heading east. Whoever it was, I’d missed finding out. I reached the flat top. Wheel marks on the thin turf. What in the world could they be up to? Some damn fool army exercise? I walked about, puzzled, until over on a large flag of bare rock, I spotted a heap of dust. Smoothing it exposed a small bore hole, only an inch in diameter but deep. Testing the rock? Possible reasons flashed through my mind. The ravens circled in great agitation, flapping and cawing. I left straight away, very uneasy, indeed very worried.
Sighting Eilidh’s boat turning the headland down the slope I ran, arriving breathless to catch the rope as she came skilfully alongside the jetty. Mischievous eyes warned me, another surprise? She reached for a large cardboard box from under the thwart and passed it up. I put the box down to help her ashore, “Open it, open it.” Baler twine indicated a croft was involved. I undid the knot and lifted the lid. Two big round puppy’s eyes looked out at me. “Eilidh, you rascal girl, now we have to start a flock of sheep,” adding, “as well as a family,” and I hugged her, not too hard, the baby bump was beginning to show.
“It’s a bitch pup, Iain kept it for us, his good breeding bitch had eight, this is the pick of the litter. He said if ever we get married it’ll save him a wedding present.” The wee black and white thing made a little whine and licked my finger, “What a beauty, has she got a name?” Eilidh had given it thought, “I heard them say the last collie on Sandray belonged to Eachan’s father, she was Muille, it’s a pet name in the Gaelic.” “Muille,” I said her name as I lifted her out of the box and put her down on the jetty. She sniffed my boots and wagged a tail no longer than my finger, and Muille she became at once, a wee pet.
The helicopter intrusion remained very much a concern but reluctant to cast a shadow over the arrival of an apprentice sheep dog, I said nothing and we laughed our way up to the house, Eilidh with the puppy in her arms, me carrying boxes of food. Later that evening, Muille, having explored the house slept on Eilidh’s lap, I described the incident and gently mentioned my fear. “Drilling the rock, testing its soundness, for what?” I hadn’t dared to tempt the fates by mentioning my true concern, but I sensed she herself had the same dread. “I knew something had happened Hector, something to do with the island was troubling you.” The colour left her cheeks, a sadness I hadn’t seen before filled expressive eyes. I cursed myself for causing her worry, at the same time startled again by the ability of our emotions to behave in empathy.
After supper she began to talk quietly, the helicopter visit clearly behind her thinking. “I sometimes wonder, Hector if we are being selfish in cutting ourselves off from an outside world that’s heading for turmoil and may need our help in some way. We’re abandoning your expertise in nuclear physics and my work on models of climate change. Somebody else my have read my paper to the International Conference, it’s set to fail anyway in getting a legally binding agreement on carbon reductions but I feel guilty letting them down.” She stroked the puppy, “I wonder, are we being defeatist by hiding here on Sandray?”
The chill of Eilidh’s misgivings struck home. I fought off qualms of uncertainty. No longer the island crofter, she began to speak as the eminent scientist I knew her to be, “Even if the politicians can reach an international agreement which is practical, and more difficult, one which suits the finance markets, then the species is embarking on its most critical experiment so far. By attempting to regulate the amount of atmospheric CO2, the hope is to stabilise global temperature at an ambient level which suits western society’s current behaviour patterns.”
The scorn in her voice grew, “Major modifications to western lifestyles are required, will be forced on us before too long, and tomorrow isn’t too soon. Less air travel is certainly one aspect, ordinary folk won’t be able to afford to jet off to the sun anyway. Sadly we’re too stupid to prioritise, we imagine that temperature control alone will enable us to continue with our consumer affluence. That’s a myth, our profligate living is oblivious to the finite resource base on which it depends” I enjoyed scope of her views.
How like Eachan she sounded, I watched her bonnie face flush with passion, “In spite of CO2 level rising steeply, there’s plenty of vested interests who whip up sceptics through the media, dismiss the data as scaremongering, scientists fiddling the figures to up their research grants. Of course the temperature rise is due to naturally occurring solar trends but for human activity to be adding to this increase is highly dangerous.”
Darkness had fallen as she spoke, “We can’t easily destroy the basic fabric of the planet, it will spin on regardless of the excesses of the American Dream, many microbes will survive no matter what we do, but for us humans to survive then depending on diceing with the atmosphere really is a shot in the dark. There are too many variables over which we will never gain control, the crucial role of volcanic activity in affecting the climate is one and the stability of the earth’s crust is certainly beyond our control. Already some of our operations in that area are liable to trigger activities which will be hard to plug once they take off.
Her tone became decidedly emphatic, “Make no mistake, this will be a bold attempt at global temperature manipulation, climate control if you like; what’s still to dawn on politicians and even on some environmental specialists, is that we are endeavouring to manage our planet’s climate, insulate it from the impact of solar emissions, sunspot cycles or the planets long scale elliptical orbit, wrest power from the major phenomena ruling the entire solar system.”
I stroked her hair and though she smiled, a tear glistened in the lamplight, “An arbitrary cut in consumer lifestyles applied on a socially fair basis is unlikely to happen. The wealthy will survive the longest, the poor will go to the wall. Only a survival attitude based on altruistic behaviour has any hope of saving us. Greed is gobbling the planet.” Her final words were the measure of her true sympathies; they lay with the approaching plight of the poor she’d witnessed struggling to survive on the flood plains of a river delta, those fighting the encroaching deserts, those who will go to the wall, as she’d put it.
For me one futile attempt at influencing myopic politicians had been convincing enough. In planning actions to combat a macro-environmental threat, they were neither free nor capable of making rational judgements. Eilidh was right, their masters, the major international financiers, thinking themselves safe in their counting houses, stay well out of reach of reason. Six billion people and rising to nine. How few people control the planet’s destiny. The smaller the number, the greater the menace of megalomania, the greater the danger of destruction. We sat quietly. My admiration of Eilidh’s views and values grew to new concepts. Her zeal for the cause of common humanity was infectious. I took her hand and sat thinking.
The puppy wakened, I took her outside for a snuffle and stood awhile watching the changing shape of the clouds. Sometimes a passage opened amidst their beautiful roundness, tunnels into the sanctuary of an outer space which looks back in time. That night they changed imperceptibly, drifting one into another, layered as undulations in radiation merge time into motion. The splendour of their differing shades, cold white cushions hiding the moon slowly became the blue, black masses resting on an incurious sea.
For a moment my belief in a life on Sandray had wavered. I knew the clouds as paramount to our climate’s stability, a safeguard against the sun’s rapacious energy; now I saw them differently, no longer a vital scientific fact, for as the oceans grow into clouds of seemingly aimless beauty so they restored my faith in simplicity.
Whimpering noises at my feet aroused me. I lifted Muille and went inside. Tip-toeing into the bedroom I slipped her under the blankets.
Tired of waiting for me, Eilidh lay sound asleep,
I too snuggled in beside her warmth.
The message came via Eilidh's visit that Eachan would have five sacks of seed potatoes ready for me to collect. I'd dug close to an acre of ground for our âLazybeds'. The soil would be warmed by the decaying seaweed heaped beneath their long lines, planting the âtatties' would be the next operation on the road to self sufficiency and my hands had calluses any man worth calling himself a man would be proud to own.