Village Bay, St Kilda, Scotland
Rescue at Sea
Story and Photos By Linda N. Cortright
Before 1930, the archipelago of St Kilda was the most remote inhabited place in the British Isles. Today, that dubious distinction now belongs to Fair Isle. Located 45 miles west of the Isle of Harris, St Kilda is a relatively tiny lump in the Atlantic Ocean occupied by thousands (in fact, close to a million) seabirds, hundreds of sheep, and a handful of humans who work for a defense contractor monitoring the island’s missile detection system.
On the morning my small expedition vessel arrives in Village Bay it is cold and wet, but the seas are relatively calm. We are the first ship able to drop anchor in the past eight days. Indeed, reaching St Kilda requires not only navigational expertise but a large dose of luck. For nearly three hours I tramp through a chapter in history so extraordinary, UNESCO has awarded St Kilda a double citation for both cultural and environmental importance. The single lane of stone dwellings along the Main Street are called cleits. Most of the roofs are gone and the doors as well. Outside some of the homes, a small piece of slate rests on the ground by the entry listing the family name, number of children, and date it was last occupied. To me, it feels like a variation on a tombstone, and yet St Kilda is very much alive. With the spring rain comes spring lambs who furtively dash about the ruins like an ovine version of hide-and-seek. An array of guillemots, storm petrels, and shearwaters fill the skies, while others make their nest along the few remaining sod roofs.
An old stone home (cleit) in Village Bay. Note the slate to the right of the doorway
Marital discord
No. 10., The Gillies (John and Mary), and son Norman
Until the evacuation, humans had managed to survive on Hirta (the main island in St Kilda) for 2,000 years. Contrary to many islands that depend on the bounty of the sea, St Kildans relied on the bounty of the cliffs. Equipped with a fishing pole in one hand with a noose tied at the end, men repelled over the islands’ precipitous drops, snapping the necks of nesting seabirds—providing their own rope didn’t snap as well.
It seems like some measure of karmic justice that after centuries of ruthless (but, understandable) predation by humans, it was onboard my ship that the scales of justice slowly turned.
Guillemot in flight.
Housekeeping along the cliffs could use some improvement
Late in the afternoon, when it is still quite bright in the northern hemisphere (sunset begins sometime after 10 pm), we set sail for the Isle of Lewes. Village Bay was barely a speck in our wake when Hannah Lawson, our expedition leader (par excellence) spotted a raft of gannets squabbling loudly on our port side. Looking very much like a cluster of slightly fancy seagulls (the preferred wording for a non-birder), they splashed and dove about the water like some kind of aquatic brawl. Within moments, Hannah identified the source of the skirmish, a long piece of polypropylene rope—translation: plastic.
Surmising this colorful cord to be a type of nesting material, the birds were fighting furiously to harvest a scrap or two. Not only does the rope not unravel easily (it’s not supposed to) but what few scant shreds that do breakaway are nothing short of deadly. Once carried back to the nest, small chicks attempt to ingest the man-made material whereupon they often choke and die. Plastics of any description are no friend to sea life; a reality that continues to extend and worsen throughout the planet.
What to do when a 250-foot ship encounters a 6-foot lethal line? You throw the engines in reverse and pick it up. Well, not exactly. With a ship to rope ratio of 40:1, 20 knot winds, swells churning like a witch’s cauldron, the captain had his work cutout for him, while those of us who were amply clad in our foul weather gear and everything wool, anxiously watched from the outside deck. I’ll be honest, it was difficult at times to hear the birds shouting above the engine noise and blasts of wind pelting my eardrums, but as we got closer they flew off, leaving the line in plain view.
Now, the captain had to maneuver the ship close enough for the Chief Officer (who had now descended a ramp through the shell door above the open sea) to reach over and grab it with a gaffing hook—without falling into the sea himself, and before the rope was sucked under our hull. In my estimation, there was about a seven-second window of opportunity to reach, stab, and grab.
The maneuver was successfully completed, which is not to say the Chief Officer didn’t break a sweat. But with the offending line safely onboard, a huge round of applause erupted before we all dashed back inside, content in the knowledge that even small acts of kindness are of great importance.
The battle continues
Success, thanks to Captain Valerey on the Ocean Nova and the Chief Officer
