A BIG shout-out today to Captain Andy McCrindle. Commander of the CalMac ferry Hebrides, he was the fellow at whose tender mercies I found myself on Saturday morning when he boldly decided to get me and many grateful others home from Skye.
You see, there was the small matter of a hurricane in the Minch.
Bing bong. Captain Andy first told us he was not taking us to stormbound Lochmaddy first but directly to Tarbert. Great, we’d be home quicker. Then that reassuring Ayrshire voice told us all that, as we could see, it was a bit fresh out there. On the way over, we could expect gale force 10 and occasionally violent storm force 11.
A bit fresh? The breeze you get climbing the hill between Tobson and Bosta is a bit fresh. My wife, after more than one wee Drambuie, gets a bit fresh. What we faced on Saturday was not fresh, it was the mother of all hooleys. Dry-mouthed and trembling, we passengers looked at each other pitifully as Captain Andy cheerily concluded that he hoped we would enjoy sailing with Caledonian MacBrayne.
You know that tightening in the nether regions you get as you go in to the dentist? You don’t get that? Ah well, neither do I, but if I did, I think it would be a bit like I felt then. I could hardly speak.
Putting down my book, Have Fun and Earn £££s – Become a Councillor, I got myself ready for hanging over the side. I was resigned to projectile vomiting of the smoked haddock, poached egg and grilled tomato served up by Bill and Wendy in the Uig Hotel.
But Handy Andy was at the helm. He made that ferry fly, literally at times. Plonking myself with my book in the cafeteria, as I got to the bit on how devoted public servants fiddle their expenses, I realised we were halfway across. I hadn’t even had a wee retch yet.
Maybe it’s because Andy is a golfer. He was skilfully slotting the ship with great precision neatly between the waves and somehow avoiding the rough.
But at 11.46am, with Scalpay sitting on the white-flecked horizon, the first ginormous wave hit. The 300ft ferry was hurled up in the air and then fell quickly with an almighty wallop.
Whoosh. A granny from Edinburgh fell backwards in the aisle, but landed softly, seesawing with her legs high in the air. Seeing her assorted petticoats flapping above her just as I was reading how councillors can claim for even their laundry and dry cleaning was very coincidental, I thought.
There was an almighty clatter as everything small and solid in the galley took flight. Flying pans, forking utensils and false teeth, all in rapid, noisy transit. The roast chicken became unexpectedly airborne before flopping down among the braised sausages and green peas rolling around in the corner.
The floored pensioner was left sprawled as the rest of us gallantly scrambled for the sickbags. She was OK, she shouted up. She had practised falling safely in the services. So she had kept her muscles relaxed as she had skited along the linoleum. Nothing to do with the gin she was smelling of, then.
Calm descended. There was an eerie silence and we all, eventually, began to giggle. Wickedly, the disarray in the galley had lightened our spirits. Even the hardy, trained professionals who sail the route day in, day out were having a bit of angst. So we were all comrades in commotion.
Within minutes, having given the crew just enough time to put back all the pans and ladles and tidy up, another wave struck. It was humungous. Swept skywards, the 5,500-tonne pride of East Loch Tarbert bucked heavenwards then crashed down with a thunderous roar into the deep, deep, foaming, deep briny.
Whoosh. Granny was off again. Catapulted out of her seat, she did a rolling half-somersault, shot across the floor and ended up wedged upside down under the table behind me.
This time, the clatter from the galley and serving area was loud and long. Every teaspoon and spoon must have ricocheted off every wall.
Yet that voyage was not unpleasant. In fact, taking the ferry Hebrides is the way to reach civilisation – for mainlanders, I mean. Captain Andy McCrindle, I hear, is from Girvan, lives on Arran and was deep sea before becoming permanent master of the Hebrides. Would I trust him to care for me in weather any fresher than my wife on Christmas night? Aye aye, Cap’n.
And what of my twice-toppled elderly travelling companion? She made a preposterously fast recovery after a swig of some amazingly restorative clear medicine from a green screwtop bottle she just happened to have with her.