The furrowed sea was lit blue by the sun. Twinkling, winking, tempting, seductive. But with the wind at its back it remained a deadly barrier, a prison wall. We had gone five days without a boat to the island. No visitors nor any chance to leave. Stuck as we were with the same faces, same views, same boundaries. Given time any beautiful view will fade. It becomes broken down into its constituent parts; a sheer cliff, turbulent waters. Beauty in modern eyes was dangerous territory to past inhabitants of this land.
I was learning about freedom. The physical barrier of Jack Sound has grown into a mental one. The lack of boats means a lack of freedom of opportunity. You can't go shopping, go to the pub, go for a curry, go for a walk somewhere new, go and see old friends. When the boats run daily you can do these things. You normally don't but the opportunity exists in physical form. Having that escape route created a delicious freedom of thought in my mind that prevented it from being starved due to island life. But now there was no boat.
Despite the wind our island cage was often warmed by the sun. Walking round the empty paths even felt liberating at times. I belted out songs I was listening to on my iphone, something I'd never subject other people to. I had time to explore hidden crags and peer over cliffs I'd not approached before. I ran too, burning off frustrated energy, captivation, isolation and dulled motivation.
Finally the wind ceased. The boat nudged its way past the far headland out into the sound, its blue hull slowly slapping the waves out of its course. It rolled and bent with the tidal floes and eddies, calmly steering into the haven and approaching the landing in a relaxed manner, unrealising that she was the key to unlocking my caged mind. That she was Pandora. That she was a spectre of freedom.
With more bad weather forecast I took the opportunity to leave for the night. I had plans to go out for dinner, go to the supermarket and enjoy those little slices of normal life. But first I had a score to settle with the sea.
After a short drive I found myself skipping down a dusty grass path to the cove, my longboard squeezed under my right arm, my eyes squinting hopefully at lines in the water. I bounced over the slippery rocks to the sand, pausing briefly to zip up my wetsuit and quickly stretch my back. Three of four surfers were struggling with a consistent but weak wave at the south side of the cove. But at the north end a rip current was helping form a shapely wave breaking close to the rusty ruins of a collapsed sandstone cliff. I paddled north, through the litter of the storm; broken bladderwrack, strips of laver and a brown sludge of seaweed that had been torn from the rocks.
A set of waves approached, catching my attention as they lurched over an outer sand bank. They moved towards me, steep silver shapes in the glare of the evening sun. I picked a wave and caught it, my board gliding with more and more speed. The wave lined up small and steep in front of me. One step forward, then another. Toes shuffling to the edge of the board. In a moment the board disappeared entirely from the experience and I was flying weightless and free, just me and the sea. I fell in love with the sea, my captor, once again. I was dancing atop my prison's walls.
With a satisfied fatigue I climbed the slow path to the car park. I realised I was completely relaxed, having released all that pressure that had built in my mind. After a cosy sleep in the back of the car, I crept outside to meet an autumn chill at half past five the next morning. Smaller waves broke in the bay, whilst my wetsuit dripped cold after the nights rain. I crawled back into my sleeping bag smiling. Although I'd decided not to surf that morning, the point was that I'd decided. I finally had the freedom to choose. I could have gone surfing right then and there. I could have.
Sunday 17 August 2014
Monday 11 August 2014
Storm Diaries Day Three
The soft earth was clinging to my feet. Or at least it felt like it through my heavy legs. Cold air driven from the north scratched my throat while the sun drilled into my skin. I kept running. A quick glance at my watch spurred me on. Faster. Up hill, up rocky path, round stumbling corners and over bracken covered burrows. This was a great idea, I though. A wild way to tackle a wild day.
The coffee dregs of three mugs were the tideline of my productivity for the morning. My diary lay open at a crumpled page with a list of things neatly ticked or crossed off in blue biro. Fresh air and a fresh head was needed by the early afternoon, so I ventured into the wind. The sun surprised me. Warm, strong and comforting, it cut through the fog of the past few days. It felt nourishing and energising after yesterdays brush with Bertha.
I decided a run would be good for me. And now here I was, alone on a headland at the far point of the island. The ocean was malevolently hunched and twisted, spraying the cliffs and rocks with white spite. The bare rock outcrops and walls stood silently in resistance to the winds attempts. But the plants bent willingly, subservient and bowing. Tussocky grasses rippled, small flowers grasped the earth in the withering winds. And all around the gulls maintained their watch, lifting into the air in effortless contrast upon my approach, mocking my clumsy movements in their cries.
I made it back to the farm, nearly sprinting down the cobble track, desperate to record a sub-thirty minute time for my lap of the island. Panting through a smile I recovered sat on the sun-warmed turf. Tired, content and cured from yesterday's laments.
The coffee dregs of three mugs were the tideline of my productivity for the morning. My diary lay open at a crumpled page with a list of things neatly ticked or crossed off in blue biro. Fresh air and a fresh head was needed by the early afternoon, so I ventured into the wind. The sun surprised me. Warm, strong and comforting, it cut through the fog of the past few days. It felt nourishing and energising after yesterdays brush with Bertha.
I decided a run would be good for me. And now here I was, alone on a headland at the far point of the island. The ocean was malevolently hunched and twisted, spraying the cliffs and rocks with white spite. The bare rock outcrops and walls stood silently in resistance to the winds attempts. But the plants bent willingly, subservient and bowing. Tussocky grasses rippled, small flowers grasped the earth in the withering winds. And all around the gulls maintained their watch, lifting into the air in effortless contrast upon my approach, mocking my clumsy movements in their cries.
I made it back to the farm, nearly sprinting down the cobble track, desperate to record a sub-thirty minute time for my lap of the island. Panting through a smile I recovered sat on the sun-warmed turf. Tired, content and cured from yesterday's laments.
Sunday 10 August 2014
Storm Diaries Day Two
August 10th
The rain drummed on the roof. It scratched at the windows and chiselled at the doors. No wind yet, I thought, as I woke. Dull clouds were clinging to the island. Heavy with rain and squashing all energy from the air. Nothing moved except the drops of rain and their echoes in the puddles that had formed in the courtyard of the farm. The sight of it all made me feel lethargic. Sunday morning flatness.
But although these clouds were dramatic in their intense delivery, they were not ex-Hurricane Bertha.
After a coffee I joined the other huddled under the wooden roof. Nobody spoke. No one dared break the stillness of the morning. We watched a troupe of starlings pick their way over the lawn. It had the feeling of being a depressing grey day. Perhaps it is a natural reaction to such stifling weather to resign yourself to laziness.
As we slowly started to clean inside the hostel, the wind made its entrance. Swerving in from the north it whipped up the puddles and ruffled the bracken. It kept increasing in its speed and persistence, slowly tearing apart the mornings grey blanket, leaving scraps of white cloud in an ever more blue sky.
Bertha must have moved to the south, I thought. As it passed in the night it has sucked down cooler air from the north into its wake, creating gale force winds over the island. Although we've been spared the brunt of the storm, the effects on the island (or at least its population) could be worse. We now face a week of strong north west and north winds. These winds push choppy seas into the boat landing, making a voyage dangerous. It appears we may be here on our own for some time.
As the sun emerged, so we did. A quick walk round the island with the volunteers revealed the effects of the rains. Paths have been scoured deeply, their contents lost to the sea. The plants seem trampled as if by some giant. As we staggered into the winds we'd often spot a Manx Shearwater chick out in the open, wind parting its soft grey down to reveal nearly formed flight feathers. As the rains fed the rising water table, these birds have escaped their sodden burrows. Their misery was compiled, however, by the murderous attentions of black-back gulls and ravens waiting for them to emerge. Evidence of a bloody night was strewn about the island. The guilty parties looked on from their perches, unremorseful.
The rain drummed on the roof. It scratched at the windows and chiselled at the doors. No wind yet, I thought, as I woke. Dull clouds were clinging to the island. Heavy with rain and squashing all energy from the air. Nothing moved except the drops of rain and their echoes in the puddles that had formed in the courtyard of the farm. The sight of it all made me feel lethargic. Sunday morning flatness.
But although these clouds were dramatic in their intense delivery, they were not ex-Hurricane Bertha.
After a coffee I joined the other huddled under the wooden roof. Nobody spoke. No one dared break the stillness of the morning. We watched a troupe of starlings pick their way over the lawn. It had the feeling of being a depressing grey day. Perhaps it is a natural reaction to such stifling weather to resign yourself to laziness.
As we slowly started to clean inside the hostel, the wind made its entrance. Swerving in from the north it whipped up the puddles and ruffled the bracken. It kept increasing in its speed and persistence, slowly tearing apart the mornings grey blanket, leaving scraps of white cloud in an ever more blue sky.
Bertha must have moved to the south, I thought. As it passed in the night it has sucked down cooler air from the north into its wake, creating gale force winds over the island. Although we've been spared the brunt of the storm, the effects on the island (or at least its population) could be worse. We now face a week of strong north west and north winds. These winds push choppy seas into the boat landing, making a voyage dangerous. It appears we may be here on our own for some time.
As the sun emerged, so we did. A quick walk round the island with the volunteers revealed the effects of the rains. Paths have been scoured deeply, their contents lost to the sea. The plants seem trampled as if by some giant. As we staggered into the winds we'd often spot a Manx Shearwater chick out in the open, wind parting its soft grey down to reveal nearly formed flight feathers. As the rains fed the rising water table, these birds have escaped their sodden burrows. Their misery was compiled, however, by the murderous attentions of black-back gulls and ravens waiting for them to emerge. Evidence of a bloody night was strewn about the island. The guilty parties looked on from their perches, unremorseful.
Saturday 9 August 2014
Storm Diaries Day One
9th August
My computer screen looked bruised. Blues, purples and reds appeared like welts on the weather forecast. The numbers matching them looked middle aged; 48,42,50 but disguising a menacing reality. Hurricane Bertha, or at least her legacy, was heading for the island tonight. High winds, equatorial rains and a whipped sea would mean our daily boat, the fragile heartstring that connects us to the mainland, would be cancelled. Until further notice.
I checked the date. It still said August. But the horizon read November. Untold millions of water droplets are held in suspense, darkening the skies. That same atmosphere of suspense now permeates the island.
Windows and doors have been checked, closed and locked. Visitors have left. People have left. Only a few staff remained to welcome our arriving weekly volunteers. They landed under a promising sun. We explained. Good humour mixed with nervous smiled responses. If the forecast holds true our weekly volunteers might be here a while longer.
Jason fidgets with his phone, checking the forecast again. He has lived on more remote islands than this one. He has seen worse storms. But you can see that his common sense is fighting an inner battle with anxiety. He needs the forecast to change. He needs to leave next week. Attending a wedding next Saturday is just the first stop on a journey to a warmer Mediterranean island and to his girlfriend.
Me? I've given up caring. All the instincts as a surfer have tried to drive me off the island. Go find shelter, they scream. Go to Tenby, go to Ceiriad! But I'm resigned to riding this storm out from the grandstand of the island. I'll watch the ocean swells overwhelm the resistance of tidal currents. I'll watch them invade the beaches of Pembrokeshire with unseasonal power, marching deep into the coastal reaches of the sea. I'm sure it won't be a wasted voyage. It will be enjoyed, but not by me, not this time.
So for now I fill my mind with preparing the island. We have closed the gates, lashed down gas bottles and tied down wheelbarrows. The boat has been brought onto the slipway and now lounges enjoying a view of a calm North Haven. We check the doors to the boathouse. A squall hits and the first splashed of rain erupt in the dust of the track. I heave myself onto the ripped seat of the old blue tractor. More rain comes. I pull my hood, already damp, over my head. I allow myself a final, wistful, glance at the mainland before starting the engine and starting the long slow rumble up to the farm.
My computer screen looked bruised. Blues, purples and reds appeared like welts on the weather forecast. The numbers matching them looked middle aged; 48,42,50 but disguising a menacing reality. Hurricane Bertha, or at least her legacy, was heading for the island tonight. High winds, equatorial rains and a whipped sea would mean our daily boat, the fragile heartstring that connects us to the mainland, would be cancelled. Until further notice.
I checked the date. It still said August. But the horizon read November. Untold millions of water droplets are held in suspense, darkening the skies. That same atmosphere of suspense now permeates the island.
Windows and doors have been checked, closed and locked. Visitors have left. People have left. Only a few staff remained to welcome our arriving weekly volunteers. They landed under a promising sun. We explained. Good humour mixed with nervous smiled responses. If the forecast holds true our weekly volunteers might be here a while longer.
Jason fidgets with his phone, checking the forecast again. He has lived on more remote islands than this one. He has seen worse storms. But you can see that his common sense is fighting an inner battle with anxiety. He needs the forecast to change. He needs to leave next week. Attending a wedding next Saturday is just the first stop on a journey to a warmer Mediterranean island and to his girlfriend.
Me? I've given up caring. All the instincts as a surfer have tried to drive me off the island. Go find shelter, they scream. Go to Tenby, go to Ceiriad! But I'm resigned to riding this storm out from the grandstand of the island. I'll watch the ocean swells overwhelm the resistance of tidal currents. I'll watch them invade the beaches of Pembrokeshire with unseasonal power, marching deep into the coastal reaches of the sea. I'm sure it won't be a wasted voyage. It will be enjoyed, but not by me, not this time.
So for now I fill my mind with preparing the island. We have closed the gates, lashed down gas bottles and tied down wheelbarrows. The boat has been brought onto the slipway and now lounges enjoying a view of a calm North Haven. We check the doors to the boathouse. A squall hits and the first splashed of rain erupt in the dust of the track. I heave myself onto the ripped seat of the old blue tractor. More rain comes. I pull my hood, already damp, over my head. I allow myself a final, wistful, glance at the mainland before starting the engine and starting the long slow rumble up to the farm.
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