Diary of a Deckhand - June 2008

Lyness was once a bustling town, nissen hut streets and khaki clothed servicemen and women doing their bit to keep the home fleet up and running, defended from the seas and skies.

Now it is silent except for the noise of the wind in the grass and the birds in the air.

Railway lines lie rusting in the quayside, guns salvaged from the German Fleet point at nowhere in particular and the hum bumble bees has replaced the hum of aeroplane engines. Grass grows long and lush, filled with wild flowers adding an almost hidden splash of colour.

Nature has begun to reclaim the island, taking back what was only really ever on loan.

Orchid


My obsession with daisies


And again


The air raid shelter is somewhere i had never ventured, but today we went for a wander down inside the dark tunnels. Grassed over bumps on the otherwise flat area betray the presence of something, although quite what is not clear. Descending down the narrow damp enterance the dark gives way to a half light within the mostly dry interior. A sign stencilled onto the concrete so many years ago is still readable, as is the arrow directing people inside the safety of 10 inches of concrete. A red line painted on the wall indicates the boundary of safety, beyond this you are in danger. Slowly decaying stretcher hooks protrude from the smooth gray walls. Walking along the narrow tunnel light enters via a series of skylights, open holes to the air above our heads. A small offshoot room with corrugated concrete walls is a mystery - what was it? A hospital? An office? A co-ordination centre. From the outside it was hardly obvious what a long structure was down here, and finally the exit appears, the small ramp letting us out into the warm air. I feel like i have just walked through the belly of a giant sleeping snake.
Inside the air-raid shelter.

The wind flings salt spay into my face and I turn too late to shield myself from yet another wave as it smashes into the heaving hull. Ominous grey clouds soar overhead and the familiar patter of rain onto my hood precedes the inevitable drips down off the peak and onto my nose.
Coming alongside the diver they periodically disappear beneath the raging surface as the crest of a mountain of water passes them by. I feel the deck heave under my feet and we roll until sea comes onto the deck, considering the gap between the water and the deck is usually around 4 feet, you can get an idea of how much we are moving.

The MV Radiant Queen coping admirably with the sea conditions




In the galley chaos reigns, the door on the fridge having swung open and it deposited its contents on the floor which are now rolling back and forward like some edible line dance to an unheard tune. Water slops out of the bowl in the sink, the washing up abandoned and the suds gradually being washed away. Drips from the tap actually miss the bowl, falling so far from straight down they land on the draining board. The rhythmic squeal of the lorry tyres strung on chains down our sides as fenders ebbs and flows with each wave, the tortured sound adding yet another layer to the whole thing. Out on deck a totally giddying experience is to look at the top of the mast as we take a wave, although I can only do this for a few seconds it is very surreal. Also when we go over a large wave if you jump just as the boat reaches the point of coming down from climbing the mountain you can get some serious air!

Just so you know this was last week, not March!



The rain is not quite as cold as usual.
Gales come only twice a month or so, rather than once a week.
You still find it funny that “Britain battered by freak gales” causes chaos, while up here its a “wee bit windy”.
You get both sunburn and windburn all at once.

But whatever its doing, Orkney remains (in my slightly biased view) the most beautiful place in the world (and there is no such thing as bad weather only bad clothing!)