Shaking Hands With History

Recently, I have noticed that most everything written about St Kilda is in the past tense. It’s always “St Kilda was . . .” and never “St Kilda is . . .”

It was an island that managed to sustain a fluctuating population of humans for nearly 2,000 years, and it was a harsh existence. In 1930, the island’s remaining 36 residents— no longer able to sustain themselves—petitioned the government to be evacuated to the mainland. It was a gut-wrenching decision, but it was the only way to survive.

This small archipelago (the most westerly of the Scottish isles) is all but impossible to find on a map. It floats in the North Atlantic like a few crumbs of cake drowning in a puddle of ice cream. Weather data from St Kilda indicates it blows at gale force (>54 mph) at least 75 days of the year, and yet the St Kildans survived for thousands until the old were no longer able manage the rigors of daily life and the young were well, too young.

When I first began researching St Kilda about 15 years ago, the stories read like fiction. My all-too-Westernized mind couldn’t properly grasp their primitive existence, and on Scottish soil no less. It was easier to fathom a scantily clad warrior from Papua New Guinea with a bone stuck through his nose, than a six-year-old named Calum, dangling from a rope (five-hundred-feet above the sea) trying to steal a few fulmar eggs.

Somehow, the weird, the obscure and the peculiar things that happen in a place where you have never traveled seem easier to digest. I had never been to Papua New Guinea nor St Kilda. And frankly, I never thought I would.

Last month, I was chatting with George, a lovely gentleman onboard my trip to the Scottish Isles, which—if Mother Nature cooperated—would include a visit to St Kilda. This man had enough frequent flyer miles under his belt to put my passport stamps to shame, but he had never been to St Kilda and was erupting with excitement at the prospect of finally going. (He had tried and failed on two previous occasions due to bad weather.)

I smile politely as he waxes on about our scheduled destination until he pauses for just a moment and asks, “Have you been?”

“Ah… yes.” I reply in a quiet voice. If I had told the (whole) truth and explained that I went to St Kilda three times last year alone, I suspect our conversation—and any further communication, would have come to a halt. It reminded me of an incident this past winter during my India tour to Ranthambore National Park when my group was divided into two separate jeeps for a tiger safari. Each vehicle went a different direction and at the end of the game drive, one group managed to see a tiger—very good luck, indeed. The other group, however, saw five. It was like winning the safari lottery.

But when we gathered for breakfast afterwards, the “fivers” were so sweetly sensitive to the other group’s one, they barely said a word. Reveling in one's good fortune is frequently off-putting.

By day two of our voyage, the weather on St Kilda didn’t look promising for our scheduled arrival. Our expedition leader elected to rearrange the itinerary specifically to improve our chances of getting there. We would now arrive four days later than planned.

And then, the weather changed again—and so did the itinerary.

Full disclosure, schedule changes on expedition cruises are not uncommon; they are guaranteed, particularly in notoriously challenging seas as this section of the North Atlantic often is. Sometimes changes are no more than a few hours, and sometimes landings are completely aborted. But the itinerary is dictated by safety, not the collective whim of the passengers and their proverbial bucket lists. Therefore, it was to everyone’s great relief that we finally managed to land on St Kilda’s just a few days later than scheduled (not to mention 300 additional miles of fuel consumption as the ship zigzagged about the Hebrides).

Having already written several articles about my earlier visit(s) to St Kilda, I decided I would spend my time specifically trying to get pictures of the Soay sheep along the shoreline. This is not their standard grazing ground and even more reason why I wanted some unusual shots. The shoreline is also far from Village Bay, the ancient settlement where visitors immediately dash like there's a garage sale at Graceland. I ask Sue, the island ranger (a seasonal job, and no small coincidence the same ranger from last year) if there was any issue with my going down to the beach?

“Ordinarily, it would be fine,” she replies. “But the windsock is up because QinetiQ is expecting the helicopter to bring their weekly supplies.”

“Oh.”

St Kilda is now home to QinetiQ, a private contractor for the Ministry of Defence, providing “deep range tracking during exercises such as US-led NATO training.”

For the moment, forget about the ancient settlement. Forget the one million strong seabird colony—the largest of its kind in the north-east Atlantic. Forget that it is one of the few places on the planet that has a double UNESCO rating: one for its cultural heritage, the other for its unique natural features (i.e., the seabirds). And forget that it blows like a gale more than two months of the year. (Did I already mention that?) QinetiQ doesn’t care.

If you’re not familiar with defense contractor lingo, QinetiQ exists because apparently there are greater threats to human life than hanging from a cliff. Their mission includes phrases such as: “It is imperative that equipment and systems within an operational warship have a proven reliability to operate during hostile engagements . . .” And

“ . . . the emergence of anti-ship ballistic missiles and new hypersonic threats in development”

These terms seem incongruous to the longstanding pacifist history of sheep and shepherd. Afterall, we talk about the “Lamb of God” and “The Lord is my Shepherd.” No mention anywhere in the Old (or New) Testament that the Lord is my ballistic missile.

The St Kildans were known as a pacifist, Christian community. It would be reasonable to assume that the thought of a defense contractor monitoring “hostile engagements” from their former homeland might seem not just improbable, but repugnant.

Or maybe not.

On May 15, 19I8, a German U-boat arrived in the harbor at Village Bay and proceeded to bombard the island with 72 shells. The Royal Navy had constructed a signal station on St Kilda to monitor enemy activities and the Germans were keen to destroy it. Instead, they managed to destroy only the wireless station, along with the church, the manse (the house belonging the island’s landlord), the jetty storehouse and one lamb. Not a single human was injured.

As a result of this “hostile engagement” a gun emplacement was installed five months later to protect the St Kildans. But to date, it has never been “fired in anger” and I suspect now that QinetiQ is on the lookout for anti-ballistic missiles and hypersonic threats, it won't be called into service.

But something else fell dreadfully silent after the bombardment. The signal station was the first time the St Kildans had direct means of communication beyond their wind-battered enclave. For years, they had stuffed their letters into a sheep’s bladder (knotted shut with string) and cast it into the sea when the tides were right. Eventually, it would reach the mainland and the letters were posted accordingly. But the wireless station had opened a whole new world and when it was destroyed, their sense of isolation intensified.

In today’s world of 8 billion cranky, angry humans a little isolation doesn’t sound so bad. In 1930, however, there were just 2 billion—a little elbow room wasn’t as hard to come by.

As predicted, when I finally step ashore, everyone from the ship heads towards Village Bay while I head for the rock wall above the beach. As long as the windsock is up, I can’t go down to the water. I have no idea when the helicopter is supposed to arrive, but I hope it’s soon. In the meantime, I plop myself down in the middle of this truly ancient pasture and watch these truly ancient sheep eat, nap and fervently scratch their bum against anything that will help remove their shedding fleece. I suspect it feels twice as nasty as it looks.

Finally, the helicopter appears; I can hear it before I can see it. But the fog has also arrived and there is something quite eerie as this loud, ghostly machine touches down.

I can’t imagine it will stay for long. A group of people quickly begins unloading all manner of boxes and containers, some covered with tarps and some not. Anxiously, I look at my watch. I’m do back onboard in less than an hour.

I need them to hurry-up.

After 40 agonizing minutes, the helicopter finally lifts off. I have little time left for my photo assignment. Just getting through the rocks down to the beach will take 10 minutes each way. And the last thing I want to do is . . . miss the boat.

I believe there is no such thing as a bad trip to St Kilda. The very fact that this is my fourth visit puts me in the same league as the five-tiger safari. And so, I keep my disappointment to myself. Back onboard, everyone is buzzing with excitement at lunch—George, in particular, is smiling broadly.

And then, the most magical thing happened. More magical than sheep on the beach. More magical than the sun now reflecting on the sparkling blue waters. As I write these words, I still can’t believe what happened next.

Sue, the island ranger, had come back to the ship for lunch. Suffice to say the fare onboard is better than what she typically cooks for herself and the team of island volunteers that rotate throughout the summer. In fact, one of the volunteers who arrived just two days ago is with her. I have been told the woman is a St Kildan descendant. I am stunned. I all but sprint to the table and introduce myself (not wishing to intrude) and ask if she might have a few minutes to chat?

Her name is Marion Petschi and she is delighted to chat. She has been volunteering on the island, in part, as a way of connecting with her father who grew up here. I do a bit of fast math; it’s been nearly a century since the island was evacuated, and Marion looks to be sixty-ish. I might have thought granddaughter, not daughter. But as she begins to explain, her father had an atypical career after leaving St Kilda. He went on to become a valet for a prominent family, married late in life and eventually worked at Grosvenor House, a 5-star hotel in London.

And with that, I gasped. “Oh my God, you are Calum’s daughter.” (The boy who hung from the cliff!)

Marion looked at me, equally shocked. How could I possibly know that?

One of the first articles I wrote for the Sunday Read, “From St Kilda to Downton Abbey” was based on Calum MacDonald’s biography, “From Cleits to Castles.” Nearly every page is highlighted in yellow with some of the most captivating stories, not only about growing-up on St Kilda but the life that unfolded on the mainland. I became totally enchanted with Calum. Not only was was his professional career the very antithesis of everything typically ascribed to most St Kildans, like the notorious stench of fulmar oil that no amount of scrubbing would ever get out, but his gentle perseverance and integrity

Initially, I had asked Marion if she could talk for a few minutes? In fact, we chatted for nearly an hour. Interestingly, the very first time she came to St Kilda was to bury her father. Now, both of her parents are buried here.

“Yesterday, I went and sat by their graves; it was such a lovely afternoon. Part of why I volunteer is become some part of me feels like St Kilda is home.”

I smile at the use of the present tense. Yet, as I shake Marion’s hand good-bye, I feel like I am shaking hands with history.

And to think I was going to grab a few pictures of some sheep on the beach and call it a day.