I wake to the sound of a foghorn low and mournful. Sure enough there is a sea mist and the sun a smudge behind it. We leave before 9 heading south to cut through the bottom of the Outer Hebrides passing close to Pabaigh then heading roughly North West to St Kilda. There is no wind again so we motor. It is 70 miles approximately and should take 12 hours.
I take the helm on a course of 290 degrees avoiding lobster pots indicated by two buoys. By 10.30 we’re into the Atlantic proper surrounded by grey sea and mist indistinguishable from each other.
The sea is so smooth it could be a grey vapour stretching into the mist. Many jellyfish with long tentacles and pulsating pale heads float past. Lions mane jellyfish – owing to the orange ‘feathers’ that come out of their heads with tentacles that can be 6/7 feet long. Penny tells how her son got stung by one recently ‘it looked like a burn from a poker and blistered and became raw like a burn does.’
The only sounds are the thrumming of the engine at the back, the slosh of the water coming off the bow, the creak of cleats and muttered conversations from people in small groups around the deck.
There is a sense of calm.
I am in watch in the bow when suddenly a shout from the stern: ‘Whale!’
The engine is cut and we stop in the flat calm. Everything is silent and still. There is a holding in of breath. About 100 metres off our starboard bow a glossy grey back slowly breaks the surface with its dorsal fin. Its back appears. As it arches out of the water I guess its length 20, 30, 40 feet long. It slips away as smoothly as it appeared. We can see its white patch slowly coming back across our bow, turquoise blue in the water and then swim astern. It breaks the surface once more and is gone. Minke.
Nikki: ‘That’s as good a sighting as you’ll get. The best thing to do when seeing a whale is to switch the engine off and wait. Often they want to come and see who you are.’
Just before 2.30 we have another pod of dolphins at the bow. We cross into the shipping lane and the skipper tells us to keep eyes peeled for big container ships.
We plough on motor running and the fog descends again. Sometimes we can see a mile or more. At others it’s only a few hundred metres.
There is a sense of expectancy. It’s cold and we’ve been at sea the whole day. Evening is upon us.
At first St Kilda I mistake for another layer of mist. It’s a slightly darker shade of grey. We’ve been looking at grey all day. It’s the first time I’ve seen the horizon for hours and suddenly I can see a raggedy line meet the line of the sea.
Then off the starboard two vertical sides of rock rise up and then are quickly enveloped in cloud. It’s sublime in the traditional sense: terrifying and beautiful. I’m all of a sudden wondering why I’m here in this desolate, lonely place. I can’t keep my eyes off it what I can see of it. Steep slopes, moraine, rocks. The only sign of human presence is some small enclosed spaces surrounded by dry stone walls and the little low buildings that they lived in and one cleit.
I feel like Chris Klein in Solaris. This place seems to exert a huge unknown force on me. I feel scared and powerless like I’m being drawn into a whirlpool and am unable to stop myself.
The Slow Walker 