The White Raven

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:12

The White Raven. The full moon rising out of the sea looked enormous. By all accounts, it could have been the Caribbean, but it wasn't. It was the Outer Hebrides, lying off the northwest coast of Scotland. Our boat, the White Raven, proved ideal for laying lobster creels and exploring the coast around the islands. It cut through the water well, being heavy-built, riding the swell with ease, the small forward covering given some protection from the constant spray and unruly waves. Even on calm days, the sea off the Western Isles had a way of producing big movement, rolling in off the wild Atlantic. So it was a relief to eventually enter the waters of this island lagoon and view the tranquil scene ahead of us. Passing the entrance to the bay, large well-fed seals lifted themselves up half out of the water, like sentinels, guarding their domain. It looked like they were nosily straining to see who we were. Visitors being few and far between in this place. The island had once been home to a hundred people or so who were eventually forced into immigration to make way for sheep. We ran the boat up onto the sandy beach, the kids jumping over the side into the shallow water, pulling on the head rope, hoping to secure a mooring for our overnight stay. The tents were put ashore first, along with the food and bottled water. We set up camp on the upper fringe of the unspoilt beach. The waves tumbled with a lazy, almost hesitant motion, like they were hanging, suspended, before crashing onto the shore. The sound exaggerated against a silent backdrop. The waters in the bay looked aqua blue and green. The visibility seemed endless, enabling us to see shoals of small fish, suddenly catching the light as they made a synchronized turn together. Crabs moving along the bottom, being busy, unaware we were watching them. We gathered rocks and built a fire pit. It was big enough to contain a driftwood fire, heating the food and giving us light and warmth later in the evening. As the sun began to sink back into the western sea, the full moon cleared the horizon. The fire was lit, and the old whistling kettle placed on the top. After tea, we decided it was time to head out and fish beyond the lagoon's entrance, the moonlight now illuminating our way. We prepared our fishing gear and with some effort launched the raven into the bay and out into the open channel. After a short time, a shimmering sound of something lightly bumping against the bottom of the boat could be felt. Older fishermen spoke about the times heron were abundant, bubbling near the surface, and here we were, sitting directly above what felt like a shoal. Feathered hooks were quickly thrown over the side, and no sooner had they hit the water when the heavy tug and pool of fish were filled. All in the line back on board revealed a combination of heron and mackerel. As quick as they had appeared, they were gone. After a few more casts, we headed back towards the shore, happy to have caught our supper. Later, sitting back around the fire, the embers slowly rising towards the starry sky, we cooked our fish and enjoyed the stillness of the moment, unaware at that time of how close we were to what to witnessing great change in the world. Constant messaging, permanent connections, and for many, including ourselves, fewer opportunities to go adventurously missing into places like this would become all too rare. It's strangely comforting to think now that where we sat on the island that evening would have rendered all these things obsolete anyway, its location been outside that world for a time at least. The night produced lots of different sounds, mostly seabirds near and far off, complementing the constant wave, now acting like an ambient sound system on our senses, making sleep inevitable. The children were last to give up the day, laughing and telling stories to each other, until the hour and the sea air called them to sleep as well. Waking with the early light, we stood outside the tent and realized Mink had been sniffing around the covered crate, leaving their paw prints along the wet sand leading to our food box. Fortunately, we'd made sure everything had been secured the night before. One of the opportunistic Mink boldly remained for a moment, a few yards away, standing on the lid of our food box, then suddenly made off along the shore. We had breakfast, and after bringing everything back on board, we launched the White Raven and set sail back across the open sea. After 30 minutes, we arrived at the mouth of the sea loch, where the harbor lay about three kilometers within the estuary. We'd only been a day and night on the island, but it felt longer, as if we knew the place. After a few months, he realized she was still broken-hearted and would never settle with him in Norway. So he decided to return her to her people and the island. Whether a true account or simply legend, it was easy for us to see how strong family ties and this wonderful place would have such an impact on a person. And for a moment, thinking of our own short experience of the island, we understood.