Yesterdays destination was the nature reserve that is the Isle of May, about
an hour and a half by sailboat off the East Neuk of Fife. We were a noisy
party of nine on my chums Sadler yacht-thingie, a mixture of adults, kids
and a cat. Just as we cleared the harbour wall the aforementioned ships
kitty - which had been dancing around on the bow of the yacht - toppled into
the salty, wet, water as we hit a lumpy swell. A shout of "Cat overboard"
was followed by much laughter and a quick 360 (we were under motor). The
unfortunate beast was scooped into a bucket and deposited in the galley to
dry out and ponder the folly of practicing its disco moves too near the edge
of a moving vessel. Apparently it does this fairly frequently, so the
capt'n always keeps a bucket handy just in case...
Capt'n - who was one of my juniors at work and now takes every opportunity
to lord it over me on his smelly yacht - ordered the sails set and vacantly
gazed at his GPS to determine which way to point the thing. Even as a
non-yachtie I could see sail-setting was a pointless exercise as there was
little wind and a heavy sea mist. As visibility was down to about 500m we
prayed he knew what he was doing, lest the next stop was a sandbank off the
Danish coast. After an interminable period motor-sailing, we arrived at
the (very) rocky shore of the Isle of May - actually just off some bloody
great cliffs. You have to creep c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y round the other side of
the island and head for a *very* narrow channel to reach the tiny landing at
Kirkhaven. By this time me 'n' the boys had changed into wetsuits so we
didn't care if the skipper hit a rock, we'd swim to shore OK.
Landing accomplished, the rest of the party wandered off to annoy Puffins
while we stayed to play in the anchorage. The waters were crystal clear,
bloody freezing, but absolutely teeming with strange fish, crawly crabbie
things and angry diving seabirds. Having no weight belts we swam like
corks but, once acclimatised (i.e we'd peed in our wetsuits to warm
ourselves up) the water was quite pleasant. Baby had purchased a snorkel
and was making strange gurgling sounds every time he saw something
interesting. Big boy was trying to look cool as another yacht with a
teenage girl crew member was already in the bay. His day was made when she
called him over and asked him to bring her a crab she's seen scampering
under her yacht. It took him three tries, but it's amazing what he can do
when he's motivated :-)
Feeling sorry for the still-damp feline, we scooped up a flat fishy thing
and deposited it onto the deck of the yacht. Kitty appeared grateful, if a
little perplexed. After a couple of seconds pacing around the beast it
pounced and tried to despatch it to fishy heaven with a telling bite to the
head. Fish was having none of it, and proceeded to thrash around the deck
like a dememted kangaroo, terrifying kitty in the process. We left it to
the gods to decide whether frenzied fish escaped or cat cunning triumphed.
By the time we set off home, all that was left of our fishy friend was a
passable imitation of the fish skeletons you see in comic books. Disco
kitty 1, flappy flat fish 0.
By this time we'd had enough of the wet water so we dried and changed. The
boys decided to run the gauntlet of some angry Arctic Terns and join the
others on their Puffin hunt, while I changed into my running gear and
planned a circuit or two of the islands numerous paths. However, the
resident Ranger took a *very* dim view of this activity and it took me a
full fifteen minutes of argument before he accepted that a running Roger
represented no more danger to the nesting bird population than a walking
Roger.
Now I'd like to report that it was a fantastic run in some beautiful scenery
but, although the sea mist was burning off as the day warmed up, it was
dull, damp and depressing. You couldn't run off-path for fear of crushing
a Puffin in its burrow or stepping on a chick careless deposited by some
stupid seabird. The paths were little more than animal tracks with
carefully concealed holes and rocks in amongst the springy grassy mossy
stuff that covered everything. On the positive side, dumb chicks refused
to move from the path as I ran towards them, thus presenting the perfect
opportunity to practice my rather rusty steeplechase hurdle technique. I
could tell they were impressed. However, all in all, unless you're a
birdwatching fanatic or have access to a wetsuit, the Isle of May only gets
a one-running-shoe rating from Roger. Best give it a miss.
Little did I realise, as we sailed for home, that the next hour was to
present me with my most traumatic experience of recent years. Perhaps,
when I've come to terms with the matter, I'll tell y'all about it. OTOH,
perhaps I won't. Like you care anyway.