I have posted two pieces. The first was edited down to about half its original size and to my mind lost much of its characterisation. The second attempt, using the same trigger, whales, is much heavier on character description. Please criticise (but don’t be too cruel).
Minke.
Merlin rose and dipped gently on the swell. The weather had not changed in four days. The trade wind blew steadily from the east and drove the forty foot ketch along at a comfortable four knots. It made for very easy sailing. All on board were relaxed, Ron and Jane in the cockpit, Zoe in the pulpit, Dana in his bunk and me on the deck in front of the mainmast.
I thought about our position. Earlier I had been looking at the chart and realised that the nearest solid ground was five miles below our keel. In any other direction (ignoring a few small islands) it was more than a thousand miles away.
Suddenly, two sounds rose above the creak and hiss of the sails. A soft explosion of air and a squeal from Zoe. A moment later a faint odour, not unlike cooked cabbages, drifted over the boat. I looked round to see two fins breaking the surface just off the stern and another one appearing out to starboard. A small pod, more like a family group, of minke whales were following us.
The biggest whale slowly moved nearer to the hull and, as I leaned over the rail, it turned onto its side until one eye was staring directly up at me.
Zoe moved alongside me. “I’m twelve tomorrow” she whispered to the whale, “will you come to my party?”
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Robbie
Big, loud and red faced. That was my first impression of Robbie. A couple of inches over six foot and heavy around the waist makes for someone with a lot of presence. His voice is pretty big too. When he tells his collie to lie down, it is easy to imagine all the dogs on the island quickly sinking to the floor. His mode of transport is in character. One of those big four-wheel drive, crew cab, pickups – and this when most of the other islanders make do with a wheelbarrow. He never does things by halves. I have seen him lift a six foot length of telegraph pole and put it in the back of his truck without apparent effort. Robbie is also a person of surprising contrasts. He is shy. He does not like large groups of people. If invited to any sort of gathering, he will always have to be somewhere else. And the most surprising thing about Robbie? On his next birthday he will be seventy seven years old.
Visitors tend to think that Robbie has spent all his life on this tiny island in the North Sea. As if a piece of windswept rock and heather, one and a half by two miles, could cope with him for seventy years. The other residents say nothing about his history. On an island this small, privacy is a respected and valued possession.
These days, Robbie has no formal employment. Not that you could ever use the word ‘retired’ to describe him. If there is a bit of maintenance on a fence or path, or if help is needed to bring in the sheep, he will always be the first to turn out. If offered payment, his usual reply is “gie it tae the puir fowk – they need it mair than me”.
In his youth, Robbie hunted the whale in the South Atlantic. Looking back, he has mixed feelings about that episode in his life. In retrospect, he regrets being part of hunting the worlds greatest mammal almost to extinction. At the same time he remembers the work, hard, dangerous and brutal though it was, as a time of fulfilment; when each man had to rely on his own skill and strength, and that of his comrades, to overcome the appalling weather and working conditions. Robbie spent eight seasons at Stromness on South Georgia, returning to the island a relatively wealthy man each year.
After the whaling finished he sailed the world on oil tankers before finally returning and spending his time as the island ferryman until the ferry company decided that a man in his seventies could not possibly be fit enough to do the job.
blackrig 