Mental Health Awareness Week 2021
/From today, the 10th May, it’s Mental Health Awareness Week with its underlying theme of ‘Nature’. As such, I’ve made a public commitment to contribute my thoughts and experiences with regard to my own journey with severe depression and how immersion in the natural world helps me with my recovery. When thinking about what I would offer, I soon realised I had a huge amount of information to share and innumerable illustrative tales to recount. For a few hours I found myself overwhelmed with the numerous avenues I could follow, from which I would offer a range of personal insights and wisdom I’ve gleaned through my nearly sixty years. In fact, for a brief moment, I thought there was enough for me to write a book but I hastily put that idea to bed since I have promised the world two books, yet to be completed.
Instead, I have decided to follow a natural path, allowing myself the leeway of choosing as they come to my mind, some of the pearls I hope will be helpful for others. Since the theme of this awareness raising week is ‘Nature’, it’s apposite I should allow myself the opportunity to travel the trail less travelled and enjoy the adventure. Quite literally, share through my online channels, anything which crops up and which I think will be of interest and I have the time to create, write or film.
The first thing which jumped into my mind when I thought of this awareness week and its theme was the word ‘life’. It has been clear to me for many years now, that my immersion in nature is life sustaining, quite literally so. In fact during recent kayaking trips over the past few weeks I have somehow been acutely aware of this as I witness the proliferation of pelagic and littoral life with the advent of the Northern Hemisphere spring. There is a quality of ebullience to the sea, coastlines, islands and cliffs at the moment. When thinking of this I recalled I had written about this, or something like this, in the first draft of my book of when I kayaked around Scotland in 2015. This book has yet to see the light of day but I thought I would share this long excerpt here as a way of introducing my personal philosophy about my connection to nature and why I choose to do what I do.
The story picks up at Aith on the mainland of Shetland, the most northerly of the R.N.L.I. lifeboat stations of the 47 around the Scottish coastline I was visiting in one continuous solo sea kayaking journey. The theme of my adventure to this point had been coping with the seemingly incessant strong winds which plagued me. Indeed the title of this uncompleted book is “Strong Winds Are Forecast”. I hope the rest makes sense.
Aith R.N.L.I. Lifeboat, Shetland
One task I had to achieve was my laundry. There was a washing machine at the lifeboat station, and I made full use of this facility, hanging my freshly washed clothes to hang in the blustery sunshine on a rudimentary clothes-line I had created from my tow-line. I laughed to myself as I hung my clothes over the rope in a haphazard manner, thinking of my wife who never allows me to hang out the washing. According to her I never do it properly! There’s not much to do in the hamlet of Aith, so I spent my day off kicking back in the crew room and gazing out of the picture window at the magnificent view up the Voe. I worked out I had four days of paddling ahead of me to complete the circumnavigation of mainland Shetland to reach Lerwick. The forecast was mixed with strong winds promised for much of the time. There were a couple of exposed sections of coastline to contend with, particularly Esha Ness with a reputation for rough seas and few places to hide. For the briefest of moments, I pondered portaging from the west side of mainland Shetland to the eastern side into Sullom Voe over the curiously named Mavis Grind, a neck of land which separated the west seas from the east. Mavis Grind it turned out when I asked Hylton, wasn’t a 1950s dance but a derivation from Old Norse meaning gate of the narrow isthmus. The isthmus, under thirty-five metres wide at its narrowest section, is the land link between the Northmavine Peninsula and mainland Shetland. Even though portaging here would considerably reduce my journey to Lerwick, I wanted to enjoy the achievement of kayaking around the whole of the island.
In hindsight, as Hylton (the lifeboat Coxswain) suggested, I ought to have stayed at Aith another two days, because shortly after setting off I found myself struggling into the teeth of a minor gale. The winds were from the north west from the direction I was heading. I paddled slowly out of Aith Voe, one laboured paddle stroke after another, realising I was exiting a natural and excruciatingly long wind tunnel. I cursed my stubbornness in insisting I would press on, no matter what. As I struggled to gain forward momentum, my conscience niggled with criticisms of my impetuousness. I mouthed silent thanks I had left Aith too early in the morning for folks to spot me struggling away up the voe.
Eventually I passed Papa Little island and crossed to the island of Muckle Roe. Along the shore here I was out of the worst of the wind and I caught up with myself a little, this easing my bad temper. Despite the wind, the day was gloriously sunny, the sea glittering with thousands of dancing diamonds. I looked up at the Scandinavian influenced farmsteads and dwellings and felt again the exoticness of being somewhere wonderfully foreign. I turned from Busta Voe, a name which made me smile because it sounded like a 1980s Ska singer, under the bridge linking Muckle Roe to the mainland, and into Roe Sound. Ahead of me through the narrow stretch of water was the expansive St Magnus Bay across which, nine miles away, was the headland of Eshaness. The wind was blasting down Roe Sound and once again I found myself digging my paddle blades deeply hard with a sweat inducing effort to make headway.
I was less than a mile from Turvalds Head (who was Turvald I wondered?) This was the point where I faced a choice to turn eastwards for Mavis Grind and the short portage into what assuredly would be the easier seas of Sullom Voe or press onwards towards the Eshaness headland. Choosing the Mavis Grind route would ensure the wind would be gratifyingly behind me whilst I paddled the remainder of the route to Lerwick. As I reached forward over another choppy wave and pulled hard, this choice was an attractive insight. I was sorely tempted by the prospect of easier paddling. I was half an hour away from having to make my decision.
The forecast assured me the strong north westerly winds would persist for at least two days, possibly three. I would struggle against them if I continued up the west coast of Shetland. The seas off Eshaness would be nasty and recalling my fearful experience along the west coast of Orkney, I didn’t want to face those conditions again. It seemed to me wisdom should prevail and with a heavy heart I was close to acceding to the inevitable. The glitter went from the day despite the diamonds continuing to dance about me. Despite the prospect of encountering easier conditions in Sullom Voe, my disappointment was palpable. My heart was set on completing a circumnavigation of Shetland mainland. It seemed to me my journey was in danger of unravelling. I was losing purpose. My original somewhat ambitious plans for my adventure, had included paddling right up to Muckle Flugga, the most northerly piece of land in the British Isles. In the cosy comfort of the small saloon aboard our yacht, and with the alluring aid of Google Earth, I had glibly drawn a route to this most northern point without much thought for the reality of the weather conditions I now faced in a rather bleak Roe Sound. As ever with a decision such as this, there were variables to consider, each validly presented. My task now was to sort through these in a logical fashion to arrive at an eventual choice.
The natural realm, the great outdoors as we often like to call it, tests me in many ways. From the dawn of time, humans have pitted themselves against the elements. I would imagine for hunter gatherer peoples, the natural environment was their world, the milieu where they lived, thrived, and coexisted with wild beasts in this mutually shared space. I could not imagine they sought to climb a mountain simply because it was there or paddling a log boat along the coast because they saw this purely as a personal challenge. I imagined for them, life held primary purposes; gathering food, finding shelter, and protecting their children. The essentials of life. As humans moved away from a transient lifestyle to one of settlement and permanent shelter, our aspirations through the millennia shifted and altered to the point here I was, a modern human, sitting in my kayak, on a wind whipped Shetland sea, enjoying the luxury of fulfilling a personal aspiration to kayak around Scotland. If there was no life sustaining purpose to me being here, what did this moment serve me? What did it matter if I chose to cross Mavis Grind and curtail my circumnavigation of Shetland, instead of pushing further westwards to realise my aspiration for a Shetland circumnavigation?
I discovered the answer was this; the personal purpose of my adventure was indeed life sustaining. It was offering me an important opportunity for growth and development. Physis is a Greek word which describes an innate natural force within every living entity which drives us to grow. In humans, physis refers to the energy invested in health and the expansion of our personal horizons. This is the urge to do something different, the aspiration to be who we want to be, and to choose our destiny. Good mental health is not only the outcome of sound relationships but also the fulfilment of essential universal drives within us including belonging, self-fulfilment and survival.
Physis involves change. No living thing can avoid change, we are constantly in the process of evolution. However, because we crave equilibrium, continuity, and safety in our lives, change is often difficult to accept. We hold onto what we know because this provides us with certainty. This desire for stability is called homeostasis, the opposite to physis. Humans are therefore pulled by these two opposing forces, homeostasis and physis. It is this unresolved struggle which underpins many of the unhappy responses we have to our life choices.
My struggle with clinical depression is most likely an outcome of this tussle within me, which is why, suddenly, the decision to complete the circumnavigation of mainland Shetland or cut it short, had become a vitally important one for me to resolve. It wasn’t simply a matter of portaging into Sullom Voe to avoid the winds. It was about the importance I placed on facing, or not facing, the challenge the strong winds presented. Homeostasis determined I would seek the less demanding route, to ensure I maintained my schedule and avoided the probability of serious and demanding sea conditions. Physis on the other hand, invited me to push on, even though success was uncertain and there was a high probability of becoming storm bound with inevitable delays. As so often when faced with this process, it is conducted beyond my consciousness. What I am aware of though, is rationalising the presenting facts of the issue and ascertaining the consequences if these are ignored or considered. The underpinning factor is personal safety, so an indication the task being considered was completely reckless, would determine an immediate avoidance. If though, the risks were such harm may occur but with care, could be avoided, then the task was worthy of consideration.
It would be simple to avoid the complexities within the decision-making process, to not heed them or desire self-understanding. For me though, this would diminish the opportunity for self-awareness. I consider this to be integral to an adventure experience. Without understanding, there is no wisdom to be gained. It was clear from the outset that my journey around Scotland was so much more than simply visiting the lifeboat stations. It was an opportunity for me to gain deeper insights into my ‘self’. This would help me grow into the older man I hoped to become. I didn’t want to slide into my old age. I wanted to arrive with as much energy and enthusiasm for life as I had when I was in my twenties.
Lang Head from Egilsay
So it was, with renewed determination Turvals Head slowly slipped behind me. I continued out into the steep and uncomfortable waves of St Magnus Bay. The 1950’s dance, Mavis Grind would be enjoyed another time. Despite my resolve to face my adventure head on, shortly after setting out into the bay, uncomfortable sea conditions seriously challenged me. I had previously coped with trickier conditions but somehow, I wasn’t in a sound frame of mind to cope with this continuous onslaught of broken waves and powerfully gusting head wind. Searching as far ahead as I was able to, I saw conditions around Lang Head, my next headland, were dreadful. Even from my low sea level elevation I could see an angry race kicked up by wind over tide. I was faced with another crucial decision. I was able to turn back to Mavis Grind or I could find somewhere to stop nearby in the hope the conditions eased during the day. Pressing on around the headland in these conditions was not an option.
I resolutely held onto my desire to round Shetland. I pressed on another mile through some lively seas to a small island called Egilsay where with a relieved scrunch, I landed on a shiny pebble beach. A small cohort of common seals welcomed me in, snorting and splashing in the waters behind me. I pulled the kayak up the stones and wandered over to the far side of the island where I would gain a better view of Lang Head. From the raised elevation it was immediately clear to me I had made a wise decision not to attempt to get around. It would be a nasty piece of water to be kayaking alone in these windy conditions. I wandered back to the boat and dug out my flask of lemon and ginger tea, always a soothing drink when my mind is troubled, and I need to think things through. I had managed only ten miles out of the thirty I had hoped for in the day. If I stopped here, the wind would only increase in strength and I would be stuck for a couple of days at least, the seas around Lang Head worsening in the near gale force north-easterly. I looked morosely back to where I had come from minutes before. The entrance to short voe leading to Mavis Grind was clearly visible, only a mile away. With the wind behind me, I would reach there in no time at all and within the hour I would be unpacking my kayak and portaging my kit, my boat and myself across into Sullom Voe. I sighed deeply, noticing the seals looking back at me, almost it seemed with sympathetic gazes.
“Fuck!” I shouted and was immediately answered with a few splashes in the small bay as my profanity caused some alarm. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I was fed up with the winds and I was fed up with what seemed to be a continual process of evaluation and re-evaluation. Why couldn’t I simply enjoy a carefree passage along this stunning Shetland coastline? Was fate trying to tell me something?
I refused to entertain the idea of giving up on the circumnavigation and belligerence within me mobilised my inert body. I heaved myself to my feet and set about unpacking the kayak, making a comfortable camp on short cropped turf a few metres away from the beach. My mind was unyielding. I would sit out the gales after which, endeavour to complete my circumnavigation of Shetland.
The small island of Egilsay became my home for two days and three nights. It transpired, this enforced castaway existence became one of the magical experiences of my journey. There was no phone signal and therefore no internet connection either. For some reason I could not pick up Coastguard broadcasts on my VHF radio either. I was unable to communicate beyond the shores of the island. I was not concerned for my safety because I knew that the YB-Tracker would indicate my location, even pinpointing where I had placed my tent. Nevertheless, I did wonder if the Aith Lifeboat would pay me a visit because they might wonder what had occurred. Without communication there were no on-line distractions which joyfully offered me the opportunity to appreciate uninterrupted solitude. When I was a boy, the tale of Robinson Crusoe enthralled me and ever since I wanted to experience island solitude, the unique alone-ness which a body of land surrounded by water affords. The coastline of the island was a natural boundary beyond which I was unable to venture without paddling in my kayak. Devoid of humans apart from me, my company was the small group of seals, screeching terns, skittering oystercatchers, rather dreamy fulmars, and a cantankerous black-backed gull. To the east, over a mile into Mangaster Voe there was a ubiquitous fish farm. Thankfully with the wind from the direction it was, I wasn’t disturbed by any noise this produced. I chose to ignore it most of the time. One vital thing the island did not contain, was a fresh water supply. Not for the first time or last, I acknowledged with gratitude my obsession, insisting I carry at least ten litres of water every day.
The joy of enforced time ashore creates a delicious sensation of relaxation. There is permission to lie in bed in the morning, brew coffee or tea whenever I feel like it, read, write, read, or simply wander and explore. The time is also valuable for making and mending, attending to bits of kit which require caring for, and re-evaluating plans for future route options.
I embraced my island solitude with enthusiasm. The angst about losing time was easily forgotten and replaced with a tranquil enjoyment of my island surroundings. I explored every inch of Egilsay, clambering along the rocky shoreline, striding over the sheep cropped slopes and ambling alone the small beach, eyes cast down in the hope of finding interesting flotsam. I looked for signs of ancient human heritage, a Viking grave perhaps or evidence of an iron age home. I carried my binoculars everywhere and would sit motionless on the rocks gazing out to sea, wondering if I would spot a killer whale. I desperately wanted to see a killer whale. I sang to myself, loudly and out of tune, idiotic made up songs which were bawdy and full of nonsense. I read, and I slept. I caught up with my journal. Then I wandered around the island again, and again, and again. At six hundred metres long and two hundred and fifty metres wide, it didn’t take me long to stride around the island.
At one point I pondered solitude as an experience. When I worked for Outward Bound, one of the most significant experiences we offered on the classic three-week courses was what we termed, ‘solo’. This important course element would occur midway through the programme (a personal development course for adolescents and young adults). This was the point when self-awareness was becoming apparent for the participants. Ideally, the solo experience lasted for forty-eight hours; two nights and two days of solitude. Each student was provided with rudimentary materials to construct a basic shelter, a change of spare clothes, their sleeping bag, enough water and minimum rations. They were encouraged to keep a written journal but not allowed the distractions of watches, cameras, phones, music players, or books. The purpose of the solo was mindful self-reflection. Out in a forest or a wild area, each person was placed so they were out of sight of the other group members. They were given clear boundaries for their solo site and asked not to wander, both for their safety and not breaking another person’s solo. Their safety and welfare were monitored throughout the forty-eight hours by the course instructor, such as me. The solo was a pivotal moment for many students during the course, when significant personal insights were achieved. This opportunity for solitude is rarely attained in our modern lives.
One Of My Egilsay Neighbours
I was enjoying my personal enforced solo, though I did have a watch and other distractions which broke the rules. I quickly became aware the effect my presence on the island was having on the lawful inhabitants. Unwittingly, I had pitched my tent a few metres from a tern’s nest. Thankfully this did not disturb the guardian birds who took flight when I emerged from my tent quickly returning when I had wandered away. In the hidden seclusion of my tent I enjoyed listening to the parent’s soft chuckles as they went about their egg warming duty. The seals were extremely nervous, and I wondered if this was due to the proximity of the fish farm. However, by the time I came to leave, one or two of them appeared less eager to slip into the sea from the beach any time they glimpsed me wandering around the island. The highest point of the island belonged to a large male black-backed gull who protected his domain with a vengeance. Anytime I dared come close to his spot, he launched into the sky with screeching cries, wheeling above, gaining height before turning like a fighter plane, accurately diving for my head, causing me to involuntarily duck. I usually scuttled away. The flock of terns were just noisy! If I wandered too near where they were perched, as one entity they would rise into the air, yelling and screeching in their high-pitched tones, all the while flapping like wooden bird marionettes. I attempted to minimise my disturbance on the island but recognised too there was little I could do about my presence. I was not there to cause harm to any creature.
I was relieved to find on the third morning the wind had sufficiently dropped for me to proceed with my journey. I said my farewells to my feathered neighbours and enjoyed the company of a few seals for a fair distance after I had paddled away. I think they were seeing me off their property. Lang Head presented no problems and it wasn’t long before I was crossing St Magnus Bay towards the eponymously named Drongs, a magnificent cluster of bare and jagged stacks standing a mile offshore. These were the first natural highlight of what developed into one of the finest days on the sea during my journey. The sea state was lumpy but not unmanageably so. Crucially the wind had diminished and shifted to become a now helpful south westerly.
So there you are. I eventually succeeded in my quest to paddle to the Scottish lifeboat stations, eventually arriving at Eyemouth one thousand and eight hundred and fifty miles after setting off from Kirkcudbright four months earlier.
Over the coming week I am really looking forward to using this as the basis from which I share my thoughts and ideas about mental health and why being in Nature is so good for us.
Thank you.