sunwise





Extract from ‘Sunwise’ – an unpublished novel by Ian Stephen


The Hiortaich boarded last of all. They did not look all that comfortable at first. It was well known they only put to sea when conditions seemed ideal. Still they had their losses. They say conditions could deteriorate at the blink of an eye, out there. We were not a light ship now. Our bow line was let go and recovered aboard. We took up our oars to find she could glide, laden or no. A few souls had turned out to wave us off.

Before the tide took a grip of us, Tormod called for the mast to be raised again. There was not much in the way of instruction. He simply trusted that those who had already carried out this task would direct their neighbour in what needed doing. The flood tide curves back eastward, through main passages in The Sound of Harris. Thus the ebb, now begun, would help us out to the west. That said, there are other currents, not so regular. It is always a relief, on these waters, when the current is in fact in your favour.

It is at moments of departure, like this, I feel the barb of loss. A strange feeling to have then, as we were setting out on such an enterprise. This would be my own first landfall at Hirta. I too had been told of the unspeakable height of the cliffs out there, the skills of the bird-men and the strength of a community which could thrive at such a distance from most other societies. We might never get a better day than this. Every summit in Harris was shining. The pastures and tilled beds were bold stripes of a deep green that lay behind the blue-washed green of our sea. There was a mood of readiness. We were true voyagers all and yet I had a knot in the gut that was more than anxiety.


Excerpt 2


Yet here we were in the most suitable of vessels, putting our nose out west in the best of weather and sea conditions. To begin with, Alein rowed stroke with myself athwart him. We were a bit of an ill-matched pair, to share a thwart but we both had plenty of experience behind us in adjusting our natural reach, for the common good. Forward of us, towards the bow, it was the Hiortaich. They went by the names of Murchadh and Niall.

“We shall grant you your favoured place at the tiller, later, Mrs Morrison but for now I would like to show our boy the clearing-marks.”

Tormod did have a weathered old section of chart out of the kist but he did not seem to consult it at this stage. Rather, we were directed by a series of transits, spoken out loud, in Gaelic of course. The water was clear enough to see the submerged reefs with their monk’s head fringes of soughing kelp. Above the surface, it was a cairn of stones here and a beacon of iron there, which guided us to clear water. Murchadh and Niall were both good on the oars but it was really the tide that was doing the job.

“Take her in a shade closer to the flank of Copay,” our skipper advised his nephew. The Temple Rocks, just out from the ruin, would be breaking soon. All these stones and names. These are the only hints left to us of faith and times before.

They were younger than us on the forward thwart but they were tiring now that we were rising and falling on an ocean swell. The inhabitants of every coast have their own ways with the oars, the skills gained over time to deal with conditions. Up in Scarp they do a strange double-stroke. They say that this is the only thing that will drive a boat in the steep high swells you can meet either side of that island. We favour a catch, a kind of surge, applying power at the end of the stroke before a short pause which gives all the oarsmen the chance of a timely recovery.