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!