Squid Fishing in the Hebrides
Sailing is often about crossing the gulf between expectation and reality. When my wife Nicky and I arrived in Oban for a ten-day Northern Lights adventure aboard Tonic, Elite Sailing’s 46' Bavaria, we expected to spend the night in the marina before setting out early the following morning for Tobermory.
We hoped that the trip to Tobermory would take the scenic route around Mull, via Fingal’s Cave. We looked forward to sailing north past Muck and Rhum, negotiating the tidal race of Kyle Rhea before anchoring below the Cuillins off Portree.
Days of sailing off Scotland’s sheltered west coast would prepare us for Cape Wrath and the uncertain North Atlantic where the adventure sailing would really begin, as we headed further north to Fair Isle and beyond, to Shetland.
Reality was somewhat different.
We stepped off the train in Oban to find Tonic tied up alongside, only fifty meters from the railway station. The tide was out, leaving only the top of the mast protruding above the quay. The crew were waiting for us and passed up a line for us to lower our bags. With the luggage safely on board, we carefully descended a rusty and slimy ladder to the distant deck. Before we had time to digest the introductions, Tonic slipped the lines for Tobermory.
She slid out of Oban Bay with the sail cover on, propelled by the diesel, making her own wind. We passed between Lady’s Rock and the Lismore Light with barely a ripple and headed up the Sound of Mull at a steady five knots, which sneaked up to seven on the flood. Halfway up the sound, we passed Mhor Mischief, the only other yacht we were to see on the water during ten days of sailing.
We tied up alongside at Tobermory marina before strolling off to The Fisherman’s Pier, arriving just in time to feast on the last of their battered scallops. With our stomachs sufficiently lined, we were ready for some serious bonding in the nearby Mishnish Pub.
In the voyage from expectation, sailing is often the least of the challenges. Much more of a challenge is the difficulty of interpersonal relationships. The confines of a yacht can be a pressure cooker. Throw into the pot some strangers, with a soupçon of national diversity, and you have the recipe for a soap opera.
Fortunately, Tonic’s crew were easy-going and we all got along with each other, for the most part. But some underlying tensions bubbled as the voyage progressed.
Our crew consisted of Skipper Brian, Elite Sailing’s Chief instructor. An Australian transplant, Brian has a sharp tongue and a sense of humor to match. His tongue’s benign intentions were confirmed by a secret smile to a snappy comeback. But when the tongue didn’t get satisfaction, it was unrelenting.
Acting Skipper Stefaan had joined the yacht in Chatham, Tonic’s base, for a circumnavigation of Britain. He had taken time off from his pharmaceutical company to complete his Yachtmaster’s ticket, with a view to buying his own boat.
A second Brian (Viking Brian) joined the yacht in Oban. Marianne, (who’s a Scot), and her husband Paul (who’s not), with Nicky and I made seven.
Stefaan’s passage plan had us leaving Tobermory early the following morning so that he could log a night entry into Stornoway. But Skipper Brian had other plans; and he wasn’t sharing them with anyone; and he had the final say.
Everyone rose early on Sunday morning and was ready to set sail after breakfast: everyone except Brian. He chose that moment to do his washing. Nicky and I were secretly relieved. We wanted to see more of Tobermory; not that there was much going on in Tobermory at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.
We used the time to go for a walk along the main street to the ferry terminal and do some window-shopping for things we couldn’t buy. I wanted a Tilley hat, but the shop remained stubbornly closed. The distillery was due to open at ten. We walked wistfully past on the way back to the boat, only to find that Brian’s laundry had just gone into the tumble dryer. Stefaan was doing his Fletcher Christian impression: manfully saying nothing while plotting mutiny. (The window for his night entry into Stornoway was closing fast.)
When Brian’s laundry went in for its second cycle we dashed off to the now-open distillery, where we bought a bottle of Ledaig and a few souvenirs before rushing back to the boat. By then Brian’s clothes were store-dry and our departure imminent.
Soon after motoring out of the bay, we had the sails up and were reaching for the Hebrides. The forecast Force 3 from the southeast, funneled by the Sound of Mull, had freshened to Force 5. It was around about then that I realized that my camera was missing. A quick rummage through my memory placed it on a display table in the distillery. I resigned myself to the loss. But Brian who had the distillery’s number on speed-dial, turned the boat around and saved the day.
I was more mortified than happy, wanted to go below with my shame. But I took the ragging from the crew, tried not to meet Stefaan’s eye. I had dashed his plans conclusively against the rocks. Fortunately, between Brian’s washing and my camera, he had resigned himself to the new schedule and did his best to make me feel better.
Luckily, we were only three miles away and were soon back in the marina, where Stefaan got to practice maneuvering the sugar scoop up to the pontoon in fluky conditions. While Tonic sat in a holding pattern, I ran for the camera and got back to the pontoon in time to photograph Tonic as she returned to collect me.
Fair winds drove us from Tobermory for the second time, but when we cleared the Sound of Mull the wind died, leaving us wallowing in light airs. A Mayday call on the radio got everyone’s attention, but the dismasted catamaran was too far away for us to be of assistance. When we heard that the Tobermory lifeboat had been launched, we relaxed, knowing the cat was in safe hands.
We were still becalmed, forcing us to rely on the diesel. It propelled us noisily on past Muck, Rum, and Canna and on into the night. The undemanding sailing gave us time to get to know one another. Paul had recently sold his company and was enjoying some unaccustomed free time. He and Marianne were gaining experience towards their Coastal Skipper tickets. They occupied the rear cabin on the port side while Nicky and I moved into the starboard cabin. Stefaan luxuriated in a forward cabin of his own and Skipper Brian shared with his namesake. Before long, Skipper Brian and Viking Brian became unnervingly inseparable.
Night brought wind, but we didn’t sail for long. Skipper Brian had another plan. Our first inkling of his scheme was the sight of him sitting at the saloon table carefully selecting lures and preparing a hand line. As it emerged, we were heading for a reef about three miles off An Dubh-sgeir, where he was planning to catch squid for the pot.
At two in the morning, with Nicky at the helm, our squid fishermen prepared their lines and mulled around the stern, jockeying for the best position, of which there were none. Tonic stubbornly refused to stop and trudged on at one knot, making all attempts to reach the hungry squid more than forty meters below us, just about impossible. There was much shining of torches and bobbing of lines, but the result was little more than a distraction.
When the show was over, the fishermen melted back to their bunks while Nicky and I continued the first of many night watches. When we booked the trip, we had assumed that night would find us at anchor or safely tied up at some sheltered marina. But in reality, we spent most nights rotating watches as Tonic nibbled away at the miles, trying to meet Brian’s ambitious schedule. It was a sobering change from our previous sailing holiday: two weeks in Greece, cruising to our own timetable, sailing between nearby marinas while basking in the Aegean sun.
We finally arrived in Stornoway shortly after midday to calm seas and turbulent politics. The Scottish referendum looming. We went ashore to stretch our legs and stock up on provisions. Nicky and I bumped into Paul and Marianne as they emerged chuckling from an angling shop on the high street. Paul explained that they had asked the proprietor for squid lures. He’d looked at them strangely before responding.
‘I’ve had this shop for six years and nobody’s ever asked for squid lures before, until ten minutes ago when an Australian fellow came in here asking for the very same thing.’
They hadn’t enlightened him.
In the street around the corner, the referendum campaign was in full sail. The opposing factions had set up tables just out of claymore reach of each other. The YES campaigners were a dour lot with their bunting bunched up on the table. One of them clutched the Scottish flag protectively as though it might be snatched away from him. It was as if they had already sensed the outcome — in their constituency anyway — and were going through the motions. The NO supporters seemed much more confident, smiling and handing out pamphlets like evangelists. Perhaps they guessed our sympathies, or perhaps they were anticipating an incoming tide.
On the way back to the boat we couldn’t resist popping into the angling shop, where Nicky asked, ‘Do you have any squid lures?’
The shopkeeper stared at her for a moment, struck dumb, his mouth half-open. He shook his head, more to clear the cobwebs than to indicate the negative. ‘Are you?… There was just… You’re the third…’
We let him in on the joke.
We left Stornoway early the following morning bound for Kirkwall. Without any wind, we were forced to make our own, and after clearing Garrabost, set course for Cape Wrath, not without some trepidation on my part.
I have always suffered from seasickness and rely on a steady supply of Stugaron to keep it at bay. The passage so far had been calm and so had my stomach, but I’d expected a few more days in sheltered waters to get my sea legs, before heading into the North Atlantic. The weather was on our side and, despite my anxiety, Cape Wrath seemed more like Cape Calm with less wind than a flatulent halibut.
It had been overcast all day, but as we swept past the cape, the sun struggled through the clouds and lit up the lighthouse just long enough for a quick photo opportunity.
Sometime after midnight, while Nicky and I were on watch, we approached the west coast of Orkney in thick fog, creeping to within a mile of Brough Head and its lighthouse, which stubbornly refused to reveal itself. We were so close that I swear I could smell damp sheep. It was only thanks to the GPS that we stayed off the rocks. We passed the headland safely into the claustrophobic Loch of Swannay with its shallows and lobster pots waiting to snag the unwary. We tightened the mainsheet and started the engine.
The fog pressed down on us. We drifted quietly through the grey in eerie solitude. The slosh of water lapping against the hull and the splash of condensation dripping from the rigging accompanied the bass burble of the diesel. When we slipped past a lobster pot only meters away on the port side, I went forward to keep a lookout for more.
It was lonely at the bow. The cold beam of the spotlight barely penetrated the fog. Nicky, who flies a Boeing 737 in real life, was at the helm, following the GPS with the sort of precision reserved for flying airliners in bad weather. Somewhere around the Reef of Burgar, where the water shoals to seven meters in the middle of the channel, Brian’s head popped up in the companionway.
‘You’re six feet off course!’ he said accusingly before smirking and disappearing back down below to the darkness and warmth of the cabin.
The track made good might as well have been drawn by a ruler. We picked our way between unseen obstacles and cardinal markers to Kirkwall’s Marina, where we tied up gratefully at 08:30. Under a slowly lifting gossamer mist, the sea was a mirror reflecting the surrounding yachts and pontoons in flawless symmetry.
After a hot breakfast and a steaming hot shower, we all headed off into town to explore. We promised ‘dad’ that we would be all back at the boat by seven. Brian, while not exactly Matt Moran, could whip up a scrumptious meal in the confines of a yacht’s galley, and had promised us a roast chicken dinner.
We filled the day with a visit to St. Magnus Cathedral with its magnificent stained glass windows and a long wander around the small but fascinating Orkney Museum. The café on the main street provided coffee and scones to tide us over until the anticipated dinner.
Back at the boat, there was no sign of Brian or Brian. Nor was there any sight or smell of anything roasting. Our search party didn’t take long to find the two Brians, who had diverted to a dingy pub with their shopping bags full of good intentions. Any cooking that night was going to be an ordeal, so the rest of us headed for Skippers across the road where we sampled some craft beer and indulged in some delicious pub grub.
We departed before dawn the following morning, slipping our moorings for Fair Isle. Without the shrouding fog, navigation was a breeze. There was enough wind to drive us out of Wide Firth under sail. Once clear of the headland, we broad reached through tranquil seas under an unbroken dome of grey. Nicky was particularly keen to reach Fair Isle before the shops closed as she wanted to buy some of the knitwear that the island is famous for.
All was going according to plan until we approached the small harbor in the North Haven. The genoa’s roller furler jammed, forcing us back out to sea. While Brian and Paul sorted out the tangle, the rest of us watched the clock tick inexorably towards five o’clock and with it a diminishing prospect of a woolly jumper.
We tied up at quarter-to-five, raced ashore in search of the nearest shop. The only building in sight was an imposing wooden structure at the top of the hill above the harbor: the Fair Isle Bird Observatory and Guesthouse, which had a small souvenir shop. Nicky, never one to be diverted from her mission by something so insignificant as an almost complete lack of observable economic activity, asked the manager of the observatory where we might find a jersey. She drove us to a house a few miles away and introduced us to Hollie Shaw who, despite the hour, welcomed us into her home.
Hollie is one of the few Fair Isle knitters remaining, a custodian of the dying art. She explained the skills required to make a Fair Isle jersey and the history behind the patterns and colors. Sadly, she only had two jerseys available as they are all made to order, and the order book was full for a year hence. Fortunately, she did have a selection of woolly hats to choose from. They kept our heads toasty for the remainder of the voyage.
We returned to the boat expecting a quiet night in harbor and a good night’s sleep. Brian had a different plan. He was determined to take advantage of the rare weather window (which for Scotland was more of a weather gulf). He had a pressing need to get to Brae in the Shetland, driven, he explained, by it being home to the northernmost fish and chips shop in the United Kingdom.
‘Well,’ we said collectively, ‘why didn’t you say?’
We left Fair Isle behind at nine that evening for a night passage in search of fish and chips. Morning found us off Storm Ness. By then, we were used to Stefaan’s style of skippering which had the precision of a Swiss clock. Although Belgian, he had obviously lived in Switzerland long enough to osmose some of their precision.
He would materialize on deck and peer over the binnacle at the compass, before asking the helmsman, ‘What course are you steering?’
The helmsman would reply, ‘One nine five,’ or whatever course Stefaan had instructed them to hold five minutes earlier.
Stefaan would then gaze intently at the horizon and instruct, ‘Steer one nine seven,’ before disappearing down below to his charts.
It was only later, when Brian suggested that he try being Swiss at the chart table and Belgian on deck that he settled into a more relaxed style of skippering.
By the time we motored up the protected Busta Voe, which snuggled in a monochrome mist, we hadn’t showered for two days. Brian phoned the Brae Hotel and asked if they rented rooms by the hour. When they learned that we were in need of a shower, and only a shower, a room quickly became available.
It was our first and only anchorage. With five of us on board, the inflatable sat low enough in the water for my arse to dip the voe at the slightest ripple.
Revived by our hot showers, we were ready for an adventure. Nicky wanted to see a Shetland Pony and had learned from a friendly local that there was a herd on the bus route into Lerwick.
We arrived in Lerwick with little more than thirty minutes before the last bus left for Brae. Without much time for sightseeing, we stocked up on fudge from The Shetland Fudge Company who, although they had already closed, opened their doors for one last order. We passed on their world-famous Puffin Poo, which looked delicious despite the name, and opted for their scrumptious chocolate fudge instead.
Back in Brae, we retired for a well-earned pint at the Northern Lights Bar, which wouldn’t have been my first choice for a quiet pint before supper. It’s a Spartan drinking hole for off-duty oil workers with less atmosphere than a staff canteen.
But it was the only pub in sight. There we found the two Brians, who had been keeping a place for us all afternoon. The place was full, noisy and the only two women there were Nicky and Marianne. When an armed policeman entered with his sniffer dog a relative hush descended. They did a tour of the pub as unobtrusively as an armed policeman and his dog could do, I suppose. A comedian in the corner gripped an imaginary spliff between forefinger and thumb. As the officer passed him, he took a long drag of thin air and breathed it out in the direction of the dog.
When the dog ignored him, the smoker shouted, ‘Yer dog’s shite mate. He hasne got a nooas.’
He got a few chuckles from his mates.
But when the policeman and his dog left the bar, with perfect timing, the jukebox began blaring “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
Uproar.
After a couple of beers, we headed off to Frankie’s Fish and Chips; not only the northernmost Fish and Chips shop in the United Kingdom, but also a persistent finalist in the national Fish and Chips Awards and the Scottish winner for 2015.
We ordered both the breaded and battered fish between us and I have never had better. The food at Frankie’s is outstanding and so are their staff. On our way to the hotel earlier in the afternoon, Nicky spotted the tumble drier in Frankie’s kitchen. She negotiated with the management and by the time we’d finished dinner, our soggy sailing towels were fluffy, warm and dry.
With seven days behind us and only three to go we still had more than two hundred nautical miles ahead: over thirty hours of sailing.
We left Brae for Pierowall in a flat calm around midday the following day, fleeing diesel breath until Burki Bank, where a growing breeze allowed us to kill the monster and to hoist our sails. Tonic surged along the southern shore of Muckle Roe, tacking eagerly towards open waters beyond the overfalls at Swarbacks Skerry.
In fresh winds, we made a steady seven knots through the Sound of Papa and on down to Orkney. We were due to arrive late that evening, so Skipper Brian got to work in the galley. He had prepared most of our evening meals, finally producing the promised roast chicken with all its trimmings in conditions where I would have been hard-pressed to put together a jam sandwich.
We made our way carefully into Pierowall under a starry sky. Lead in lights jostled with sparse shore lights, leaving me confused as to where the harbor entrance was; but Stefaan brought us in with a level of confidence that had been lacking only days before. We retired in the early hours, anticipating the final leg that would take us down the west coast of Orkney, through the Pentland Firth and on to Lossiemouth.
A late departure for the next morning, timed to take advantage of the tidal race in the Pentland Firth, gave us time for hot showers and a short hike to the nearby thirteenth century Lady Kirk.
We slipped the lines for the last time just before lunch and made our way down the west coast of Orkney broad reaching under a fresh westerly. We hugged the coast, passing close to Kitchener’s crenelated memorial, which marks the spot where the mustachioed martinet was lost with 655 of his shipmates when H.M.S. Hampshire struck a mine in 1916.
By the time we reached the Old Man of Hoy, night was falling and the opportunity for photographs fading. Nicky and I were off watch and below when we navigated the Pentland Firth where Tonic’s groundspeed reached fourteen knots, a milestone marked by cheers from above as the Swilkie bore her on.
As Tonic slipped past Lybster at two o’clock on the final morning, Nicky and I took our final watch. After the isolation of the North Atlantic, where we scarcely saw another ship, our watch flew by as we plotted the position of the traffic on the AIS while navigating through the unaccustomed excess of shipping. The active watch almost warded off the melancholy of our imminent departure.
We were greeted in Lossiemouth later that morning by cannon fire and Tornado bombers shrieking overhead. We wondered if the Scottish secession had started, despite the outcome of the referendum. But, somewhat less dramatically, it turned out to be RAF Lossiemouth practicing for their imminent deployment to the Middle East.
We planned to spend our last evening reminiscing over a few beers at The Steamboat Inn, which overlooked the harbor. The two Brian’s went on ahead. When the rest of us arrived, we expected to find them propping up the bar. But instead, we found Skipper Brian, beer in hand, repairing one of the cabin doors, using the pool table as a workbench.
The door was soon repaired and somehow found its way back to the boat. We continued on into the night until Brian loudly declared himself a Viking, at which point it was definitely time for bed.
The following morning Nicky and I brushed off our hangovers as best we could and took our leave of Tonic. We had a plane to catch, our schedule no longer equivocal. Tonic continued on to Chatham, still subject to the vagaries of the wind.
