Waypoints by Ian Stephen

Author:Ian Stephen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Berneray to the Monachs

Sealladh popped her nose round the corner out of the Sound of Harris on a very fine evening. Donald was at the helm with seven other souls aboard. Some of the team were his regular crew of Berneray residents. Some were visitors and one of them was me. Both sexes and several nationalities and languages were represented. This was not a crowd in the stout, roomy boat. We were able to proceed under sail but the motor was running for a time. The evenings were long but we hoped to enter Griminish harbour to pitch camp ashore before the short night fell.

Visibility was excellent. The light northerly was just enough to push us clear of the sandy shores of Boreray, left to starboard. These islands, out from the Sound of Harris, are all capped with rich grazings, in comparison to the rocks and heathery turf that root on most of the east side of the Outer Hebrides. Donald knows the Sound of Harris, every reef and rip of it, like the back of his hand but he’d never been in to Griminish. He forgot to mention that. I had been out with him in the Sound several times and got used to him navigating as if by instinct. This trip, I had not thought to study the pilotage in detail, nor key in some waypoints to our hand-held GPS.

The skipper asked me to dig out the pilot book and eyeball the chart. It was the last of the evening light. My eyesight isn’t that great any more so I found my specs and read out the description of the two painted posts we were looking for. These would guide you through the rocks if you kept them in line. Of course, we should have had an electronic waypoint to aim for on the hand-held GPS and a compass bearing to back that up.

The two watchers up front said, aye they could make them out now, white marks. Just as described. ‘That’s them in line now.’ Donald and myself didn’t like the look of the line very much but his eyesight is no better than mine. We inched forwards. I went up to the bow and saw the boiling at a reef not very far ahead and just said quietly, ‘Back her out Donald. Hit reverse now.’

That’s what we did and then we all had a close look, clear of the hazards, to take a new line of approach. The daylight had faded so the leading lights on the true marks became visible. We’d been lined up on a couple of random telegraph poles. Our bowman’s eyes were not much better than my own or our skipper’s. We came in safely then and camped ashore. It was a fine night. We could all cope with the romantic cliché of Eriskay ponies strolling through the sunset until they began to nuzzle the stays of our tents, looking for our sandwiches. The stark shape of the abandoned tall house on

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