Page 43 of The Sky Beneath Us
I pore over the chart and when I look up again Jack is sitting looking at me, his expression inscrutable. ‘What?’ I say, wondering whether I have a remnant of my airline meal on my face or something.
He smiles. ‘You look good, Daisy.’
‘Iamgood,’ I reply. ‘It was an incredible trip.’
To my surprise, because Jack McKinnes has never been one for displays of emotion, he reaches over and takes my hand in his. ‘You’ve always looked good to me, Daisy Laverock,’ he says. Then he clears his throat abruptly and gets to his feet. ‘Well, I’d better start making ready for the off. And you’ll probably be wanting a shower and a freshen-up after your travels. I’ve put a towel in the heads for you.’
I watch as his legs disappear up through the companionway and hear his footsteps moving across the deck above me. Then I shake my head, down the remainder of my mug of tea, and go to delve into my pack for some washing things.
We cast off and manoeuvre out of the marina. Then Jack cuts the engine, and I help raise the mainsail asSkylarkheads down the Clyde on the ebb tide in the early-evening sunshine.
I’m still feeling a sense of overwhelm as I try to absorb all that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. How can I have journeyed from a Sherpa village perched high in the Himalaya, via two helicopter rides and two international flights, to find myself sailing down the Scottish west coast at sunset? I’ve been running on adrenaline and now the sudden peace and quiet leaves me feeling a little dizzy and disorientated. I’m sure the jet lag on top of all that air travel doesn’t help either.
As we head towards the rugged outline of Arran, I move forward to sit in the bow, trying to ground myself a little as I watch the water part effortlessly before us. When I close my eyes, I imagine I’m listening to the mountain wind blowing down the Khumbu valley and I think of Themi, Pema, Tashi and Dipa, wondering what they’re doing. I glance at my watch and realise it’s the middle of the night in Nepal, but I can still hear their voices and the sound of their laughter, which seems to warm me from within.
I think I must drift off for a while because the rattle of the anchor chain wakens me with a start. And when I open my eyes, I think I must still be dreaming because there in front of me is a skein of Buddhist prayer flags, fluttering on the breeze.
We’ve turned into Lamlash Bay, between Arran and Holy Isle, and Jack is preparing to moor up for the night. He points towards the prayer flags with a grin. ‘Thought it might be best to ease you back in gently. There’s a Buddhist community here on Holy Isle.’
We anchor off, keeping a safe distance from the island communities on either side of us. I make a feeble attempt to be useful, but I’m so tired I can hardly stand. It’s flat calm but I still feel as if the deck is rolling beneath me and I stagger slightly, steadying myself against the mast as I make my way to the stern.
‘Supper?’ Jack asks. ‘Or are you just ready for your bunk?’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a rueful smile. ‘I’m not very good company, am I? I think I’ll just head for bed. I’ll be a bit more with it in the morning, I promise.’
I brush my teeth and crawl headfirst into my narrow berth. And the last thing I hear is the quiet slap of the wavelets against the hull and the calling of the seabirds, as the sea rocks me gently off to sleep.
I wake early, to the rattle of the kettle on the hob and the click-click-whoosh of the gas being lit, and climb out of my bed into the cabin.
‘You slept well,’ Jack says, as he puts out some things on a tray for our breakfast.
The dawn is still and quiet up top, the only sounds the creaking of the anchor chain and the faint tap-tap of the rigging against the mast. We sit, nursing our mugs between our hands, watching the first rays of the sun spread across the eastern horizon. The prayer flags on Holy Isle wave in the breeze, and I picture the ones at Phortse waving in return from the other side of the globe. It’s comforting to think how they link us across the miles, like the lines on a family tree.
Jack checks his watch. ‘Right, the tide’s slack now so we should be able to get round the foot of Arran to catch the flood. Let’s get underway.’
We carry the breakfast things down below to wash them and stow them safely away. Then we raise the anchor and motor out from behind the shelter of Holy Isle, into open water. We hoist the sails, making good progress, and the tide and wind are with us as we round the Mull of Galloway, whereSkylarkspreads her wings and begins to fly.
I’m glad to be ending my journey like this, having a little more time to let myself catch up. It’s another sort ofbardo, I think, another period of transition from one stage of life to the next. Then a thought occurs to me. I count the days on my fingers. In two more it will have been forty-nine days since Davy’s death. I’ll get home just in time to be with my family for the final day, when his soul leaves us for good.
Instead of making me sad, though, the realisation makes my heart lift. I get the strong feeling Davy is still here with me today, seeing me safely home one last time. And I laugh through my tears, knowing how he’d approve of my mode of transport.
Jack nudges my arm. ‘Here, take the helm for a while?’
I nod, stepping up to the wheel, being careful to keep us on course as he goes forward to undo the fastenings on the headsail, letting it unfurl, and as it balloons outwards it gives us another couple of knots of speed.
‘You okay there?’ he asks, coming back to stand beside me.
‘All good,’ I answer.
He checks our heading and puts his hand over mine on the wheel to adjust it slightly. ‘Stay on this reach for a bit, then we’ll begin our tack to get into the Sound of Islay.’ I nod, noticing that he doesn’t take his hand off mine straight away, but leaves it there, giving it a gentle squeeze. It feels good, the warmth of his fingers enclosing mine. Without saying a word, I incline my head to lean it against his shoulder and we sail on like that for a few minutes, closer than we’ve ever been before. So that’s another thing this pandemic has brought us, I think: this new closeness.
And, of course, he’s always been like a brother to me.
I’m glad Jack seems to share my sense that there’s no need to say much yet. He’s probably got out of the way of making conversation, anyway, after all those weeks alone on the ocean. I think we bothfeel that, instead of talking, all we need to focus on at the moment is sailing on across the wind-whipped waters, heading for home.
Many hours later, we slip into the narrow bay off Mull where we’ll anchor up for the night.
It’s a natural anchorage, usually popular with other yachties, Jack tells me, but this evening we have it to ourselves. Beyond the headland, the white sands of Iona glint silver against the sapphire sea. The stones of its ancient abbey, outlined against the setting sun, watch on silently as we take down the sails and slip into the inlet, gliding slowly through a narrow channel between pink-hued rocks.
