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.