Gale Force

The past two weeks have been defined by the wind. Wind represents the only weather phenomenon that means anything to a fisherman and starting two Sundays ago it made its presence felt. I was just setting about making a mackerel dinner for myself and a few friends when I got a phone call from Paul at the village. “Do you know it’s meant to be a force 10 tonight?” he asked. I was taken aback a little as this was something I’d never really experienced. A force 10 is a major gale and just a few steps below a full blown hurricane, which starts somewhere around a force 13, and its serious business to be sure. Serious enough that Paul was suggesting that all the boats be taken off their moorings and out of the water for safety. Just last year a few of the boats had broken free during similarly strong gales. In fact the past Friday I had been out fishing with Jamie and we’d seen the wrecked remains of a fishing boat that had broken its mooring and been dashed and splintered on the rocks like a cheap toy sailboat. Paul said he was bringing their boat around to the croft bay and the tractor was coming down to help us haul the boat up onto the beach. The method, simply, was about a dozen logs acting as rollers under the boat and a rope from it attached to the tractor with us on each side keeping it steady as well as grabbing the logs as they passed beneath the boat and running them back up to the front of the convoy. There were just four of us to get three boats out of the water and after over an hour of pushing, pulling, lifting and swearing we had the lot of them high and dry. In actuality only two were beached the third, Glens boat, we had heaved onto the trailer to be taken back up to the village for safekeeping while Glenn was on holiday. It only took about 5 minutes for me to get a boot full of water and the rest of the time I was sloshing around with what felt like half of the Atlantic keeping my toes miserably icy while I tried to ignore it and keep a grip on my side of the boat. If it wasn’t for the fact that I had my guests round for dinner, one of whom is a hardy former fisherman with a pension for being helpful, it would have left us with just three to deal with the boats and looking back that would have been nearly impossible. I’d planned on a relaxed evening but when I finally stumbled back into the kitchen with Matthew (said former fisherman) I was hit with the reality that the mackerel was still staring up at me from the counter very much uncooked. Luckily deviled mackerel isn’t a labor intensive meal so I had it together fairly quickly and we spent dinner bitching and moaning about how cold and wet the past hour had been and saying all the things we’d do if that bloody gale didn’t do some serious damage to prove all of our labors worthwhile.

The chickens always head for the old WWII mine during nasty gales, I think something about the croft programs them to do so; my grandmothers always did the same.

I went to bed totally unimpressed with the gale and got up to see what I’d missed during the night. Initially the results seemed equally unimpressive but as I looked longer I began to notice signs of a major storm surge. The beach was littered with seaweed that had been dredged up and deposited there by the swell and random items that had not been firmly secured to the ground had been strewn all over the grass and beach around the croft. Nevertheless we all wondered if the storm that had obviously come through in the night was really worth all the fuss it had been given the previous evening. I don’t think we’ll ever really know if it was necessary to bring the boats out of the water but the potential consequences of inaction were not ones we wanted to gamble with. That gale proved to be only the beginning of the next two weeks of meteorological upheaval and I didn’t know it at the time but I was in for some time off. Over the next two weeks I sat and watched storms more than I worked in them and when all was said and done I had done only 7 days of fishing in 14 (instead of the standard goal of 10-12 days).

One day I walked to the high point to take in the storm that, on that day, was pounding the island from the South. The fact that you can see these waves suggests they are huge as I'm quite far away from them.

The nature of Scottish weather is such that you can experience all the seasons in a single day, on the day of this sunset we'd had a lot of wind and rain only for it to give way to this evening scene.

The two weeks of wild weather concluded this past Friday with the most intense conditions in which I’d gone out since I began fishing. I noticed the night before when I checked the forecast that it called for winds to pick up to well over 30 mph during the afternoon and generally winds around 25 mph throw up a red flag for Jamie and I. I waited to get the phone call telling me to sleep in but it never came and as I sank into bed I was still unsure what the next day would have in store. When I woke I could already here the wind howling around the croft and I was certain that the phone would ring before I left with the word from Jamie that we were staying ashore. I went about my morning routine none the less and by the time I was dragging my kayak to the water the wind had intensified to the point that it was difficult to even get into the kayak. I figured there was nothing to be done except paddle across and wait to be picked up as I always did. The paddle was difficult to say the least but being constantly blown in the wrong direction will do wonders to wake you up in a hurry. As I hopped into Jamie’s pickup I could already tell that he had a weather eye out to sea watching the white horses tear violently through the Iona sound. Passing through Fionnphort we stopped just long enough for Jamie to note that only one of the 6 or 7 fishing boats there had gone out. I decided not to remind him that we work on the smallest boat in the area by a far margin, these kinds of details don’t seem to mean much to fisherman and are better left unsaid. For my part, when I see that boats three or four times as large as ours have decided not to bother leaving their moorings it sends up warning flags but, as I learned from Sam last year, the mantra to live by is: If the captain isn’t worried you shouldn’t be either. Sounds like a fishy philosophy to me.
By the time we got to the boatyard Jamie was already scaling back the plans to only a half day of fishing and I figured we’d probably turn back before we hit the first fleet…I was way wrong. We struggled just to get our dingy facing the right way and ourselves and our gear loaded in before setting out to Arianna. Just as we had gotten ourselves going we were lambasted by a sharp wave that sent a chilling stream of water down my back, into my overalls and completely soaked my sweat pants underneath…great, a wet ass and I wasn’t even on the fucking boat yet. I tried to ignore it, knowing that there was absolutely nothing I could do to remedy the situation at that point and that lingering over the soggy situation I was in wasn’t getting me any closer to being warm.
I quickly forgot about my water logged overalls once we rounded the point at Ardtun and hit open water. The waves were already rolling in fast and furious despite the fact that the storm wasn’t really meant to get properly going until after noon. The northwesterly direction of the wind meant that the waves were coming at us first head on and then, once we made the turn to head into the Loch, diagonally from behind us. Steaming into a storm head on is the ideal way to tackle any sort of big waves as the boat can ride over them and maintain its balance fairly well so the first part of our journey was rather fun as we crashed over and through wave after wave. I tried to snap some photos but I wasn’t really able to keep the camera still enough to do the seas justice. It was once we turned the corner at the point that things began to get a little hairy. With the wind now behind us we could neither see the waves coming nor control how we wanted the boat to take them. Waves began hitting us side on from the stern and the boat was now rolling from side to side as if precariously balanced on a see-saw (or teeter totter for the red coat readers among you). I was clinging onto the hauler for dear life and couldn’t decide if I’d rather keep my eyes forward on where we were going or backward to see the next massive wave wildly careening toward us. I am not the best judge of wave height on the water as perspective is typically hard to gain on the open seas but at one point I glanced to port just in time to see the crest of a wave roll past the top of the wheel house…I was looking up at it from where I was standing on the deck. If I had to estimate I would put that wave at least in the 15 foot range and I’m sure it wasn’t the biggest wave of the day but it was one on which I had a decent angle to make a judgment on its size.
I figured that once we got into the Loch the waves would let up somewhat and we’d be able to get at least some of our fleets hauled in relative calm…the fundamental flaw in this line of thought was, of course, that the wind was originating from the northwest and so blowing directly up the Loch. In point of fact it seemed that the shape of the Loch served only to intensify the wind and waves by acting as a funnel channeling the wind and forcing the storm through the mouth of the Loch. Nevertheless when Jamie launched the grappling hook over the side to catch the first float I knew that I had to snap into working gear because it was, after all, the job for which I was getting paid. It’s hard to explain what it’s like trying to do ones job in conditions such as these because there is no frame of reference for the average person. I guess if you were sitting at your desk…on a rocking chair… and that annoying guy from HR was rocking you, not only back and forth, but also side to side, while a radio blasted static in your ear and your boss sprayed you in the face with a garden hose you might be able to begin to recreate the conditions in which I found myself on Friday. Come to think of it you better change that so that you are standing on your rocking chair…and holding a 50 lbs weight…and your boss is also trying really hard to pinch your fingers with a stapler and tie your legs up with a phone cable…fuck it, I don’t think I can really make this one work but you get the idea I hope.
Usually our goal with most of the fleets of creels is to get them in nice and tight to the shore so that they draw the lobsters out of the nooks and crannies they like to inhabit under rock shelves. This involves Jamie steering us in next to the rocks, often within a meter or two, and me throwing the creels as close as I can to the edge. It’s dangerous work in fairly normal conditions because any slightly larger than average wave or a reasonable swell (swell and waves are not one and the same) can push us over the top of the reefs and rocks we are trying to take advantage of but in gale conditions, like those on Friday, we don’t dare get within 50 meters of the shore if we can help it (which typically we can’t). The margin for error when you have 10-plus foot waves and 40 mph winds is basically nonexistent and hauling the creels from where we had last left them was mentally and physically draining. After we got each fleet on board we would high tail it away from the rocks and head offshore directly into the waves while we set the creels out again. Working with the pitch (front to back rocking of the boat) is not too bad and once you get a feel for the movement it’s possible to get through the normal routine in some fashion. It’s when you start getting the waves side on and the boat begins to roll (side to side motion) that things get dicey and this was what Jamie was constantly struggling to try to avoid while he maneuvered the boat so that I could get everything on and off the deck without any mishaps. All in all most of the first 70 creels we did went by remarkably well and I can really only remember one time where I honestly thought I was going over the side of the boat. I had just picked up one of the larger creels and was trying to navigate through the snaked coils of rope that were sloshing all over the deck, being careful to keep an eye out as the rope rushed over the side following the last creel down to the ocean floor. The boat rolled back and I started forward towards the shooting table (where we put the creels on when I don’t throw them) but just as I was heaving the creel up to my chest to set it on the table a massive wave caught the boat and threw it over towards the side with the table. In an instant I found myself on top of the creel on the table with my feet dangling over the deck my head hanging over the side looking down into the churning black water. Although it was largely due to the weight of the creel that I found myself in the precarious position that I was in, I also have the creel to thank for keeping me on the right side of the gunwale. It was because I was in the act of setting it on the table when the wave hit that I had something to grab hold of to keep myself on the boat. My weight combined with the weight of the creel had created enough friction with the rope bound around the shooting table to hold the creel and, by default, me in place…I also have the fisherman’s obsession with binding everything they see with rope to thank for my safety in this case.
The storm, with a few fleeting exceptions, only got worse throughout the morning. Somehow despite everything that was thrown at us by the gale we still managed to work our way all the way down the Loch (approximately 140 creels). As I bungled the final creel over the side I felt a sense of accomplishment that we’d done so much in the face of, what Jamie described as, the worst conditions he’d take the boat out in. He had even apologized about half way through the morning and admitted to me that he felt a little guilty about bringing me out in the storm to which I replied that I was having a blast and as long as I ended up back on dry land I wasn’t much bothered with anything that happened along the way. We had even been pleasantly surprised by getting 5 lobsters in the final 20 creels (we tend to average 1 in every 10 creels) so the day was, in terms of the catch, reasonably successful. The real fun, however, came on the nearly 2 hour steam back up the Loch towards home (normally this would take us about an hour). We were heading straight into the teeth of the gale and it was just reaching a fever pitch. It made cutting the crab a very interesting task whereby I spent half of my energy trying to keep my ass on the bucket I was using as a seat and the other half trying to keep whatever crab I was dealing with at that moment under control so I didn’t lose a finger all the while receiving a healthy dose of spray in the face every time the boat crashed down on another wave (which was every other wave). When the engine finally came to a rumbling stop after I had tied us onto the mooring I was soaked from head to toe, despite my thick oil skin jacket and overalls, and all my muscles were screaming for a hot bath.

This video is only a few seconds long because my camera died but it gives you a little idea of what I see from where I stand next to the wheel house.

The bath, however, was not in the cards as I got back to the wood pile just in time to help load my grandfather (who had just arrived along with my mother and family friend Dorothy) along with all the supplies they’d brought into the tracker to take across to the croft. By the time that was all done and everyone was getting settled with a hot cup of tea I was just learning that Katy, who was also scheduled to arrive that night, was stuck in Oban (her train had broken down and there would now be no bus to meet the ferry she would have to catch) and so I turned around and walked back across the bay to the car to drive the hour to pick her up off the ferry. My grandfather’s car, however, had other plans, namely its gear box giving way 20 minutes into the journey, resulting in me having to drive the remaining 40 minutes with only forth gear. This might not sound like much to many of you who are used to driving on nice highways and big open roads but when it’s done on a single track road (yes, that means one lane with traffic going in both directions) winding around mountains and lochs with the constant threat of tour buses and crazy locals suddenly appearing around any turn it adds a certain element of excitement (not sure that’s quite the word but it’ll do). I’m not sure exactly how but I made it to the dock before Katy’s ferry and just in time to realize that the handicap space I’d pulled the car into would be its final resting place that night (thankfully my grandfather actually has a handicap sticker so I wasn’t completely out of line in parking there..as long as no one sussed out that I wasn’t the 91 year-old man in the picture on the dashboard). Fortunately for me and Katy, when she learned of the situation upon disembarking from the ferry, two things were on our side; the first, the little pub just down the road from the ferry and, second, the unrelenting kindness and good nature of James Chitty (quietly enjoying his last night in the croft when I phoned to explain our situation) who immediately announced he was getting in his car to come get us (a 2 hour round trip and it was already 9:30 at night). We were just finishing our second round when he smilingly strolled into the pub to save us from the prospect of spending the night in the back of my grandfather’s temperamental van. How glorious it is to have people who will drop everything in an instant to help you out of a frustrating situation even if it means leaving a piping hot dinner on the table to do so. I close this entry with thanks and a cheers of my dram to James, Slange!

The Mystery of the Disappearing Eggs & the Epic Battle for Croft Bay Security

Disclaimer: This entry contains subject matter not suitable for bleeding heart animal rights activists or those who do not understand actions based on necessity. Having said that it also contains one of the greatest victories I have experienced! It is a victory of good over evil, love over vicious hatred and preservation over destruction. Now go ahead, I dare you not to read!

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I walked out to the chicken hutch on Sunday to collect my daily installment of soon-to-be Bunessun Show prize winning eggs. I was feeling great about the eggs because their size had been steadily increasing over the past few weeks. I could already see the red first prize ticket along with the monumental £2.50 cash prize sum being handed to me as all the other chicken keepers on Mull pouted about the new comer who had ousted them of all their glory in a matter of weeks. I lifted the roof to reveal my spoils...but something was amiss, there were no spoils to be had. Hang on a second, no eggs?!? I had not experienced an eggless day since I brought the hens back down to the croft. Dark storm clouds instantly filled my head and I stormed off looking for the culprits. A few calls of “Chook, chook” later and I had the guilty parties happily strutting around my feet, oblivious to the wrath that was about to come raining down upon them. I unleashed a barrage of “how could you” and “after all those hand feedings,” and “not even one measly solitary egg!” The hens stopped their parading and looked at me cock-eyed as if to say “Who? Us?”, “Yes you, you feathered brained pigeons!” I replied. I was not having any of their innocent tricks this time; I was getting to the bottom of this. I called upon my vast knowledge of chicken psychology trying to determine the cause for this mockery of their biological duties. The only two things that came to mind were, firstly, they had inadvertently pecked open one of their own eggs and gotten a taste for the sweet glory that lay within (this is a big problem, believe it or not, and one that caused my mother to devise a cunning strategy of inserting golf balls into the coop so that when the hens pecked them they figured the eggs were rock hard and decided they were not worth trying to eat), or secondly, something had put them off their usual laying schedule (either an illness, which I was sure wasn’t the case, or something else…). I decided that some serious investigation was in order.

The egg on the right is one of the normal eggs I get. Its good size compared to any egg you’d see somewhere else but compared with mega egg on the left it looks tiny. I heard the poor hen trying to lay this the other day and when I saw the size I understand why the clucks were so strained. Mega egg has been referred to as “a duck egg” by several who witnessed its majesty before I turned it into breakfast.

If there’s one thing I know about chickens it’s that everything begins and ends at the coup. If there was a clue to be had I was betting it would be somewhere in or around their house. I took off the roof and set it aside. At first glance everything within seemed normal; chicken shit in the water dish (when will they learn that the dish is literally the only place they shouldn’t shit?), a little round nest bed in the corner where each hen takes her turn at laying every morning (or not laying, as has been the case recently), the bar on which they roost…everything seemed in order. Then just as I was getting ready to put on the roof again and go back to have another kick-off at the hens I noticed something lying against the wall by the entrance…it was a small piece of egg shell. They were pecking their own eggs, I knew it! Oh they were in for it this time; there would be no shirking of their responsibilities on my watch. There was still, however, something niggling in the back of my mind; one piece of broken shell does not three eggs account for. I decided to look around a little more before I condemned all three to their punishment, which I was still trying to decide upon. I walked around the banks of the stream where the chickens often gather while they wait for me to feed them or to hide among the grass and reeds in nasty weather. Almost immediately I nearly trod on an egg nestled into a small patch of grass. That’s odd, I thought, but at least it meant they were still laying (or at least two, since there was still one egg not accounted for) and one hen was now off the hook as its egg was still intact if not slightly misplaced, but that could be excused this once. Another few yards up the bank and I had a third egg…or what was left of a third egg. I found about two thirds of the outstanding egg, obviously empty of yoke, sitting on the sheep path that leads to the grassy hill behind the croft. Suddenly all of my theories of egg pecking sabotage and hen laying strikes where cast unceremoniously out the window. No chicken was capable of picking up her egg and carrying it off to have a little picnic and they wouldn’t bother to do this even if they could. If they wanted to eat their own eggs they had the comfort and privacy of their hutch in which to do so. There was much more to this mystery than I had at first assumed.

The rest of my Sunday afternoon was spent pondering the possible explanations for the strange scene that I had uncovered earlier in the day. After many interrogations of my hens and deep ponderings of their lack of credible explanations I was no closer to cracking the case when I finally sank into bed. I had to put my thoughts aside and get myself prepared for a long Monday beginning with and early morning and the weekly landing. After Kayaking across the bay I waited at the Fidden farm house for Jamie to pick me up. It gave me time to ask some of the locals their take on the mystery I was struggling to solve….

Some seemed to contemplate my story carefully although I gathered it was too early for them to really get their horns around it…

Others were completely uninterested in anything I had to say, instead focusing

their attentions on things they could round up…or scratch…

With no plausible suggestions coming from any of the locals I was again left in a state as confusion as I hopped into Jamie’s truck and started off for the boat yard and a long tiring day at sea. The mysterious egg mystery (is that too repetitive?) would have to wait until I returned to dry land.

Upon beaching my kayak on the Erraid shore that evening I had very little time to wait before the full frightening reality of the cracked egg case would come to fruition. I walked towards the house and watched happily as my hens sprinted across the beach towards me, as they do every day, expectations of bread swirling around in their heads. After reassuring them that I would return with some snacks I entered the garden where I found Anna, who was living at the village, sitting in the garden enjoying the sunshine. I had barely managed a “hello” before she said that she had solved the mindboggling egg mystery. It was her day off and she had come down earlier in the day to get some peace and quiet and read in the garden. While she was sitting there she had spotted the culprit of the egg thefts. It was none other than a Mink, scourge of the Scottish isles, pillager of innocent wildlife and destroyer of eco-systems; the ultimate enemy of any Scottish farmer. She told me of how she had watched the Mink unabashedly going in and out of the garden and the hen hutch during the day completely unconcerned with her presence mere feet from the coup. She had seen it retreat under the bridge that crossed the small stream just beside the hen hutch and watched the hens obliviously peck around not more than a meter from where she had last seen the cold blooded killer. Instantly I flew into a bloodthirsty rage, blinded by anger. It was fueled in part by fear for my poor hens who could do little to protect themselves if the Mink decided it wanted more than just the eggs it was already helping itself to, in part by the fact that the Mink was, in fact, helping himself to my eggs, and also by the fact that I knew that for the majority of the day I was gone and could do little, if anything, to prevent what I believed to be inevitable…retuning to find one, or all, of my hens murdered by this savage little monster.

Who wouldn’t want to protect something that looked like this, eggs or no eggs?

I spun away from Anna, who was still trying to explain what she’d seen, grabbed the nearest weapon, a pitchfork, and stormed off around the house. I rattled my pitchfork into every cave and crevice that I could find, yelling vicious threats and explaining in detail to the mink, who I was sure was within earshot, the terrible things that would befall him should he even so much as think of harming a feather on any of my hens. Unsurprisingly my vengeance fueled tirade did not uncover the perpetrator but it did allow me to blow off some steam so that I could approach the situation with a slightly more rational outlook. I set about re-baiting the Mink traps, which I had already set out when I first repatriated the hens to the croft after my arrival, with some fresh fish heads. I rounded up the hens, gave them some bread and unceremoniously stuffed them all into the hutch (after first lifting the lid to make sure the Mink was not laying in wait inside). I was reminded of a story my mom told me of when my grandmother had locked her eight hens into their hutch for the night not realizing that in doing so she had also shut the Mink in with them, only to awake to the carnage of all eight birds viciously murdered during the night. I was not about to make the same mistake, especially given that I already knew this Mink was very familiar with hutch. The hens were very confused as to why they were being put to bed several hours before they would normally make that decision for themselves. I got several very fussy clucks and a few attempted escapes as I shooed all three into the hutch and latched the door. I was taking no chances. I swore on everything I believed in to Anna that I would have that Mink before he took another egg and that I wouldn’t let any harm befall my beloved hens. She could tell by the serious tone of my voice and the fire still burning in my eyes that this was not an empty promise to be questioned, she simply smiled and nodded.

Tuesday was one of the most difficult days I have had at work and it had absolutely nothing to do with the work on the boat at hand. I had left that morning with an empty feeling in my stomach as I let the hens out for the day. After much deliberation I had determined that I could not keep them locked up all day and that if the Mink had wanted to kill them he could have done so during the past few days or possibly weeks that he had already been around. I was not about to give in so easily to the threat and let this shady little beast get the best of me. Nevertheless my day was filled with thoughts of hen hutch massacres and frantic chases ending always in my hens being killed in cold blood by the evil, murderous Mink. I was even having some trouble getting excited by the fact that our week on Arianna had started as the best yet with the promise of a huge catch to be landed the following Monday.

Upon being dropped at the wood pile by Jamie I leapt into my Kayak and raced across the bay. The boat had barely scrapped onto the sand at the other side before I was out and running up the beach calling to my ladies. I waited and called and finally two hens came in full sprint around the corner of the house. My spirits lifted until I did not see the third hen on their heels. Where was she? I again called frantically, already wondering where the mangled body might be lying and wondering if I could bare to see that sight before I had even taken my oil skins off. Before my depressing thoughts could sink any further, however, the straggler turned up huffing and clucking around the house thinking that it was already missing out on some tasty little treat from me. I was instantly full of happiness and heaped lavish praise on my brave hens for going about their lives without fear. They simply looked at me, confused as to why I had called them so vigorously and yet stood here now with no food for them as if to say “Come on then mate, you just made us hoof it all the way from the beach for this, where’s the bread then?” I gladly obliged and retuned from the house with several choice bits of bread and some leftovers from the night before. I sat with the hens fussing about me fighting over the bits of food I held out for them to jump for thinking that I could not go on every day like this. The emotional rollercoaster that had been my 9 hours away from the croft was unacceptable and was detracting from my immense enjoyment of fishing. I had to come up with a better plan to combat my enemy. The Mink traps had been baited for the past three weeks with fish heads and had returned no Mink. To be fair I had only added fresh bait on two occasions because I had not thought a Mink to be living in the area but nevertheless it seemed that this particular Mink was not interested in the fish. Then I had my cartoon light bulb flashing revelation; if the Mink wants fresh eggs why not give him fresh eggs? I had been getting three eggs a day, far more than I was consuming, and I was more than willing to risk a few of those if it meant I would continue to have three hens. I immediately ran to the house and retrieved two of the freshest eggs (ones that had not been refrigerated yet). I set about baiting the traps and this time I was not fooling around. I spent nearly an hour carefully setting the trap doors on my two Mink traps so that it would take little more than a mouse sneezing over the metal plate at the rear of the cage to trigger the door to close. The eggs were placed all the way at the back behind the aforementioned metal plate so that when the Mink entered to retrieve them he would have to set at least his front paws on the plate and that would be more than enough.

The bait. I was really torn between using these for bait and just making a nice omelet and sticking with the fish heads.

I had been invited to dinner up at the village that night and so I shut my hens up early again, giving me some peace of mind, and set off for dinner. The night was spent with me talking to several of the long time residents about their own Mink experiences and receiving the same quizzical looks and questioning responses when I told them what I had decided to use for bait. I assured them that I was certain that the Mink was far more interested in the eggs than any other sort of bait I could think of and that the typical fish head bait had been ineffective to say the least. I left them no more convinced by the end of our discussion but their doubt had only served to strengthen my resolve that I would have the Mink. I again swore to anyone that would listen that I would catch the Mink before the week was up, my pride only slightly dented by the laughs I received in return.

Wednesday passed much as Tuesday had, with nervous thoughts back to my hens innocently pecking around the seaweed and grass unaware of the danger that could be lurking behind any corner. I again rushed home and was greatly relieved when all three again responded to my calls. I ran to check my traps but they empty, the eggs were still sitting just where I had left them at the back of the cages. I double checked the spring mechanism to make sure it was still set to the “sneezing mouse” sensitivity setting I had arranged the day before and covered over the traps with some netting, grass and other random bits to conceal the obviously unnatural metal bars of the cage I hoped would be the final holding place for the dark villain. Again I shut the hens in very early and had another walk around the croft to try to see if I could find any other clues that would suggest a Mink hiding place. The fact was that the hiding places around the croft where so numerous that I could never hope to find them all let alone do anything more to catch the Mink even if he really was hiding in one of them. I had to hope that my traps would do the trick.

That evening I got the call from Jamie that a nasty gale was blowing in and that our next several days of fishing would be jeopardized beginning with us not going out the following day due to the high winds that were already rolling in from the West. I was glad for a day off as I had started to feel slightly under the weather and was greatly in need of a lie in and day of recovery. My friend Britta from the village kindly offered to let my chickens out and feed them the next morning so that I could sleep in late. I woke early to the sound of the wind battering the house and listened for a minute or two before rolling over and going back to sleep. The next sound that awoke me from my slumber was not one that I would simply lay and listen to. Instead it started me from a dream and had me out of bed and dressing as I rushed out the door moments later. It was the sound of a very frantic and uncomfortable chicken and I feared that I had played with fate one day to long and the Mink had finally attacked the hens. There are only three real calls I understand from my hens. There is the proud clucking declaration when they have just finished laying a fresh egg, the unhappy drawn out clucks when they are hungry or have just been pecked off the food by another of the hens, and, lastly, the fearful and excited clucks when they feel threatened or frightened about something. I have heard it before but not this year and I was hoping I wouldn’t have to hear it at all.

As I rushed out of the dorm I grabbed the pitchfork, which I had stationed by the door on the first day I had realized that there was Mink about, and burst out o the gate. There I quickly began calling for me hens and waited as two came from around the front of the croft. The third I could hear but could not yet see and this was the hen that had raised the alarm. I listened and again the call came…from inside the hutch. The hair on the back of neck bristled and I slowly crept to the hutch and threw open the roof, pitch fork raised waiting to stab at the Mink should he be inside. All I found was a very frazzled looking hen, unharmed but surrounded by feathers pacing back at forth near the entrance to the coup. All chickens accounted for and unharmed I relaxed slightly. My eyes shot down to the entrances to the two Mink traps that were set near the coup. The first was still open and my eyes shifted to the second, hidden beneath a net and some reeds to the left of the hutch door…it was closed!

I pulled away the netting to reveal the long, sleek black frame of the Mink. I had captured it and all three of my hens were still alive to see! I celebrated, dancing in a Crile around the Mink, pitch fork in the air, laughing maniacally and shouting “I told you I’d bag you, you mangy little bastard,” to the Mink, who for his part, had not yet seemed to realize that he was caught and was more concerned that someone was interrupting his egg lunch. The egg was lying at his paws, carefully cracked open so that the shell served as a little bowl to hold the precious yoke inside.

I know what you are all thinking at this point, “Awww, he’s so cute and furry and cuddly.” “WRONG!” He is, in fact, the most foul, vicious, bloodthirsty killer that exists (unnaturally I must add) in all of Scotland. He is responsible for the decline in population of all ground dwelling animals and nesting birds in the Scottish Isles. He can swim exceedingly well and so no island is safe from his marauding ways. He only exists in Scotland because a bunch of do-gooder animal rights folks decided that Mink farming, for their pelts, was cruel (which I agree it is) leading to the amazingly foolish decision to simply open all the cage doors and let the Mink lose into an environment that was completely unprepared for them. They are amazingly adaptable and as such have thrived in the area. Everything about them is designed to help them catch and kill whatever they want. The worst part is that they seem to have a pension for killing even when it is totally unnecessary (remember my mom’s tale of an entire batch of hens killed in one night in the infamous coop lock-in murder) and will leave bodies of their victims totally untouched. They seem to be one animal, maybe one of the only, that kills for pleasure. Now I had this sadistic creature captured at my feet and the task of what to do next was now mine alone to determine. The decision for me, however, was an instantaneous no-brainer; the Mink had to be killed.

Now I cannot remember ever killing a mammal in my life. I have always loved all things furry and fluffy. I was raised with rabbits, gerbils and hamsters and have always had an interest in ferrets, which are extremely similar to Mink, although never actually owned one. So for me, killing a small, fuzzy, cute-looking critter is something I never expected I’d be faced with and until now, if you’d asked, I probably would have said I couldn’t do it. But in this moment surrounded by my hens which, judging by the feathers around the hutch, had just had a close encounter with the Mink, I had complete conviction in the task at hand. My only real decision was not if, but how, to kill the Mink and there were really only two possibilities I could think of. The first was some sort of physical battering of the animal either with a rock or something sharp driven through the cage but I really didn’t want to risk not finishing it swiftly and end up maiming the animal. I wanted one action to finish the job. I also did not want to face listening to the painful screeches of the Mink. He was already beginning to hiss and screech at me as I stood over the cage obviously starting to sense the danger he was in. I decided that I would drown him in the stream. It was a method I had remembered hearing of being used when I was younger and it seemed the best option to me. I decided to let the Mink have his last meal of the egg and went off in search of some rope to fix to the cage so that I could lower it into the stream.

As I searched around for a suitable length of rope to use I began to have strong feelings that I had conquered a great evil and that I was doing a service not only to my hens but also to all the small birds and animals in the area. I thought about the Shell ducks living on the beach and about their nine little ducklings that I had been watching everyday being taught to swim, forage for food and even the early stages of their flight lessons. I thought about the sand pipers who had been nobly guarding their nests along the beach and among the rocks, doggedly chasing away seagulls and anything else, including me, that got too close to their secret nests. I thought about the rabbits and hares that I see sprinting around the grass and about their litters of babies hiding down holes, holes that Mink would have no trouble entering. I obviously thought most about my hens, who greet me so excitedly whenever I get home and peer through the gate waiting for the door to swing open every morning as I carry out their breakfast. I thought about these things and realized that I would gladly take on the duty of executioner in exchange for the daily joy I get from watching all of these animals habitually go about their lives. As I pulled down a rope hanging in the boat shed my mind and heart were firmly set upon the task at hand.

Returning to the trap I began tying the rope to two points on the handle of the cage. The mink, by this time, had finished his last meal and was anxiously looking for a way out of what would soon become his metal coffin. Upon seeing me his body tensed, I could see the muscles tighten as he crouched in the corner of the cage softly hissing and barely his small dagger shaped teeth. As I fumbled with the knots his hisses grew more fervent and then turned to screeches which pierced the air and sent the hens into another bout of uncomfortable clucking. Any feelings of hesitation that might have still existed in me were driven off when I heard the awful screeching. It was not the sound of a gentle creature it was the sound of evil captured and out of its element. The rope firmly fixed to the cage I hoisted it up and began carrying it down to the bridge to the front right of the croft. I set it on the bridge while I went to get a large rock, which would serve as a weight on the cage once it was lowered down into the water.

The Mink peering nervously into the stream, if only he knew why he was on the bridge

I was now at the point of no return. I was the only one around and there was no asking someone else to do the deed. I lifted the cage, gave one last look to the Mink and quickly lowered the cage into the water. It did not need the rock as the weight of the steel was enough to drag in to the bottom but I put the rock on anyway not wanting there to be any doubt. I watched for a minute but something told me not stay and l left. I busied myself with some chores for 20 minutes before returning and hauling up the cage. The Mink was dead and I felt first a weight lifted off my shoulders followed by a moment of pity for the creature that now lay motionless and dripping in the cage.

The moment of pity passed quickly as I remembered what I was avoiding by killing the Mink. There was no question in my mind as to what was to be done with the body of the tormentor of my chickens. I marched the cage up to the old swing set where last year Sam had hung the head of a massive conger eel he had caught while fishing. Donning some gloves I opened the cage and pulled the Minks body out. I had decided that he would hang next to Sam’s eel and serve as a warning to any other Mink that this croft was not one they wanted to pick to terrorize. I fixed his tail with a solid knot (one of my newly learned fishermen’s knots!) and tied the other end to the cross bar of the swing. Much as a farmer would erect a scarecrow in his fields to ward off crows now so too do I have my Mink deterrent swaying in the breeze, a constant reminder that my hens and all the creatures of the croft bay are protected by a force to be reckoned with!

Note: In the days after all of this I have started to find myself coming out with really tasteless dead mink jokes but I still felt that they were worth sharing.

I cannot help, every time I leave the croft, giving a glance up to the Mink and saying “Oh, you still hanging around here?”

The cream of the crop came when I recently went up to the village for dinner. I was standing in the line to get some food with several others including my good friend Britta, when I turned to her and said “Oh Britta do you think it’ll rain this evening?” “I don’t know,” she replied, “Why?” “Well it’s just that I’ve got this Mink hanging to dry and it would be a real shame if he got all wet again.”

…I’m evil, I know but don’t tell me that didn’t make you smile too.

Sightings and Cuisine

Last week (June 21^st-25^th)

Whenever I am not in front of my computer millions of things are streaming through my mind that I want to put into words for everyone to read. Basically every day I have an experience or a thought that I feel everyone must know about but when I actually begin to write I either forget those absolutely essential tid bits or I get off on some tangential rant about seagulls and before I know it its 11 o’clock and I have 6 hours before I get up for work, it’s a hard life! Anyway before I take myself down another random road of thought I want to make sure that I talk about last week. It was a really great week full of excitement, rare sightings, long days and good fishing.

It all started on Monday with my first real landing (you will remember that the Shenda shit the bed the Monday before so I missed the landing), which begins with a 5:30am wake up. It’s important to get the early start because collecting and sorting the previous weeks catch takes a couple of hours at least. The buyer is typically on the pier by 9am and they don’t waste any time because they need to get to the ferry going to the mainland otherwise they risk everything in the truck dying before it reaches its final destination. I’m told that a lot of what the fisherman in these parts catch goes to Spain, so the trip to across Mull is just the start of the shellfish odyssey that will conclude on the plate of some tourist who is probably convinced that the tasty lobster they are paying an arm and a leg for came out of the Mediterranean. I wish I could tell them they are wasting their time and money and that they should just pop up to Scotland and have the real thing when its actually fresh…on second thoughts I don’t really want any of those tourists up here ruining my peace and quiet. Jamie picks me up from the wood pile around 6:30 and we head to the boat yard. Last week’s catch has been sitting, separated into different cages, on the floor of the bay for safe keeping. Upon pulling the lobster cage, however, we learn the hard lesson that it cannot be left on the sandy bottom because the free shore crabs in the bay have discovered that a banded lobster makes for an easy target. Several of our prize beasts have had their tails nipped at by the shore crabs and have died, or look ready to die, and every one that does is a tenner off the total catch profit. Nevertheless we had a healthy haul to the tune of over half a ton of brown crab, 50lbs of lobster and about 100lbs of velvets.

Now the catch looks absolutely fantastic when its all nicely stacked on the boat but I quickly lose my initial amazement when I realize its low tide, which means hoisting everything I am gawking at up onto the pier in Bunessan. After transferring all the browns and lobster into fish boxes we have 15 boxes to heave up the 10-15 feet onto the pier. I stood on the pier as Jamie tied a rope onto the boxes and, one at a time, I hauled them up onto the pier. This was no small feat and my muscles were burning by about the 2^nd box as each of the 14 fish boxes of brown crab weighed about 100lbs. As the last box thudded down next to me I could hear every bit of my body let out a sigh of relief. I knew that I would be getting a work out as a fisherman but I really hadn’t considered the fact my Monday routine would start with 15 repetitions of the 100 pound dead lift, with an added 15 feet to pull…at 8 in the morning no less.

This is before any sorting and boxing. Each cage in the foreground is brown crab and its a little more than 2 fish boxes from each cage. The yellow box is our Lobster and all the way in the front are the velvets.

With the heavy lifting done it was time to sort out the velvets. Velvet sorting simply comes down to dumping the cages full of velvet crabs onto what amounts to a big sand box on a table. Then we sort the crabs out separating the large from the medium. Obviously there can’t be a small classification as no fisherman would allow their precious catch to be termed “small” so as far as landing is concerned “small” does not exist but some of the medium crabs looked suspiciously small if you ask me…don’t tell Jamie I said that. While the brown crabs are the powerful finger crushers the velvets are the lightning quick finger tip pinchers, which is equally frustrating. It’s one thing pulling a few out of a creel when you can clearly identify each crab and make sure that none of the others are planning a sneak attack on you while your attention is diverted towards one of their cohorts but when there are literally hundreds piled on top of one another on a table it is a different matter all together. Velvets have an uncanny, and very annoying, knack for playing dead (or as Jamie calls it, “sleeping”). They simply lie on their backs completely motionless and wait. As we sort through the pile we are expecting some dead crabs in the bunch so it’s not surprising to see a crab in this very position. In our haste to get through the massive pile of crabs it’s hard to take the time to check all the vitals and as a result complacency slips in and we forget the game the velvets are playing at. As soon as you grab hold of the leg of a crab that you’re sure is dead it’s as if you just gave it a shock from a defibrillator and its snaps to life, legs wildly flailing in every direction, claws gnashing at the closest finger, which it usually nabs. You are then left with an angry, and very much alive, crab dangling from the tip of your gloved finger. A few quick wrist shakes usually sends the little bastard flying into the corner of the sorting table. They quickly wedge themselves back in amongst the other crabs that have decided that the corner of the table is the best defensive location and wait, claws at the ready.

After everything has been sorted and boxed we set the entire catch on the pier next to the catches from the other three boats that land in Bunessun. All of the other boats at the pier fish for prawns so we don’t get to compare our catch with any other lobster boats. This is not a bad thing as I am sure we are the smallest lobster boat around so would likely be put to shame by any other boats catch. We only fish with about half the creels that most boats do and there are several that have many times the number that we use. None of this matters to me as this is the only boat I’ve worked on and the first landing I’ve seen so it all looks pretty impressive. Once the truck arrives, they set out the scales and, one by one, each boat brings the boxes forward to be weighed, noted and hoisted into the truck. Before we even get to say a proper “goodbye” to last week’s catch we are untying the ropes and jumping back aboard the Arianna to start anew.

After the landing Monday turned into a marathon day that didn’t wrap up until I stumbled back into the croft around 6:30 that evening, body aching and stomach growling. None of that bothered me, however, because I was still buzzing from the sighting we’d had earlier that day from the boat. We were just a few fleets into the final ten of the day (about 100 creels in total), working along the Berg, when Jamie called out that he’d just seen a couple of dolphins behind us. Luckily we were just finishing a set of creels so we could take a minute to look. Sure enough when I turned I saw two fins break the water. I have always wanted to see dolphins up here and after a few near misses over the years I was beginning to wonder if it just wasn’t in the cards for me. Jamie could sense in my voice that I was excited and it was clear that he too felt it was a rare sighting, rare enough that he slammed the boat in gear and said “let’s see if we can catch ‘em.” I leapt up onto the side and hung out over the water watching the fins up ahead. Suddenly there were two more fins joining the first we had seen and just as I was yelling to Jamie I happened to look down to see several gray flashes dart under the boat, it was a proper pod and in an instant we were surrounded by them. They played just in front of us for a short while and then as quickly as they had appeared they raced off ahead and continued up around the coast. We could see them in the distance for a good 20 minutes after, their fins breaking the water and the occasional splash as they jumped up, until they disappeared around the corner of the Berg. It was the best remedy for a tired body and the rest of the creels went by without so much as a thought about my sore muscles.

I was so excited and struggling to get the camera on the right setting so I really managed only one good photo

As the weeks have gone by Jamie and I have been shifting our creels around the coast to keep them on fresh ground. Initially we were picking up fleets within about 20 minutes of leaving the boat yard but in the past few weeks the good fishing seems to have moved around the coast and us with it. Now we typically steam out for about 40 minutes before we reach the first fleet. It seems like ground that was dynamite for crab or lobster one day can sour overnight and dozens of creels can come back from the same spot nearly completely bare. Jamie’s attitude towards the sudden changes is matter of fact, he simply gives me the sign and we take a few fleets on board at a time and move them on to a new spot that he’s sure will hold the big Geamuchs (Lobster in Gaelic and arguably one of Jamie’s favorite words, I think it sounds much nicer than “lobster”…especially in a thick Scottish accent). On Tuesday as we made our way around the coast towards Ardtun I was sitting on the side next to the wheel house sipping my morning coffee out of the little blue flask I found buried among all of the randomness that is any given draw in the croft. I enjoy these longer morning steams as it gives me time to take in the morning scenery, wake up and mentally prepare myself for the tough physical day ahead. I am always amazed by the landscape along this coast as it is nothing like that of the Berg just on the other side of the Loch. While the Berg juts dramatically out of the ocean, cliffs rising for hundreds of feet, the Ardtun side is cut of the same black volcanic rock one would find out at Staffa (or for those not familiar with this area think of the Giants Causeway in Ireland) and is relatively low but no less impressive. The most amazing sights are seen from a boat and as a result I think very few people actually see them. The shoreline is dotted with sea caves and amazing rock features shared only by the birds and seals.

One of the more impressive sea caves along the Ardtun shore

Despite seeing this very shoreline almost every day as we pass along I find my eyes always glued to it and I pick up on something different each time. On this particular day as we passed a small outcropping of black rock made an island by the high tide I noticed something sitting on the rocks. It looked almost like a small child hunched over, wearing a huge winter coat. As I looked longer I realized it was a bird. I pointed it out to Jamie and he immediately recognized it as a Sea Eagle. It was another fantastic sighting for me as this type of eagle is notoriously shy and its mottled colors make it very able to blend into its surroundings…or look like a small child to confuse would be bird watchers. It seemed to realize the minute we saw it and took flight just as I was trying to snap a few pictures. I watched it fly low and close to the shoreline until it passed, chased by a couple of angry little birds obviously protecting nearby nests, over the headland and out of sight. Two days and two rare sightings…the week had started well despite the twelve hour days that had come with it all.

The Sea Eagle after thinking he had escaped us was none too pleased that we had again found him

Aside from seeing some amazing creatures during the week I also had the pleasure of enjoying some culinary rarities dredged up with our creels. The first came only hours after our encounter with the sea eagle. We were way up near the head of the Loch where we have a few fleets of creels, which we only usually haul a few times a week. On this occasion the soak time had been made longer by a day of high wind that kept us ashore and so the creels were coming up draped in Kelp and other seaweed. This always makes for slow going as we have to clear the ropes of all the weeds that have wrapped around them. As one especially overgrown creel bumped over the side I notice a large shell attached to one of the pieces of Kelp. I picked it up and realized that it was a native scallop and a fairly large on at that. Normally to get such a scallop one would have to dive for them so we were certainly lucky to have pulled one up. Jamie suggested we cook it right there on the boat using the small gas stove on board, I’m not sure I could have imagined a better way. He pried open the shell and disposed of the undesirable inner parts leaving only the pale colored flesh that most people are used to seeing in gourmet restaurants along with the bright orange row. As far as cooking was concerned we simply left everything in the shell and put that right on the stove. A few minutes later we were enjoying a pre-lunch snack that was more commonly suited to a five-star hotel than a lobster boat…we definitely had it right though.

I love scallops but nothing I'd had before even came close to this one, really big, really tasty and the freshest possible...eaten within 5 minutes of being caught. This is whats inside minus all the guts.

The very next day along the Berg we hauled in a massive spider crab with a creel. These are wild looking creatures with long legs and a talent for disguise. They have very small claws and so have to rely on their camouflage to blend into the rock and weed. I decided that this particular spider crab looked far too tasty to pass up and so I tossed him into a vacant fish box to take home for my dinner. Most of the good eating in this kind of crab is in the legs much like the king crab that has been made famous on television. They are much thicker than those on either the brown crab or lobster and the meat inside is basically somewhere in-between the two in terms of texture and taste. It was a much richer taste than brown crab but not quick as good as lobster. I don’t think these are heavily fished and my guess is that’s because they would be very hard to target and catch with the creels. They wouldn’t be able to defend themselves against most of the other creatures we get in the creels and I think we only got him because the creel was covered in a lot of seaweed that he was able to hide in. With no cover I can’t see a spider crab trying his luck in the creel. This is the only one we have caught that is even remotely large enough to consider eating; most of the others have been barely the size of a cork. His body was easily as large as my hand and the legs were about 6 inches long.

The spider crab...yum!

All in all it was a week of many firsts and plenty of entertainment to go along some really physically hard days working on the boat. I guess in these kinds of weeks one should never expect that the excitement is over but that’s exactly what I’d done when we stopped off on Friday afternoon on our way back home to do a quick spot of mackerel fishing. Just as we were setting our lines out I heard a loud snort from behind us and briefly saw two dolphins crest out of the water. I watched for a minute but never saw them reappear. Moments later everything was silent, which you’d think would be a wonderful thing…wonderful, that is, unless you are on a boat that never has the engine off from the time you set off until the time you secure the last rope at the mooring and go home for the night. Silence for us has only one meaning; something is wrong. The expletives from Jamie confirmed my concerns and he began fiddling with the controls in the wheelhouse, trying to get the engine turning again. All I could hear was the sustained beep that usually immediately precedes the rumble of the engine beginning to churn, but on this occasion no rumble came. Opening the engine a quick investigation led Jamie to the conclusion that one of two things had happened; either a fuel filter or line was blocked or, we had run out of diesel. It turned out that the later was true and it happened to be the one time that we didn’t have the customary spare canister of fuel with us. Fortunately it was a very calm day and there was little danger of our being run aground on the rocks despite the fact that we were only a hundred yards off a small island where we had planned to fish. After a few minutes spent on our hands and knees trying to eek what little fuel was left in the lines down to feed the big Kubota diesel we realized that it was a losing battle. I happened to notice one of the other Bendoran boats on the horizon heading for the boat yard and Jamie quickly identified it as the Sgian, which was skippered (and run entirely alone) by Andy, the fisherman who had given us the suggestion of fishing the Berg. Jamie was able to raise Sgian on the radio and before long I watched as it peeled off its route and headed straight for us.

Sgian to the rescue

After securing a rope between the two boats Andy began towing us back into the yard. It was certainly not the way I expected to arrive back into the mooring on a Friday after a weeks fishing with the weekend off to look forward to and I’m sure it was a slightly embarrassing experience for Jamie to not have had spare fuel onboard but its not something I’ve seen him do before and I’m sure he won’t let it happen again. Andy was nonchalant about the help and repeatedly shrugged off our expressions of gratitude, simply saying “Ach, ‘twas no bother atall.” He did accept the lobster we offered him as we motored back to shore past where he was fixing the ropes to Sgian after all was said and done, Arianna back safely on the mooring. “Aye I suppose a lobster would do me well, I’ve got me two cousins in for tea tonight,” was all he said with a smile. As far as friends and foes go in the fishing world it seems when it comes to a fisherman needing a hand in a tight spot any of the others are prepared to drop what they’re doing and do what they can to help. It definitely adds a new dimension to the sometimes fierce and occasionally personal competition that exists on the water.

Arianna being towed into the boat yard by Sgian