PERFECT STORM
Nothing can defeat human spirit and determination, not even the very worst weather Mother Nature can throw our way
Guy Grieve hails the power of human spirit and determination
The run-up to Christmas is a tense period for fishermen. The market is hungry, the chefs are clamouring and the weather is usually dark, depressing and rough. On top of that, we all know that January and February will be slow in terms of sales so we need to make hay while the sun shines (or, more likely, while the wind and rain batters). Every day we can get out is critical and every despatch achieved is a triumph.
In early December last year, we were forecast to be hit by Storm Caroline. The day of our despatch was (of course) due to be the most severe. I called Juliet and suggested we cancel but she begged that we at least try. I called our guys and they each sighed heavily, knowing that the following day Mull was going to resemble an aircraft carrier thudding through a North Atlantic storm. We had secured Helanda in a web of lines alongside the pontoon in Tobermory harbour. That night the winds rose and the waves began to break in the normally sheltered loch just across the road from my house as the high ground accelerated each passing squall.
I sat beside my fire worrying we were being foolish trying to get a despatch out with such a poor forecast. The stakes were high: once the scallops were boxed and packed it would be a disaster if they failed to get off the island. The wind grew, rattling the roof tiles and pushing smoke back down the chimney, to enter the room like a ghost. I grew increasingly anxious. What if there were no ferries or we lost keep nets? What if, what if, what if...?
The next morning at 5am I drove slowly to the pier. Hurricane force winds were forecast for midday. Rain hammered and trees threw their arms about as if begging the storm to spare them. By the time I got to the pier, we were in
the thick of it. The sea was breaking and boiling white below us and threatening to set the pier awash. Our shore manager Grant, a philosophical character, sighed and shook his head, giving me looks that said, ‘You must be crazy’. Meanwhile, his number two, Donnie, swore and smoked and diligently packed scallops as the wind tried its best to tear everything away.
Despite the challenges we managed to box 5,000 scallops and pack them into the van. Only then did we see the message on the Calmac website that the main ferry from Craignure to Oban was off for the whole day. I could see Grant and Donnie waiting for their ‘I told you so’ moment but no, we would not give up.
There was still one chance – the secondary, much smaller ferry that crosses the Sound of Mull from Fishnish to Lochaline. I called our driver Drew, who is based in Oban, and asked him to head to Lochaline. Forty minutes later he called to say the Corran ferry had been cancelled and he would take the long way round the loch, a detour of one-and-a-half hours. So far, the storm was winning.
‘We’ll just go and get in the queue at Fishnish,’ I said, trying not to reveal in my voice that my hope was fading. ‘You never know, they might just go for it.’ Grant and Donnie nodded, but clearly thought this was all a waste of time.
We pulled up at Fishnish at the end of a Soviet-era column of waiting cars. I scanned the queue and could see the first in line was a mobile home and trailer. If the ferry did just one dash across, as I thought was likely, I could see we were not going to get on it. I thought about all of our divers needing paid, the desperate chefs and the incredible work of Donnie and Grant, took a breath and walked quickly over to the mobile home. An august-looking man slowly rolled down the window with an expression of consternation.
‘I’m really sorry to ask you this and please don’t feel in any way under pressure…’ I resisted falling to my knees but came pretty close as I explained our plight, rounding off by asking him, with some embarrassment: ‘ Would you mind giving us your place?’ He thought for a moment, then smiled and said, ‘Sure!’
He moved his vehicle and we manoeuvred our van into his space. I could not believe it. I was stunned, and deeply grateful. I learnt later that he was a farmer and well-aware of the trials and pitfalls of running a rural business.
And then, like the Flying Dutchman, we saw the Lochaline ferry braving the turmoil and powering across towards us. With huge skill the local captain, Bodie, a man of great intelligence and ability, who no doubt regards bad weather as just another move across the chess board from his wily adversary, angled the ferry onto the slip just right and we were quickly herded on with waves breaking all around and even hitting the side of the van.
With incredible relief, I handed the van over to Drew at Lochaline. We had made it against pretty much all the odds. What felt so good was that our success was due to so many people working together, creating an alternative warm front against the storm. Grant and Donnie had not put a foot wrong organising and packing a complex despatch for our tribe of picky chefs, despite having to operate within a wave-strewn, icy wind tunnel. Drew, our driver, had never once stopped being positive, even though he’d had to make a long and tortuous detour.
And then – the icing on the cake – a generous and experienced man had, with great grace and magnanimity, given us his highly-prized place in the ferry queue. And finally Bodie, with his flawless seamanship, had provided the last stepping stone on the path to our market.
As ever, we see in small actions just how much the collective is capable of in the remote parts of rural Scotland.
‘The sea was breaking and boiling white below us and threatening to set the pier awash’