The Ferry at the End of the World

If Glastonbury is where the Earth dreams, Orkney is where it wakes up and punches you in the face with a gale-force wind.

Getting here from Somerset was less of a "commute" and more of an Odyssey. It took two days. It involved a train to London, the sleeper train to Inverness (which sounds romantic but mostly involves trying to sleep while rattling at 70mph in a cupboard), a bus to the very tip of the Scottish mainland, and finally, the ferry across the Pentland Firth.

It feels like I’ve fallen off the edge of the map.

The crossing was rough. The ferry pitched and rolled through grey swells that looked heavy enough to crush a building. About halfway across, we passed the "Old Man of Hoy"—a massive sea stack of red sandstone rising 450 feet straight out of the ocean. It looked terrified and majestic all at once, a lonely sentinel guarding the approach to the islands.

I tried to consult my new manager, the quartz pendulum, about the likelihood of me throwing up. This was a mistake. Because of the swell, the crystal swung like a wrecking ball. It nearly took out a tooth. I pocketed it. The answer was clearly "Yes, if you don't get some fresh air immediately."

I staggered out onto the deck. The wind out there was unbelievable—clean, freezing, and smelling of salt and diesel.

That’s where I met Ewan.

He was standing at the rail, wrapped in layers of wool and Gore-Tex, holding a pair of binoculars that were held together with black electrical tape. He wasn't looking at the horizon; he was tracking something in the air.

"Fulmar," he said, without looking at me. He pointed a gloved finger at a grey-and-white bird banking effortlessly off the updraft of the ship. "Tube-nose. They spend their life at sea."

I huddled into my scarf, squinting against the spray. "Any puffins?" I asked. I know, tourist question.

He chuckled—a dry, quiet sound. "Puffins are out on the Atlantic, lass. Won't see them 'til May. They only come to land to breed. Smart birds."

We stood there for twenty minutes in silence. He didn't ask me where I was from. He didn't ask what I did for a living or why I was photographing a sea stack with a desperate expression. He just watched the Fulmars, and I watched the sea. It was the most comfortable conversation I’ve had since leaving Montana.

We docked in Stromness at 4:30 PM. It was already dark. The town is built of grey stone, huddled tight against the hill to escape the wind. It feels ancient, serious, and utterly indifferent to whether or not I’m having a "spiritual experience."

I love it.

My phone battery died on the walk to the hostel. My backup phone is at 40%. For the first time in a month, I didn't immediately panic. There’s no signal in the valleys anyway.

I’m here. Wherever "here" is.

RNG Update: The pendulum is currently too motion-sick to make decisions. I chose dinner based on smell alone (Fish and Chips). It was the right call.