The Sea, The Sea

We go to sea in a small boat powered by an outboard motor. She’s strictly functional—two boxed metal seats and a closed bow, where a brave soul can perch if they don’t mind getting soaked. She has anchor points with sturdy ropes, like the kind used on ratchet straps, for lifting her out of the water and onto her trailer.

Oranja, our winter boat, is made of aluminium. She’s a little more skittish on the water than her summer cousin, Reliance, who’s built from reinforced fibreglass. It’s unusually calm for mid-October, so we’ve taken the chance to set the creels for the final time this season. We take a wide arc around the west side of Erraid, into the Iona Sound. The creels are sited where the water is deep but close to land, so care is needed—swiftness and accuracy with the buoy hook are essential. Once the rope is gathered, the hook goes back into the boat and the arduous task of pulling the creel from the seabed begins. It takes about 30 seconds, and the hardest part is hefting the creel over the edge and into the boat.

This time, there’s a surprise waiting for us—a very angry moray eel thrashing about. These creatures can easily bite through a hedging glove and do not let go once they have a good hold. It’s always a bit nervy opening a creel when there are crabs inside, but this is several levels higher on the nervy chart. I tilt it back over the side as far as I dare, unhook the catch, and shake vigorously. Luckily, it slides back into the depths straight away, though the whites of its eyes stay with us for a while longer.

After three more creels, we have a good number of velvet crabs—excellent for making bisque. All the lobsters are too small and go back, though we keep one large brown crab. Out of six creels, we can only find four. They don’t just disappear; someone must have removed them. There’s a local fisherman with a reputation for this sort of thing. He’s taken umbrage at the hobbyist, amateur fishing we’re doing, as it seems to interfere with his professional enterprise. When one Erradian accidentally began pulling up one of his creels, the man happened to be nearby and threatened to kill the poor soul who’d made the mistake.

We venture out into more open water. Two other small vessels are checking creels, one belonging to our tetchy neighbour. We give him a wide berth and turn to head back when we notice an unusual disturbance ahead. Binoculars in hand, I train them on the area and spot a school of about fifteen dolphins. We head straight for them, and after a moment—probably hearing the motor—they head straight for us. Common dolphins, with short beaks and dark blue backs fading to pale white tummies, they swim alongside us, crisscrossing in front of our bow. When they breach, the older ones have nicks in their dorsal fins, while the youngsters are unblemished. They swim so close we can hear them talking to each other in clicks and squeaks. We play together for perhaps fifteen minutes before they head off to investigate a larger boat that likely has by-catch overboard.

Once we’re sure the dolphins have truly left the area, we settle in for a bit of mackerel fishing in hopes of a tasty dinner. It’s the definition of hit-and-miss. Sometimes there’s nothing at all, but this time, within seconds of the line going in, there’s a tug and three wriggling captives are landed. Their shimmering blue-green markings catch the late afternoon sun. We try a couple of different spots and stop when we have ten—enough to share with the rest of the community, to eat fresh or perhaps to smoke.

I’m still new to boating on the high seas and get a tremendous thrill out of it. I’ve always had good sea legs, and I’m beginning to learn the coastlines, the dangerous rocks, and the navigation points that guide you safely around the island. I like being back on land again too! I realise I use a lot of adrenaline at sea—it’s still a foreign, almost alien environment to me.

After Oranja is hoisted high in the air by the marine crane on the pier and settled back into her trailer, we hang up our lifejackets in the boathouse and wander, ever so slightly wobbly, back up to the street. A conversation awaits about what to do with the fresh catch.

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The next day finds me, towel in hand, greeting the chickens on the way to my morning swim. Oranja rests quietly, and the crane—itself like a giant seabird—is at peace. I no longer hesitate; it takes an act of will to get in, but it always sets me up for the day. Today, though, I dally. As I begin to descend the metal steps, I notice a face looking back at me from just beyond where the stairs end: a large-nostrilled fellow with big black eyes and a surprised expression. Whiskers fan out to either side, framing a mouth that seems to ask, Are you sure this is a good idea? Mighty chilly, you know!

Grey seals are having pups now, and some come right into the bay, rolling and chasing each other. I’m sure it wouldn’t have minded me—might even have enjoyed my company—but it was I who shied away, not quite at ease with the idea of swimming alongside such a large beast. I waited a few minutes until it had rejoined its friends on the rocks near Iona before taking my frigid plunge.

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Perhaps tomorrow, the seal and I will share the water—though I doubt it will be impressed by my stroke.