The Ferry to Skye – Part 1: Sea Mist

The fog came down over the Sound of Sleat at dawn, thick and white and silent. Mhairi stood at the rail of the ferry with a small wooden box wrapped in a tartan scarf, and could not see the water, or the island, or anything at all beyond the edge of the boat.

The horn sounded, long and mournful. The engine shuddered and stopped.

"Fog," said a voice beside her. "We'll be here a while."

She turned. A man was standing at the rail a few feet away, in a heavy oilskin coat and a woollen cap, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. He had weathered features, a short grey beard and eyes the colour of the sea in winter.

"I know the crossing," said Mhairi. "I've been coming to Skye my whole life."

"Then you'll know we're stuck," said the man. "I'm Fergus. I fish out of Armadale. I'm very bad at being patient in fog."

"I'm Mhairi," she said, and looked down at the box in her hands.

Fergus's gaze moved to it, then back to her face. Something in his expression softened.

"That's your grandfather," he said.

She was startled. "How do you know?"

"Because I knew him," said Fergus quietly. "Calum Macleod. He used to sail the long boat out to Rum with me, when the weather was fair and the fish were stupid. He talked the whole way, and never once let me steer."

Mhairi's throat tightened. She had not expected to find anyone on this ferry who remembered her grandfather as a man rather than a memory.

"He talked the whole way home from the funeral too," she said. "He told me about the boats and the storms and the time he fell in the harbour in his best suit."

Fergus laughed, a short, startled sound that rolled out over the grey water.

"That was me," he said. "He pushed me in, for stealing his biscuits."

"I think he told that story too."

"Then he told it wrong," said Fergus, but his eyes were bright. "He always did."

They stood at the rail as the fog swirled around them, the ferry rocking gently on the swell. The horn sounded again, somewhere far away. The mist was cold and wet on their faces.

"Can I ask you something?" said Mhairi.

"Yes."

"What was he like, out on the water? I never saw that side of him."

Fergus was quiet for a long time. He turned his mug in his hands and looked out at the grey nothingness beyond the rail.

"Patient," he said at last. "Patient with the sea. He used to say the sea wasn't angry, only very large, and you had to be patient enough to be small."

Mhairi laughed through her tears. "That sounds like him."

"You've got his laugh," said Fergus.

"Can I ask you something back?"

"Anything."

"Would you come with me to the place where he wanted his ashes scattered? I don't know the water. I'd like someone who knows it to stand beside me."

Fergus's face softened, slowly, into something warm and steady.

"Yes," he said. "But only if you let me steer."

"Deal," said Mhairi, and a small, shaky smile touched her mouth. "Green?"

"Green," said Fergus. "Very green. Now hold on to your tartan, lass. The fog's lifting, and I think the island's about to show off."