St Kilda, and the GOAT.

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  From Findlay’s window

We stood on the bow of the Elizabeth G, as she slowed into the serenity of Village Bay. This felt more like a homecoming than an arrival. The nine-hour torturous crossing from Barra across the relentless Minch was now behind us; spent mostly in my cabin fighting sea sickness and a real fear of our ship being torn in two by the sea, such was the swell. We had been delivered safely; relief palpable as the cloud began to lift over the slopes of Oieseval. I drank in this evening view. The culmination of a thirty-year fascination with this group of islands was at hand. As the boat slowed, as if in reverence, the others readied busily for their first dive. I settled down with a Balvenie and my thoughts. Like painted watchmen, the puffins on the Dun cliffs returned my gaze. Realisation dawned that I was here because of Ewan, and Valentino Rossi.

I met Ewan through work; a site visit around three years previously. I nodded at a picture of Rossi behind his desk, he asked if I was a fan. “I named my son after him” I replied. He smiled that broad, now so familiar smile.

It transpired over the months following, that he had worked on St Kilda. I told him of my obsession. He called one day, a place aboard a diving charter he was on had become available. “I lied that you were a sound bloke, they’re cool for you to join us”. I jumped at the chance. And here I was, privileged, the only non-diver aboard.

Their first dive complete, we drank and ate well, and I wished for the morning to come when I could finally set foot on St Kilda.

As usual we both woke early, fortunate that we were cabin buddies. Ewan and I shared a coffee and chat on deck before the others rose. When they finally surfaced, we lowered my kayak into the water, I wished them luck with their dives and waved them cheerio. I paddled gently towards the beach, the sun on a cloudless sky kissing my neck and hands as the realised excitement coursed through me. The kayak speared the soft beach gently, I tore off the spray deck and I stepped for the first time onto Hirta. I panned around this familiar crescent, the wash of lush green hillside, sweeping shoreline and rising rockface; once merely studied pictures, now a reality.

Over the next few days, I would explore every walkable inch of this island. A rigid daily itinerary emerged: launch kayak in the morning, paddle ashore, explore the island in blissful solitude, return to Village Bay, watch for the Elizabeth G returning, paddle out to meet her. Food, drink, enjoyment and much sharing of stories.

In those days, I consumed all the sights and sounds I had pored over for many years. I tasted the salt air from the sea cliffs and stone cleits which sheltered the fulmar catch. The blast of North Atlantic wind which scoured the cliffs filled my fleece as I climbed the Mistress Stone. I engaged the protective male Skuas who, when alerted by the female of my proximity, would swoop down and strike at my head until I scurried clear of their territory. I lazed on the soft slopes of Conachair, dangled feet over the gaping chasm below the Lovers Stone, felt the warm sun tighten my face as the silence, but for the breeze and caw of the fulmars, brought its meditative solace. I could hear in my head the voices and songs of Ann Gillies and the other women singing together at the sharing of the fulmars, plucked by the men from the cliffs overlooking Boreray.

I entered each of the old houses, now roofless and decaying. A roof slate sat in each fireplace, painted on it was the name of the last inhabitant before the evacuation in 1930. I stood in old Findlay’s front room and looked out the frameless window at Village Bay, imagining how this view moulded the boy and the man during his seventy-four years, and how it looked on that fateful day when he would leave his home never to return.

The trip ended too soon, and we left for home. A flat sea ushered a gentle return as if to reward the perseverance of our outbound struggle. A shoal of dolphins rode our bow, shepherding and welcoming us homeward past the shadow of the Black Cuillin on Skye, back to a more familiar setting. I thought of the evacuee’s journey, their culture abandoned.

On deck, Ewan and I toasted them. “Tae journeys, wi’ good friends”.

Three years have passed. I am on the other side of the world. We have our boarding passes. The departure gate announces that the Melbourne flight from Queenstown will be boarding shortly.

I flick through Facebook posts on my phone. The world around me stops.

“….. tragically Ewan Smith died today in a motorbike accident…”.

I look at Arlene. “Ewan is dead” I say, not quite hearing my own words as my head spins.

I flick through my texts. His last one to me. Only a week ago. Inviting me on a biking trip with him and his boys. I apologised, “…. we’re going to see Ceri in Australia, otherwise I would have loved it.”

“Enjoy Oz” he replied, “there will always be another day!”.