The Scottish Exodus

High Seas

20 October 2000
Off the coast of Scotland in the Firth of Clyde
Heading toward Brodick, Isle of Arran

Today is a new day. The boat slowly moves underneath me, back and forth. A small boy, two maybe three, hasn’t got his sea legs yet, so he just fell and smacked his chin when the boat rocked suddenly. I can hear his plaintive wail from over here. Andrea sits quietly next to me, half trying to fall asleep, half trying to not get sick. It’s a nice, sunny day, or at least it was in Ardrossan; in typical Scottish fashion, the weather changed three times on the train from Glasgow.

I don’t ride boats, never really have. I do remember my only and most vivid boat riding memory though. I was perhaps ten maybe older (slightly), and my Grandpa Jack took me with him to visit a friend in Arcadia, Michigan. Marshall to Arcadia is a long, winding drive up the western mitten half of the state, finally ending on the northwestern coast of Lake Michigan, up near the very top. We were there to hang out with his friend and go fishing on the lake. Now, I’d been fishing before, but only in a dingy on a small, listless lake near Marshall. Lake Michigan was a whole different story. The waters were choppy (five-ten foot waves maybe), the boat was rather small (in my mind), and, because I was still a pussy when it came to swallowing pills, I couldn’t take the motion sickness pills my mother gave me. The morning fishing trip was hell, pure and simple. I begged to go back to shore. We eventually came back in for lunch. Grandpa smashed up the pills and mixed them up with some Schuler's Bar Cheese that I ate with crackers. The afternoon was somewhat better.

The ocean has always fascinated me, mostly because the first real memory I have of seeing an ocean was when I was seventeen. We’re passing a fishing boat now with its nets cast and its crew waving. Someone has turned on a television, and the small boy has successfully overcome his momentary pain, though this doesn’t make him any less quiet.

Two things strike me as I watch the Isle of Arran loom in the distance and Scotland fade in the background. The first is the beauty of the expanse around me. Blue skies meet blue seas at the horizon, sun gleaming down. Birds circling in the air while the mists shroud the peek of Goatfell. The other is that this journey of sorts is rather fitting considering the happy news Andrea and I received this morning. My friend Bob, the old stupid Canuck, and his lovely wife Chrystal finally had their first baby, Autumn Grace Marie. She was born last Friday, but we only read e-mail about it this morning. We’re celebrating for you, old friend, riding the high seas to the faraway misty isle. We’ll raise a toast to you and your new gift beneath the crumbling ramparts of Brodick Castle. Perhaps young Autumn needs a baby tartan?

Andrea sleeps now as the boat rocks more and more. I don’t really feel sick, but the tinge is there. I know I won’t throw up though; I mastered the art of vomit suppression long ago.

We needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of Glasgow, away from university instructors who place books on a reading list that aren’t in the library, away from drunken morons stumbling around inner city Glasgow at all hours, tramped up women and boisterous teenage hooligans. This isle will be peaceful, the castle amazing, the people friendly.

And the train tickets were free.

---drew, sailing on to glory, away in a golden dorry...

Copyright ©Andrew D. Devenney, 2009, all rights reserved.