« Farmers Mercats n Open Doors | Main | Are Educators Hostile to Wikipedia? »
September 27, 2005
Scotch Broth
 |
Walking the causeway from Fingal's Cave on the isle of Staffa |
So here I am heaving over the starboard side getting bitch-slapped by the sea spray coming off those eight-foot waves.
The ship's mate lays a hand on my shoulder. "Eets only teen mur minutes oov theez waves," he says. "Whin we git ta Iona, the sea flattens oot."
He's too young for his wind chapped face, but he's a handsome enough Scot. I'm not really looking at him though. I'm trying to make sure the vomit doesn't get into my pigtails.
"Yu'v git the best seat in the hoose here." He points to the horizon, "Jist keep yur head up."
I nod and lie that I'm all right. In actuality I feel like my head is being flung around inside a centrifuge - at a rate awkwardly out of step with the motion of the boat. As soon as the ship's mate walks back into the cabin I drop my head over the rail again. A wave clocks my left cheek; that's going to sting later.
We've been up against this storm for about 15 minutes now. I'd go inside out of the rain but there's nowhere to puke in there. We just came from the Scottish island of Staffa - a tortured rock of basalt carved and sculpted by the same current that is now pounding me. The island looks like a colossal church organ with broken pipes coming out of black cliffs.
I'm trying to decide if it was worth it - getting tossed around in this bath toy and soaked by the rain and waves. Staffa is a haunting sea-battered rock, especially in a rainstorm. Fingal's Cave, the cavernous centerpiece of the island accessible only by a slippery cliffside path, inspired Mendelssohn to write his Hebrides Overture. Unfortunately, the main thing it inspired in me was a desire to call for a rescue helicopter. In retrospect, maybe it'll be worth it.
Susanne before and after Staffa
I feel my teeth beginning to itch, like they're being corroded by a mixture of stomach acid and salt water. I'm sporting a yellow slicker that the ship's mate lent me. I look like the Gorton's Fisherman - except he was never this green. The slicker's hood scrunches above my eyebrows, encouraging the cold rain to gush down my face and channel down my chest. A poor design for a raincoat, I think, but then it is keeping me from vomiting on my clothes.
As the sea cracks me across my cheek again, I try to convince myself that it's always worth it in retrospect. All the same, I'm wondering if maybe I'm not as hardy as I used to be. Then I stop myself - to throw up again first of all - but also because I know this storm would have kicked my ass 10 years ago.
The waves wash my face clean, and as I pull my head up again, I see land. We're pulling into the island of Iona. Thank God. -Susanne
Posted by acarvin at September 27, 2005 3:22 PM
Listen to a computer-generated podcast of this article
