March 02, 2020

Endurance

March 02, 2020/ Nick Ray

Lying awake at 3am under a wildly flapping tarp, the icy rain spattering an ear bursting discordant tattoo in gusting bursts, I began to wonder what all this was about? At the tender age of 56, why do I continue to seek out moments of difficulty and hardship for the sake of doing so? A bivouac on a small Scottish island simply just to say I’ve done so - why? Not only this, but a bivouac a month on different islands. Ah, this begins to make some sense of the why. There is a pattern here. Add in the mix a fundraising angle, and the reasons become clearer. But still, bivouacking in some of the worst winter weather to realise these abstract goals? Why do I choose to do this to myself - push myself physically and psychologically?

A straightforward answer quite glibly is; “Because it’s there.”

One notion is seeking the heroic quest, placing myself in the role of hero. Here I am the protagonist in search of adventure. Seeking goals I set for myself and setting about attaining them. The tale of the hero is as ancient as time itself. Humans thrive on such stories and many of us dream of these occurring for ourselves. The heroic ancient tale of Odysseus inspired the emergence of the Outward Bound movement and their motto; “To serve, to strive and not to yield” is attributed to Tennyson’s poem of that Ancient Greek adventure. Working as I did for twelve years as an Outward Bound instructor, I could not help imbuing this tenet of the motto and taking it to heart, many of my decisions to immerse myself in adventure guided by those simple principles. To serve - my community (fundraising), to serve myself. To strive - to reach out beyond the normal in my life. Not to Yield - this then is the crux; face the risks, the hardships, the solitude, the discomfort and the joys with equanimity.

Courage is one attribute at the heart of this drive within me. It manifests itself in how I explore for myself how far I’m willing to go before courage gives way. In achieving this, I discover the possibility of extending preconceived limitations which then serve to strengthen a healthy view of myself. Through placing myself in situations where my resolve is tested, I gain insights into my ever-developing personality. I am fascinated by this evolutionary process and I’m eager to understand it all the more.

Endurance on its own is a fascinating subject. The ability to endure is an attribute all people manifest many times in their lives; living with an illness, living though loss, a difficult work environment, unhappiness, loneliness, and more. There are those though who willingly seek endurance; ultra-distance runners, Himalayan mountaineers, deep sea divers, and many more. I am in awe of the many who test themselves to the limits.

Sea kayaking is not in my mind an extreme sport where endurance counts, but there have certainly been high endeavour achievements where the kayakers will have faced extreme challenges; crossing the Atlantic (3 times by an elderly Polish man), crossing to New Zealand from Australia, a woman kayaking alone from Europe to Australia, a woman paddling solo around the Americas having already circumnavigated Australia, and those of the crossings to the Faroes from Scotland and crossing back to Scotland from Iceland! There are many more fine achievements I haven’t listed here.

The severity of these sea kayak challenges are beyond me, but they illustrate what sea kayaking has to offer me and fulfil my desire to experience my tenacity in the face of hardship - to test my endurance.

Why is this important to me? Again it’s an existential matter - I experience discomfort and pain, therefore I am. By sitting with discomfort I’m seeking enlightenment. As a result, I will enjoy clarity of thought and visionary insights pertaining to myself, my world and my relationship with others. In many respects I’m not unlike a 9thC monk seeking solace through the hardship of a contemplative cell in a dark cave or perched on a sea stack on the west coast. The rigours of the experience expunge the distractions of everyday life and help focus, in that moment, what really matters. Attempting a similar level of meditative practice in a benign setting does not allow for deeper insights. My mind skitters across the surface of any deeper thought, too easily distracted by perfunctory matters.

When I worked for Outward Bound, we used an activity called ‘Solo’ as a means of encouraging course participants to consider more deeply their Outward Bound experience and hopefully how this reflects in their lives in general. The activity was designed to provide an element of hardship which would encourage resourcefulness from the student. They were provided the means to construct a rudimentary shelter, a basic set of rations and the means to make a hot drink. Of course they had spare clothing and their sleeping bags. They were not allowed to wear watches, carry phones, use cameras or have any other means of unwanted distraction. They were allowed their course log-book and a pen. An Outward Bound solo occurred, whatever the weather. For many participants, this experience was the highlight of their course. This was because for 36 or 48 hours they endured complete solitude, with bare essentials throughout whatever weather conditions occurred at the time. For all of them, this was a totally unique and novel experience, probably never to be repeated. At the course end, I heard many times students describe the enlightening insights they gained from their solo.

It is not lost on me I seek to emulate this process for myself during most of my sea kayaking journeys. I choose solitude for this main reason. I choose simplicity without the encumbrance of extraneous equipment. I choose difficulty over easiness and I choose remoteness and wildness. The feeling of accomplishment after completing a gruelling solo challenge is a most pleasant reward. With every accomplishment and setbacks too, my wisdom incrementally increases. My tenacity in the face of hardship and possible danger is possible because I have accrued the wisdom to understand these difficult moments will eventually pass. Probably more important than cognitive understanding is an all encompassing acceptance. Accepting the difficulty as an impermanent experience, no matter how intolerable it may be. Nevertheless, there will be times when the level of discomfort overrides my ability to see it through. This is when I have to be even more vigilant because it is in these moments I may make a poor decision. There follows an internal dissonance choosing whether to follow on with the course of action or abandon it altogether.

The ability to be tenacious is not only about physical prowess but overcoming the mental challenges too. My mind is continually assessing the situation, the course of progress, the risks and possibility of failure. Throughout the day I will be forever questioning myself and checking I’m essentially doing the right thing, always seeking an opportunity to escape but never following this option. Overcoming negative thinking is as strong a process as coping with the physical discomfort. Facing these thoughts head on and challenging self-limiting perceptions requires an almost constant internal dialogue where the wise-self within me encourages the nervous-self to take the chances.

The rewards for tenacity and endurance are for me, sublimity. Invariably I will find myself on the sea in a situation I would not have attained if it weren’t for the effort I had exerted. Rounding Cape Wrath on my own during my 2015 kayak journey around Scotland is a fine example. I was fearful right up to the point I arrived at the Cape. A number of times I tempted myself with a return to the sheltered waters of Kinlochbervie. Instead, beginning before sunrise, I set off with purpose on a day’s paddling which I knew would test me to my limit. The fear was real and so were the temptations to turn back. When I arrived at the cape, I found myself swallowed by the glorious immensity of the place, the indefinite oceanic landscape, the neck arching cliffs, the cacophonous birds, dervishly wheeling above, the exhalation of the waves gently spending themselves on the cliff bases, and the great arch - the portal I would kayak through marking the end of my journey up the western seaboard to the northern. My innate endurance had brought me to this point. An endurance informed by wisdom, tenacity and willingness to face risks.

I choose to endure the difficult because I know this difficulty is impermanent, beyond which wonderful new experiences may lie. I choose to endure because I am offered enlightening insights into my self. I choose to endure because I enjoy the challenge, setting myself against myself, never a competition with the sea or nature. I choose to endure because from this experience, I realise I’m able to endure other aspects of my life, primarily my fight with depression. So often I remind myself to sit with my depressive discomfort because it will pass. I do not endure to show off or to seek fame. This is a private and personal process for me. Some challenges may appear impossible but these are only limited by my imagination. Facing the challenge no matter how arduous this may be, adds the flavour to the recipe of achievement.

February 07, 2020

Decisions - always decisions!

February 07, 2020/ Nick Ray

As I write this, my name is on the waiting list for a bed on Succouth Ward, the psychiatric unit at the hospital in Lochgilphead. Despite a seemingly turn towards the better, I find myself yet again with compulsions to end my life. I am desperately exhausted from the interminable conversations I have with myself about keeping on going in the hope life will become better. Over the last week, I have found myself at the point of making an impulsive choice - almost as if I were standing on the gunwale of the ship before leaping. The draw of inestimable peace death would bring from the anguish I feel, is deeply attractive in these moments.

What stops me?

Well, the very struggle I speak of. The struggle to remain alive and not accede to the final demands my illness is asking of me. It’s a constant process of accounting for the pros and cons!

I do not want to go back to hospital. This would seem to be an unforgivable failure after my ebullient discharge last August. Yet, I crave the peace and safety hospital will provide. A place where I am able to attend to my illness without fighting with it out of sight of the world. I have wonderful plans for the year ahead, and if I go into hospital, a fair chunk of time will be lost and plans will go awry. Yet, if I give myself time to recover again, I’ll be stronger for the rest of the year.

I’m not one to follow the easy route and there is a fighting spirit within me which encourages me to hang tight, see this bout through, and find myself much stronger to face the year ahead. The risk here, in one of my deeply unhappy moments. my impulsiveness will win and that will be me.

While I was struggling with these thoughts I was reminded about difficult decisions I found myself facing when kayaking around Shetland in 2015. I went into my incomplete book about this journey and found the chapter detailing my Shetland experiences. Reading this again, I find the parallels run deep and this is incredibly helpful for me.

I hope when reading the excerpt below, you may see the connections.

Shetland – excerpt.

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 week ahead. There were a couple of exposed sections of coastline to contend with, particularly Esha Ness with a reputation for rough seas and few places for a kayaker to find shelter. 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 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, 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 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 respite 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 rugged headland of Eshaness. The wind was blasting down Roe Sound and once more, I found myself digging my paddle blades deeply hard with 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 the 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 I would have the wind behind me thus significantly easing the remainder of the route to Lerwick. As I reached forward over another choppy wave and pulled hard, crossing into Sullom Voe was deeply attractive. I was sorely tempted by the prospect of easier paddling, another shoulder wrenching paddle stroke over a steepening wave, emphasising the point. I told myself however, it was yet half an hour before the requirement to make this crucial decision.

The forecast before I departed, assured me the strong north westerly winds would persist for at least two days, possibly three. I realised now, if I continued up the west coast of Shetland, I would significantly struggle against them. 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 wiser prospect of 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 wisely arriving 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 thousands of years before, 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. Even paddling an animal skin 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 where, 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 for me being here such as hunting for food, 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 wasn’t going to starve.

The answer to my insistent rhetorical inquisition 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 the struggles many, like me, face when making 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. I think having worked as an Outward Bound instructor, assisted me with rationalising the presenting facts of the issue, ascertaining the consequences if these are ignored or considered. The underpinning factor is personal safety, so if there were an indication the task being considered was
completely reckless, would determine an immediate avoidance. Though, if the risks were such serious 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.

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 a 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 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 a
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-westerly. I looked morosely back to where I had come from minutes before. The entrance to the 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 the sheltered waters of 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 sun warmed short cropped turf a few metres away from the beach. My mind was unyielding. I would sit out the gales on this island after which, I would complete my circumnavigation of Shetland.

February 02, 2020

2020 - So Far

February 02, 2020/ Nick Ray

25th August! That is the date of my last entry in this blog. Shameful. Anyway I suppose, better later than never. Here goes.

Yesterday I watched the Scotland versus Ireland play in their opening games of the Six Nations Rugby competition, a hard fought contest between the nations of Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Italy and England. Sporting wise it is a highlight of my year for two reasons. I’m a fan of rugby (used to play it) and think this competition is the finest to watch. Also because the timing of the Six Nations contest marks the end of winter and heralds the promise of spring.

Of course, I want Scotland to feature well in the contest, even win it outright if possible and certainly beat the Auld Enemy, England to maintain our stewardship of the Calcutter Cup. The match between Ireland and Scotland yesterday was a well fought and bruising encounter. Ireland triumphed with 19 points to 12. Both teams were well matched and it was a close call right up to the final whistle. Watching the Scotland team surge close to their opponents try line again and again without success, suddenly clarified for me where I find myself at the moment. The Scotland team were strong, co-ordinated, fearless and at times played with flair. However, at the closest moments when they looked to score a try, they made a mistake and had a penalty awarded against them, or through mishandling, they allowed Ireland to regain the initiative. It was a Scottish onslaught after onslaught with fierce bravery, without success. Even when a try was scored, it was nullified because the player dropped the ball before he placed it on the ground. This moment epitomised Scotland’s fortunes.

I was on the edge of my seat watching the game. As it unfolded and witnessing Scotland’s game, I witnessed through their valiant efforts the experiences I face in my life at the moment. I suppose one of the reasons I haven’t written a blog post for a while is because I didn’t want to hark on about mental health and my depression. Somehow though, there’s no escaping this. I am fighting my depression at the moment as fiercely as Scotland faced Ireland yesterday. I face it head on and tackle it when it attempts to get the better of me, and when I do, I gain ground. Like Scotland’s efforts though, I am often overwhelmed and lose ground again. Since the festive period I have struggled with a bad dose of my depression. So much so, there has been some talk of another hospital admission. I certainly do not want this to happen. I’m determined not to give in and find myself on the ward again watching through the windows, my life pass by.

With a concerted effort to stay ahead of my illness, I have set myself a few achievable goals through the year to provide me focus and the joy of attainment. As you may guess, most of these tasks involve sea kayaking and my connection to the wild outdoors. In 2020 I aim to achieve the following;

Kayak 2020 kilometres by the end of the year. Given I paddled 2997 km in four months during my 2015 journey around Scotland, I think this is eminently achievable. The summer months will see me undertake a number of long journeys.
Solo bivouac on a different island for a night once a month through the year. The criteria being; the island must be no longer than 1000m and wider than 500m. I have to kayak to it. The island must be a complete island, not one which dries out at low tide to connect to the shore.
Kayak around the Isle of Mull closely following the coastline, every loch and indentation.
Begin a regular You Tube ‘vlog’ highlighting my life connected to the outdoors, my deeper connection through this process, talk more about mental health and how being outdoors helps my process of recovery. Talk about adventure and why this is so important in my life. With this in mind, talk about my approach to adventure, particularly because much of it is solo, and how I ascertain and manage the risks. In general too, share my life here on Mull as we explore the island by walking and camping. I’d like to also portray a number of film projects which interest me; waterfalls of Mull and the Iron Age remains on the island. I have created a long list of ideas.
Become creative again and begin to make jewellery from found objects along the shoreline. I used to make jewellery from sea glass which is why I want to do something similar. It’ll help me if I can sell what I create to support funding for my projects.
Finally of course, I have a book to write! I’m confident the reactivation of my physical and creative self, will inspire me with this endeavour.

Somehow though, like the Scotland Rugby team surging against the Irish yesterday, I find myself already feeling beaten back and my resolve tested. I am fighting (I use the word fight a lot), lethargy and sleepy tiredness. My medication, while keeping me above my lowest point, has the side affects of tiredness, trembles and marked problems with my balance. For example, on returning from my first bivouac on an island, I unwittingly capsized in my kayak and ended up swimming in the sea. Having kayaked probably at least 5000km since 2015 without an unintentional capsize, this came as a complete shock. Particularly since I was in Tobermory Bay where I had managed to reach paddling through a sizeable sea. I simply found myself falling to my right and unable to prevent my immersion. If this wasn’t bad enough, I lost my cherished GoPro camera. The saddest thing about this is I had recorded all the footage I needed to post my first vlog. What with the capsize and the loss of the film footage, I feel beaten and demoralised. Not only this, the camera will take time to be replaced because of expense. It is difficult for me to recognise my achievement in completing my island task because of these two disasters.

The effect of the loss of my camera has led me down a path of despondency and questions pertaining my ability to achieve anything in my life. I recognise this is my illness speaking to me, but it can be an overwhelming belief. The analogy of the Scotland rugby team dashing themselves against the redoubtable Irish and not quite achieving seems to be a true on for me. Running this analogy to its conclusion would be the awareness the game is not over until the final whistle, thus never give up hope.

What frustrates me is after my lengthy stay in hospital last year, I left there with renewed understanding on how I can combat my depression through using Cognitive Behavioural methods. At the moment for me, it’s grappling with the knowledge and forgetting how to apply it. I’m irritated by my lack of ability to put to use what I know to be effective.

There are wider aspects of my life at the moment which cause me worry. The greatest of these is my broken relationship with the R.N.L.I. and the belief I have been exploited by the charity on a number of levels. I have a meeting with representatives of the organisation coming up where I hope my unhappy concerns will be heard and addressed. It’s more the sadness I feel about this which deepens my sense of depressive gloom. This situation also creates high levels of anxiety within me.

The side affects of my antidepressant medication are bothering me too. I ask myself daily what is the point of taking the medication if the quality of my life is affected by the very thing which should be enhancing it? I am jittery, my hand trembles so much so, I find myself clumsy when pouring my coffee for example (and you all know how important my morning coffee is to me). This affects my handwriting and simply when I’m trying to relax. The loss of co-ordination and balance dampens my spirits too. The simple task of taking Ziggy for his walk is sometimes a challenge when I stumble and fall backwards on steeper ground. Then there is the issue of my libido. This is non-existent and for a person who, as mostly every other human does, enjoys the intimacy of lovemaking, this is tough to bear. I do find intimacy with my wife through our deep affection and our love, but the physical expression of this has been absent in my life since my time in hospital. As a husband, this causes me worry and concern despite the assurances I receive indicating the opposite. I am in close consultation with my caring mental health professionals about managing my medication.

Then there is the task of writing my book. I admit here, I am woefully behind in even presenting a few worthwhile chapters for consideration. I know what I want to write and there are many times when I experience the urge to put my thoughts on paper. However, the moment I sit before my laptop, my energy grinds to a halt to replaced with self-doubt and concerns about my ability to write. Karen gave me a Christmas gift of a week long retreat at Monhiack Mor, the creative writers centre near Inverness, focussing on memoir writing which is essentially what my book will be. Again though, I’m pressurising myself to have a good amount of writing to present at the retreat.

It seems to me this has been a self-indulgent blog entry detailing my woes. I guess this is true. It is self-indulgent to share my challenges in a public forum, knowing I will undoubtedly receive many words and expressions of support from many of you. In fact though, these supportive responses are hugely helpful for me. One of the greatest challenges I face is the one of loneliness. Of course Karen is my constant in my life and she is wonderful offering her love, support and expressing her belief in me. I lack the companionship of friendship and so find myself seeking this through Twitter and Facebook. Here, I have very many people I call my friends, most of whom I have yet to meet. The friendship and unconditional support I receive from hundreds of folks, is immeasurably helpful. Again though, I resist ‘banging’ on in my Tweets or Facebook posts about my depressive state of mind, for fear of becoming burdensome and seeking continual attention.

To round this off, having written what I have, I feel a strong sense of hope. I know I will replace my camera and I’ll begin to create my vlogs. I know as the weather improves, I’ll be kayaking almost every day. Now we live in a wonderful house, we have visitors lined up to stay with us, thus easing my feeling of loneliness. I have achievable goals to enjoy completing. Finally, I’m honoured to be the key note speaker at the charity Odyssey’s 25th celebration dinner party in March. This fact alone has helped stabilise my sense of uselessness. In return for this opportunity, I have decided to make Odyssey my fundraising charity for the whole year. I will set up a JustGiving page not for one particular event but everything I do through the year. If folks feel inspired by my adventures and/or enjoy the stories I share, I hope they decide to make a donation to Odyssey.

I will make it over this hump and I’m certain when I write here again, my mood will have considerably lifted. Thank you for taking the time to read this and as ever, for your unconditional support.

August 20, 2019

The Man Who Jumped From A Ferry - Epilogue

August 20, 2019/ Nick Ray

Epilogue

Now I’m out of hospital, homeostasis is not an option. Keeping things, the same in my life will not address the fundamental sources for my depression. During the three months in hospital, I had plenty of time to evaluate how I live. With the help of my CBT therapist, I clarified the changes, when made, I determined would help keep me in robust good health.

Change can be challenging. Remaining within my comfort zone may seem safe, but doing so, continues to expose me to the familiar, and thus comfortable, elements which may stunt my recovery process. In much of my life, I haven’t been content to remain in my comfort zone. My many sea kayaking adventures are a testament to this. There were innumerable moments during these expeditions where I could have taken the safest path but instead chose the more arduous. The rewards for doing so were always incredibly richer.

I identified the key element in how I live which hinders my pursuit of joy in life as being loneliness. I miss day to day contact with others. I miss seeing my friends. I miss having friends to visit and stay. I miss sharing my love of the outdoors with friends and others. My outgoing and richly blessed online life cannot sustain this for me. There are many occasions where I find myself aching to meet Twitter friends for real, to chat, to share time with. Yet, it is through Twitter where I find my most intimate connections with others. It is where daily, I am recognised and valued. Of course, it is not possible to meet people in reality – I would have to travel the world to do so.

I can make changes in how I live which will enhance the possibilities for me to connect with others. The fundamental change is one which carries the greatest potential for loss and sadness for me. It requires me to give up on what I have long believed sustained me but in fact, I have sadly identified, is a major limiting factor in my life.

This is living on our yacht.

We have therefore decided to move ashore. The key reasons for this huge decision are these. I am isolated from others when I’m aboard on our mooring in Tobermory Bay. There is no chance of anyone dropping by and there are times when I can spend a week on board without any contact with others apart from my wife. The only contact I have is an online virtual one. This then leads me to become attached to my laptop, searching my timelines for any recognition for my existence. Although I purport to live a free and healthy outdoor life, this is in truth not the case. I am often cooped up in our saloon, sitting in the same spot all day. Only moving to make coffee or visit the heads. My wonderful photos often trawled from my numerous photographic catalogues. Of course, I do get out and about. I take the dog for a walk and there are times when I get my act together and go kayaking.

This leads onto another debilitating factor regarding living on our boat in the bay. To get ashore we must row one of small dinghies. This means anything we need to transport ashore must be packed to keep it dry, and loaded in the small boat, rowed ashore, lumbered up onto the shore. There are many times when arriving at the shore, I have realised I have forgotten something on the boat which needed to be brought over. For example, the scutter in taking stuff ashore often demotivates me to the point I’ll choose not to go kayaking. Additionally, if I do go kayaking, there’s not much room aboard to dry my wet kit. All this occurs when we are on the mooring. In the winter months, we are berthed alongside one of the pontoon docks in the harbour marina.

This leads into another aspect which I have increasingly found challenging for me. Living on the boat through the winter. Winter is not a good time of year for me at the best of times. It’s when my mood is most likely to lessen to the point where I’m bordering on a depressive episode. Winter here in Tobermory can be tough. The winds often blow from a quarter which makes living aboard uncomfortable because of the noise and movement. When one of the many winter gales passes through, I can be guaranteed very little sleep. Another major factor which I’m increasingly finding challenging is keeping on top of dampness through the winter months. Condensation is a problem leading to things becoming mouldy and damaged as a result. We attempt to keep on top of this but it’s a never ending task. In the mornings I can be woken by large drips of condensation falling on my head from the window above me. With the heating we use, the boat is generally warm and cosy. We don’t suffer from being cold but with heating comes condensation.

Finally, I have come to accept I’m not a worthwhile handy-person. There are innumerable maintenance tasks which are required to keep the boat functional. For some reason, I find it extremely challenging to keep on top of these and ultimately perform them to a high quality. I accept I’m self-critical of myself, but this aspect does weigh heavily on me. It is an issue which I ruminate about and can build within me as a negative force.

There will be a huge amount I’ll miss about living on the boat. The first one, and this is probably the key one, is my loss of identity. I’m known as LifeAfloat to my many followers in my online world. Moving off the boat removes me from this attribution. I will personally miss acknowledging myself as a yacht live-aboard. An important part of my personal identity will be given up. This saddens me.

I will miss the elemental aspect of living on the boat. This is the deep connection I have developed with the weather, the sea, the tides, the birdlife and the boat herself. I will miss falling asleep to the movement created by the swell. I’ll miss becoming intimately knowledgeable about the weather and living my life, so I’m prepared for it and not too discomforted. To a certain extent I’ll miss the challenges the elements present because they remind me of my place in the world.

I’ll miss the opportunities to drop the mooring and sail off into the wide blue yonder. The itinerant lifestyle, not feeling anchored to one place. However, to be honest, we don’t do this half as much as we would like.

So, it’s with an extremely heavy heart, I’ve decided to bring to end my living on a yacht. It has been seven wonderfully interesting, joyful, challenging, and rewarding years. I’ve learned so much about living a simple life. I’ve learned much about myself too, namely I’m keen to live adventurously despite my age. Most of all, I’ve enjoyed the alternativeness of my lifestyle to the point it became a completely normal existence.

We are moving into a delightful terraced house looking over Tobermory Bay. We’ll have a garden which will offer us uninterrupted views across the bay, the Sound of Mull beyond and then the mountains of Morvern in the far distance. It’s a comfortable house with plenty of room. We were extremely fortunate to find this house, because rental accommodation in Tobermory is rare.

So, what are the opportunities?

I will have a room as my ‘office’ where I’ll write without having to clear my stuff away when we need to eat. We’ll enjoy all the aspects living in a house as opposed to living on a boat. Namely, no condensation. We’ll have a spare en-suite guest room.

“There are many Twitter and Facebook friends I want to meet and get to know. Additionally, it’ll be so much easier to then share some wee adventures together; kayaking, walking, exploring Mull. ”

The latter is extremely important! We hope this will mean we no longer live in isolation with no visitors. We make this room available to all our friends, even those we have not yet met. I am particularly keen our house becomes a hive of visitors where we share time together and connect. There are many Twitter and Facebook friends I want to meet and get to know. Additionally, it’ll be so much easier to then share some wee adventures together; kayaking, walking, exploring Mull.

There will not be scutter involved in rowing everything ashore before I can enjoy a day out kayaking or walking. I’ll simply open the door and walk down to the quay. At the end of the day, I can wash and dry my salty wet kit without stringing it out in two small cabins. I think this means I’ll get out on the sea far more often.

When winter arrives, I won’t be struggling with the gales and the darkness as much as I would be on the boat. This will be good for my mental health.

I will invite friends around and folks can drop by. My life will become less lonely and this too will be good for my mental health.

Finally, our dear dog, Ziggy, is becoming stiff in his legs and no longer jumps with the youthful confidence he once had. Living in a house where he doesn’t have to jump into or out of the saloon will certainly benefit him.

Although I will no longer be a live-aboard, I’m not relinquishing my LifeAfloat moniker. It is my intention to spend more time on the sea in my kayak than I have ever done before. There are huge swathes of coastline for me to explore. Additionally, I will buy a traditional clinker built sea going sailing skiff. I have my eye on one already. I will do this once we have sold our yacht.

This leads into the final point. The money we’ll realise from the sale of our yacht will not disappear into the general pot. We’ll divide it equally for each of us to realise our adventure dreams. I’m formulating a huge expedition to take place in a few years. Karen for example, has always wanted to trek through Iceland on a pony. There are many other aspirations we wish to fulfil. The key here is the spirit of ‘Anna-Maria’, our yacht, will live on through our commitment to enjoy adventures from her sale. This fills me with excitement. The possibilities!

We have no further plans than the immediate ones we have made. We aspire to live a life with as small a footprint as we can. This move into the house is a stepping stone towards our next life adventure.

October 09, 2018

World Mental Health Day - A Sea Kayaking Parable.

October 09, 2018/ Nick Ray

I wrote this as an article which was published in Ocean Paddler magazine.

Three Peaks by Kayak

The storm is unrelenting. I have been caught within it for what seems like an interminable length of time. There seems no way out and it takes every ounce of my energy to struggle through. Every opportunity to escape seems impossible and the only solution it seems, is to give up. To resign myself to the force of nature and let go. In fact, this is really what I desire, and I begin to allow myself, battered with fatigue, to drift away from reality. Somehow, a glimmer, a spark of fortitude remains, and I grab onto this at the very last moment. I reach out, I call out and assistance is there. Safety beckons and with my last reserves of energy, I embrace life and allow myself to accept the truth. I cannot do this alone and I require professional intervention.

The above is not a dramatic account from one of my sea kayaking adventures. It is in fact a narrative of my battle with clinical depression last Autumn, my strong desire to complete suicide and my eventual admission into a psychiatric ward for my safety and recovery. I live with depression which from time to time is severe enough to see me admitted to in-patient psychiatric care. It’s an illness which has dogged my adult life and one I struggle to overcome.

The clinical term for my malaise is ‘treatment resistant depression’. This means that the myriad interventions I’ve received have so far been unsuccessful and future options are diminishing. In the end though, I invariably make it through the worst of the debilitating episodes and I return to healthy normality somewhat battered, but inwardly stronger for the experience. The problem though, is the danger I face when I sink into one of my suicidal phases. The desire for death is so emphatic and real, that unchecked, I may in one irreversible moment see this through.

Fast forward to 15th May this year and I’m standing on the shores of Loch Eil about to embark on another of my long sea kayaking journeys; the Three Peaks by Kayak. This was a fund-raising venture for Odyssey, a small cancer charity I have worked with and continue to be involved in. There was a back story too, linking the Outward Bound centres of Loch Eil, Eskdale and Aberdyfi by beginning at the first and finishing at the latter. I am a former Outward Bound instructor and had long wanted to undertake this challenge when working for them many years ago. There was also another reason for undertaking this journey, one of recovery. I find solace through my immersion in wild landscapes and sea kayaking offers me the purist way to connect with my world around me.

In many respects, the challenge of kayaking from Fort William to Aberdyfi in mid-Wales and climbing the mountains of Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon on the way was a straight forward venture. It turned out to be a kayaking distance of eight hundred and thirty-two kilometres with some challenging windy conditions, the usual tidal gates to pass through, a few long open crossings and Liverpool Bay to traverse! I paddled this expedition solo and set myself the arbitrary timescale of a month to complete it, (which I managed to do with a few days to spare). I’m no stranger to solo expedition kayaking having visited in 2015 every one of at the time, forty-seven RNLI lifeboat stations in Scotland, an unsupported kayaking journey of 2960 kilometres. In 2017 I kayaked the route of the Scottish Islands Peaks Yacht Race and climbed the mountains of Ben More on the Isle of Mull, the Paps of Jura and Goat Fell on the Isle of Arran. Paddling solo is my preference.

An account of my Three Peaks by Kayak journey would be one of many perfect sunny days, unexpected and challenging strong easterly winds for much of my traverse of Scotland, incredibly beautiful and dramatic coastline of course, meeting fantastic people and plenty of humorous anecdotes. It was very much a typical sea kayaking adventure; packing, kayaking, decision making, some eventful seas, beautiful campsites and so on. However, it was far more than all of that. It was in fact a hugely profound experience for me.

When I worked for Outward Bound in the eighties and nineties, the seminal book about our profession at the time was; “The Conscious Use of Metaphor in Outward Bound” by Stephen Bacon. I even went to a training workshop run by him. Very simply, we were encouraged to frame the outdoor activities our students were presented with as metaphors in the hope that this would enable them to establish useful links between their Outward Bound course and their lives at work and home, thus making meaning of their outdoor experiences. Ever since then, I’ve lived my own outdoor life metaphorically, gaining insights about myself and how I relate with the world through the experiences I’ve encountered. It was no surprise then that this adventure would be the same. What I didn’t expect was how incredibly therapeutic it would be.

Standing on the slippery rocks of the Loch Eil foreshore, about to climb into my kayak and set off, I realised how low I was feeling. I didn’t want to leave the safety of my home and the companionship of my wife. I was unsure of my ability to successfully take on the challenge before me and unusually, I felt fear. I was fearful of the seas and the potential hazards ahead. I wasn’t experiencing the excitement and the anticipation I hoped for which would see me cheerily on my way. Instead, I paddled the eight short kilometres from Loch Eil Outward Bound to Fort William conjuring excuses and reasons to abandon the expedition in its early stages. Then, I climbed Ben Nevis in the small hours of the following morning, arriving as planned at the summit as the sun rose. There followed two wonderfully calm days of kayaking southwards reaching as far as Knapdale on the Kintyre coast. My spirits were lifted and I easily settled into my familiar life of an expeditionary sea kayaker. A 4am encounter with an Otter visiting me in my tent on the Isle of Luing, while I was drinking coffee highlighted the joy of the experience. From Knapdale onwards the challenges set in and so did a resurgent struggle with my depression.

The winds and the seas picked up and I found myself struggling to make headway. The bonhomie with the world I had been enjoying over the previous couple of days dissipated, to be replaced with a familiar depressive malaise. I was shaken by how easily my depressive thinking surfaced and at one point, I was frightened to find myself considering how easy it would be to capsize my kayak in the heavy seas and to drift away down into the Irish Sea. My inevitable death would appear to be a dreadful kayaking tragedy. When this thought occurred, I was heading for Machrihanish, still about nineteen kilometres away. With waves breaking around my waist and realising that a huge swell would make any landing down there hazardous, I decided that I needed to make for the shore well before then to sit out this bout of bad weather. I shifted my thinking from self-annihilation to self-preservation. It was that simple. A rocky reef provided me with the break I needed, and I landed on the Kintyre shore with the merest of ripples to contend with. That night in my tent, I reflected on what had occurred and with a surge of powerful realisation, I recognised my innate desire to remain alive.

Ahead of me, twenty-seven kilomteres away, loomed the Mull of Kintyre and its fearsome tidal race reputation. To make the tidal gate here and get through it safely, required an extraordinary early start. This meant waking at 2am and departing at 4. The forecast was for easier weather, so I decided to make this happen. The early morning rise, breakfast and packing in the dark was not as arduous as I anticipated. In fact, it was quite the opposite with a sense of pleasure at heading out to sea while the world around slumbered peacefully. The sun rising and bring light and warmth to the day as I kayaked along the Machrihanish Beach emphasised the joy to be gained from this type of experience. All went according to plan and I rounded the Mull of Kintyre just as the tide turned against me, gently and without the roaring tide race I have yet to encounter there. I repeated this experience for my traverse of the Mull of Galloway, this time an hour earlier. Again, I was rewarded with wonderful early morning solitude as a nearly full moon slowly descended, seemingly disappearing into a mirror calm sea. In fact, pre-dawn starts became the norm for this kayak journey as I repeated them several times further along the coast.

What I took from these experiences was a powerful reinforcement that I have it within my ability to make positive things happen. I could easily have chosen to tackle the tidal gate later in the day, accepting I would round the Mull in the late evening and arrive at Southend almost in the dark. By motivating myself to rise early and set off into the dark, I gained a fresh perspective on my journey and found myself enjoying this. I recognised too a sense of personal pride in my determination to grasp the challenge. I learned that this translated easily for my recovery process from my depression. The opportunity for change always exists, it’s up to me to seek it and make it happen.

Landing on the iconic island of Ailsa Craig with its cacophonous gannetry was a highlight of this adventure. I had long wanted to visit the island by kayak, and achieving this after a thirty kilometre crossing from Southend on Kintyre was especially rewarding, particularly because regular squadrons of gannets flying low overhead appeared to be welcoming me in. It was here where I noticed my solitude on this trip. Descending from the 338 metre high summit of the island where I had enjoyed the most incredible sunset over the expanse of an empty Firth of Clyde, I slipped on a patch of bluebells and tumbled headfirst down the steep slope, manically attempting to protect my camera and binoculars in my hands. I ended up in a crumpled heap a good few metres downhill with an excruciatingly painful elbow. The next morning, I was greeted with the sound of a gusting force 5 and the awareness that the pain in my elbow had worsened. It was tender to touch and very painful to bend. With a sense of panic, I assumed the worst and rather stupidly posted my concerns on my Twitter feed. I then found myself reassuring concerned followers that I was safe, well provisioned and didn’t require rescuing by the RNLI, who ironically, came to my rescue on Twitter by tweeting an acknowledgement of my ability to care for myself.

What followed was an enforced day of rest, allowing me to explore my castaway surroundings. The abandoned Northern Lighthouse Board buildings were fascinating with remnants of the keepers’ lives lying in the rooms where they had been used. The wild flowers were delightful. The 16th century castle tower was incredible and appeared to have weathered the centuries better than the contemporary buildings. The bird life was spectacular and coming across a large slow worm basking in the warm sunshine, was a particularly intimate encounter. Exploring all of this on my own with the sense that I was indeed a castaway, was incredibly rewarding. Reconnoitring the ‘Temple of Doom’ like walkways along the eastern edge of the island I happened upon an obviously injured gannet perched upon a rock, its head tucked deep under its bloodied wing. At first glance I thought it may be dead but then the slightest of shivers which ruffled its glorious feathers, showed me this was not the case. I stood stock still, suddenly deeply impacted by the painful reality that for this poor bird, there was no future. It had chosen to perch on the rock to wait for its inevitable death.

There was nothing I could do. Any means to put it out of its misery would be brutal and anyway, I didn’t want to play ‘God’ and hasten its death unbidden. I walked away back to my tent, the angry white capped sea to my left emphasising the potent force of Nature. This was a powerful moment for me, the issue of death being forced into my consciousness again. It occurred to me that unlike the poor gannet, humans are afforded the opportunity to choose the manner of our death. Faced with the inevitability of a dire diagnosis or indeed, suicidal desires, we can choose to curl up and wait for the inevitable end, even hastening it, or raise our heads and face it head on, living our lives as fully as we can before the moment arrives. We can fight too. We can medicate ourselves, undergo surgery and accept professional intervention to prolong or overcome the illness we are faced with. On Ailsa Craig, alone, almost like a shipwrecked mariner, I received the most illuminating awareness of the whole adventure. Choose life!

A few days later, after rounding the Mull of Galloway in the mid-morning after a pre-dawn start, I was faced with the twenty-seven-kilometre crossing of Luce Bay – against the tide. The weather was benign, and the sea was calm. The forecast for the following day was for force five easterlies, so I either set off there and then, or accepted I would be stuck by the Mull of Galloway for at least another day. I vacillated. I was weary and I knew that the tidal stream flowing out of the Solway Firth would be tough to contend with. However, I wanted to press on and make it at least to the Isle of Whithorn where I could sit out the strong wind next day in relative comfort. There was an hour or two of tide left in my favour, so I set off. Indeed, I made it across to the eponymously named Scares eleven kilometres off the Mull coastline in good time. However, after I had made it through the churned waters around the rocks with some nervousness, it seemed to me as if all progress was halted. The hazily indistinct coastline was sixteen kilometres away and regular glances at my GPS showed my progress was counted in metres not kilometres. While checking my GPS, I would drift backwards!

My heart was heavy. This moment seemed interminable and hopeless. I rued my decision to set out and began to consider returning to the Mull of Galloway with the tide. Somehow though, I kept going one slow, heavy paddle stroke at a time. The sun burnt down from a cloudless sky, my hydration bag now empty of water and my throat parched. It seemed as if the gannets and the cormorants swirling around the Scares still only metres away, were in fact vultures waiting for my demise. My spirits were at a low ebb. Then, because it was the nature of this adventure, I began to view my predicament in a different vein. Of course, it was tough. I was fatigued, and I was desperate for the eventual comfort of my tent. However, this moment would not last for ever. Eventually, in only a few hours, the tidal flow against me would ease and then change direction altogether. There would still be plenty of daylight to see me land at the Isle of Whithorn. If I could sit with my discomfort, then all would be well. This then, was another compelling lesson for me to embody. On the back of the insight gained on Ailsa Craig to choose life, sitting with my discomfort knowing that this will not last for ever, was powerfully enlightening. Those words, “will not last forever”, were often spoken to me by the nurses on the psychiatric ward when I was in hospital. They made sense then of course but sadly carried little weight. Now though, in the middle of Luce Bay, with a powerful tide against me, I understood them completely and laughed with joy at their enduring simplicity and truth.

Again, a few days later I was landing further up the Solway Firth on the depressingly rocky shore of Rascarrel Bay. I had struggled for the previous couple of hours against a force six headwind and an accompanying lumpy sea. Suitable landing places were almost non-existent, let alone those with good enough spots to camp. Rascarrel had seemed the most likely option and when I arrived, the tide was way out and I was faced with hundreds of metres of large weed covered and barnacled boulders over which to carry bulging IKEA bags and my kayak. It was also pouring with tropically intense rain. I set about unpacking the boat, knowing that in these conditions there was little hope in keeping things dry, when suddenly a pair of wellies appeared in my peripheral vision and a voice asked, “Would you like a hand?”. Angels it seems, wear wellington boots! I was warmly welcomed in by the Smith family, third generation hutters of Rascarrel Bay. They invited me to camp in their garden and fed me jam and ham sandwiches!

Again, I was confronted with a convincing metaphorical awareness, that when the chips are down, there will be moments of unexpected help. By now, over two weeks into my journey, I had at last found the joy and the pleasure to be gained from the adventure. I had faced many dark moments. I had also allowed myself to accept the many nuggets of Nature’s instruction offered to me during these. As a result, I was strong again.

The subsequent days and kilometres drifted by, each with substantial challenges, but all faced with equanimity. In fact, I sought some of these challenges before they presented themselves, culminating in an eighty-six kilometre penultimate day of my journey when I kayaked the full length of the Lleyn Peninsula and then crossed Cardigan Bay to camp on Shell Island beach. The final day of the adventure was particularly fitting in that I arrived to a warm welcome from friends at Aberdyfi, the place where my professional life in the outdoors began in the mid-eighties and where a portion of my heart will forever reside. After all I have been through, it was affirming to be welcomed so warmly and to celebrate my achievement of completing the Three Peaks by Kayak, a challenge which nearly a month earlier, on the shores of Loch Eil, I doubted my ability to accomplish.

One of the tasks presented to us as Outward Bound instructors was to facilitate the transfer of learning from an Outward Bound course to the students’ home or work, so that new awareness and opportunities for change were enduring. Having presented the activities they encountered metaphorically throughout their course, this process was not too difficult to manage. Now that I’m home after this kayaking adventure, I too am confident that the self-awareness I gained from this venture will be long lasting. My recovery from my clinical depression will never be straight forward, but now, I have powerfully metaphoric memories to recall when those tough times revisit me in the future.

"if

the ocean can calm itself,

so can you.

are both

salt water

mixed with

air."

~ Nayyirah Waheed

I was raising funds for Odyssey, a charity which provided transformational outdoor courses for people with or have had cancer. My fundraising page remains open - here. Thank you.

September 11, 2018

Adventure or Misadventure

September 11, 2018/ Nick Ray

A while ago, in late July, I sullied my sea kayaking record. It feels like I am an advanced driver who has been caught speeding and received points on my licence. When kayaking along the Pembrokeshire coast I was caught by a huge breaking wave, was capsized, exited my kayak and ended up swimming. This is the first time this has happened to me (when not playing) in 25 years of sea kayaking. In my defence regarding not rolling my kayak and having to swim, my paddle was broken during the incident, hence not rolling upright. However, I have no defence regarding being caught by the wave in the first place. I hold my hands up and admit to being inattentive and being too relaxed.

Phil in his element along the Pembrokeshire coastline.

My good friend Phil and I had completed an enjoyable and challenging circumnavigation of Ramsey Island off the Pembrokeshire coast. This was the first time that I had paddled this route despite having regularly visiting the infamous Bitches tide race in Ramsey Sound to surf the waves there. The seas off the west coast of the island were lively to say the least and this with a fiercely running tide, made paddling conditions pretty exciting. I'm an experienced sea kayaker and I can hold my own in variable conditions but even then on this occasion, I was surprised by some unexpected bouncy waters, steep standing waves and some fierce tidal eddies which, at one point, spun me 180 degrees! Needless to say, Phil and I whooped and hollered our approval at being tested in this way.

Our history of enjoying shared adventures goes back over thirty years. It has become something of an 'in-joke' amongst our friends that when we get together, there'll be high adventure of some sort. It's not that we egg each other on in a macho fashion to achieve the impossible, we simply embody a strong spirit for adventure. When we come together we somehow match our aspirations for a day of enjoyment and excitement in the outdoors. We are well matched skills wise and probably more importantly, we are well matched judgement wise too. We each have the innate ability to anticipate the likelihood of success or risky failure when looking at the activity we are planning to undertake. What we end up doing is taking ourselves to the edge of the adventure and flirting with misadventure.

One story to recount is the time we set out to kayak to the Shiant Isles just off the Isle of Lewis across the Minch from the Isle of Skye. At the time I lived on the Black Isle near Inverness and Phil lived in Kendal. This meant that by the time we had met each other and travelled to Skye, we were running behind time. We packed our kayaks in a hurry and hastily launched into a lumpy sea in the hope that the last of the tide would set us up nicely for the long crossing to the Shiants. It wasn’t until we were well into the Minch that we realised we weren’t making any worthwhile forward progress. The far hills of Harris steadfastly held their position on our port beams. Additionally the sea state was deteriorating and we were threatened with the prospect of arriving at the far off islands in the dark. We decided to turn tail and head for the nearby Fladda Chuain islets five miles off the Sky coastline. Eventually after a total of eight hours hard paddling we pulled ourselves ashore, staggering and slipping up the slippery boulder beach of the main island. We made camp and turned our attention to making a restorative pot of tea. “Have you got the water?” I shouted across to Phil who was pegging out his tent. “No, I thought you had it” he responded. We looked at each other aghast. Here we were, two seasoned adventurers without any drinking water on a small waterless island in the Minch! We berated ourselves but couldn’t help laughing at our predicament because thankfully, before leaving the Black Isle, we had purchased six bottles of Black Isle Brewery beer. We wouldn’t die of thirst. Our journey continued the next day and ended safely though we never did make it out to the Shiants. We ended up paddling along the Skye coastline instead.

Finding myself swimming in a restless Pembrokeshire sea and knowing that Phil was in the water too was a salutatory reminder of the fine edge I sometimes traverse between enjoying high adventure or encountering misadventure. All worked out well. We self-rescued and we were on our way again, somewhat chagrined but none the worse for the incident. However, since then I have gone on to replay the event in my mind, berating myself for my inattention. Truthfully, I was a little shaken too.

I am predominantly a solo kayaker and there have been a number of times during long journeys where I have found myself coping with tricky situations. Every time I have coped well and come through unscathed, largely because I am an able kayaker well used to facing uncertain situations. Nevertheless with each of these moments, things could have taken a different course and I would have found myself possibly dealing with far more than I would have liked.

For example, during my 2015 sea kayak journey around Scotland, along the east coast of Harris, I found myself caught out by a huge ‘boomer’. This is where a usually submerged rock is suddenly uncovered by a receding wave and then covered again with the booming wash of a replacement wave, often accompanied with spectacular bursting white water. I had just rounded a small headland and hadn’t seen this particular spot, so when I suddenly found myself seemingly in mid air above a rapidly exposed barnacled and weedy rock, I knew what I was in for. With instinct more than anything else, I threw my weight to my right and readied my paddle to support me on the wave which inevitably cracked ominously at head height and broke onto me, sweeping me down and towards the exposed rock. Supported by my paddle and leaning onto the raging surf, I tensed myself for the inevitable dreadful crunch when my kayak would be crashed hull first onto the ragged rock. I was resigned to a severely damaged boat and possible injury to myself. Instead with incomprehensible relief, I realised that instead of the crunching crash, I was simply surfed over the rock and into a patch of lively and disturbed water where it seemed that once spent, the waves gathered to recompose themselves. I had survived and so had my kayak.

The consequences of crashing into the rock can only be imagined. I was in a remote and unpopulated section of the Harris coast where my predicament would have gone unnoticed and rescue would have been a long time in coming. There were no beaches to haul myself onto and the rocky cliffs were being pounded by hungry waves fed by a force wind. I would have found myself in a tricky situation - there is no doubt about that. If my kayak had been damaged and was unseaworthy and I was in the water unable to self-rescue, I would have had to deploy my emergency personal locator beacon and call for assistance on my VHF radio. The Leverburgh Lifeboat (which I had just visited) would have taken an hour to reach me.

Of course none of this happened and I went on to complete my 1850 mile solo journey without ever having to use my emergency equipment. This isn’t to say I didn’t face further moments of peril. When thinking about my mishap on the Pembrokeshire coast in late July, I reminded myself that I had coped with potentially more severe situations without trouble. The event with Phil had occurred because I had switched off and relaxed. Normally, when I’m paddling on my own, I’m far more wary and observant. However, the potential for misadventure is always there. This is because I’m naturally drawn to extending myself, to exploring the unknown and to testing my ability. During my 520 mile Three Peaks by Kayak journey this year, I noticed how willing I was to put to sea in conditions I would have avoided in 2015. This is a result of my increased confidence in my ability and a strengthened fortitude to face more challenging situations. I’m not over confident or braggartly blasé, but rather more self assured. As I grow into my sea kayaking, my wisdom, my judgement and my ability match pace. It’s only natural for me to continue to extend myself.

Reflecting on this, I accepted that eventually I would find myself overstepping the mark and calling upon every level of skill I possess to resolve a tricky predicament. I accept that this is the nature of my adventuring and in fact of my personal growth too. It is often my mistakes and mishaps which provide powerful learning. Rather than continue to give myself a hard time about breaking my non-capsize record, I instead have chosen to look at this Pembrokeshire event as a rich source of helpful information. For a start - even when relaxed, maintain a level of alertness. There are many small but important steps I would take differently based on the learning I have drawn from this one event and as a result, I’m confident that an occurrence of this nature will not happen again.

My accrued wisdom however, informs me that there will undoubtedly be another time some where in the future where I slip on the tightrope between adventure and misadventure. I’m confident though that when this happens, like this time in Pembroke, I’ll be well equipped in mind, in skill and safety kit to deal with it. This is what adventure is about. As Phil and I say to each other every time we embark on a shared journey into the outdoors - “An adventure is an experience with an unknown outcome.”

August 07, 2018

Finding Focus

August 07, 2018/ Nick Ray

The summer is speeding by for me. This is probably a good thing in a way, because it means that I'm living it fully. I think this is probably true, though I have difficulty in recounting what I get up to each day. Not a huge amount to be honest.

Anyway, I've recently returned from a journey down south where I gave a presentation in Aberdyfi about my 3 Peaks by Kayak journey, visited my parents in Herefordshire and then spent a few days camping with a group of friends in Pembrokeshire. This journey turned into a rewarding experience for me where I gained significant insights which I believe will be useful for me in my future.

My presentation in Aberdyfi turned out to be an unqualified success. Seventy or so folks came along to the Yacht Club in the village to hear me give an illustrated talk about my 3 Peaks adventure. To be honest, I hadn't really prepared in any detail what I was going to talk about. I had chosen a number of photos to show and these would offer me prompts to recount anecdotes from the journey. I did have the intention of speaking about how profound the journey was for me and how I gained deep insights into my mental health recovery process as a result of it. As the presentation unfolded, I found myself speaking with eloquent openness about my struggle with my depression, ideations of suicide and how powerful moments of insight into these were highlighted by incredible experiences I encountered. Without preparing for this, I found my voice and it carried impact.

The feedback I received afterwards was difficult to accept because it was so effusive in its praise. Such is my low sense of self-worth that I literally had to force the compliments into my 'memory banks'. It was when people I had never met before came up to me and spoke of the profoundness of my talk, that I realised that I had given something worthwhile. This was a good feeling for me.

A few days later down in Pembrokeshire, the compliments continued to roll in and this time they were more thoughtful because folks had given time to thinking about the impact of my presentation. I couldn't help but glow with a sense of satisfaction that my voice had such impact. My intuition that sharing my personal struggle with depression and suicide as an adjunct to the powerful experiences I encountered during my kayaking journey had paid off. With relief, I realised that my desired future path of publicly sharing my outdoor adventures as a source of inspiration for others struggling with mental health issues and general self awareness, was a good one for me to pursue.

Driving north to the Isle of Mull, I pondered on how I can build on this and make it happen.

Writing seems to be the most obvious pathway. I like writing but I'm not good at focussing and completing writing projects. However, recently submitting an article about my recent kayaking trip to the notable sea-kayaking publication, Ocean Paddler, and having this well received, with an invitation to submit further articles, has boosted my confidence and provided me with the incentive to approach my writing seriously. I have a number of books I would like to write and of course, many shorter pieces specifically about the transformational power of Nature, the outdoors and adventure per se.

Public speaking is also an obvious route to embark on. I have come to accept that I'm adept at this and I can hold an audiences' attention through my voice and story. I have much to say and I do enjoy sharing my views and tales when these moments arise. However, I'm slow to grasp opportunities to speak publicly or even seek them out, instead waiting to be invited to do so. This will be a challenge for me, to publicise myself as a worthwhile speaker, worthy of hiring.

Running workshops was another consideration of mine. I enjoy being a facilitator, managing group process and working with the 'here and now' material as it arises. Again, like my writing aspirations, I have a myriad workshop titles in my notebooks. The key here is finding a market for these and more to the point, a relevance for them. In my time, I have worked as an independent workshop provider and facilitator but I found this a stressful process for me. I'm not business minded enough to have made this a success and this dissuades me from following this path.

Of course there is social media where I can highlight what I have to offer. My Twitter account is a healthy one with wonderfully meaningful engagement with friends, acquaintances and strangers. Here, I largely present myself as I am, not really hiding much away. It would be easy for me to build on this online persona and 'market. what I want to offer. Facebook is a little different and since the international wrangle with 'false news' and manipulation, I'm wary of this platform. I am on Instagram but I don't engage with this as best I could.

Then there is this website and developing my 'Life Afloat' brand. This is an obvious point of reference for what I want to develop and share. Like my writing, I will need to focus more on this, developing useful content and make it an interesting resource for folks to want to visit and remain connected with.

Finally, my Blog. I simply need to keep up with this and keep writing material for it.

If you have ideas and suggestions in response to what I've shared here, then please drop me a line through my contact page. I welcome any feedback you may wish to give me. Thank you.

April 26, 2018

Ground-rush

April 26, 2018/ Nick Ray

In my life so far, I have completed only two parachute jumps. The first as a fund-raiser for a friend and the second the day after the first, because I had enjoyed it so much. They were static line jumps from two thousand feet high, involving the classic process of pushing out of an open light aircraft door, arms and legs akimbo, yelling (or screaming) - "One thousand, two thousand, three thousand..... check canopeeeee....!" These jumps took place in 1986 and so the mists of time have mellowed my memory of them since then. However, I do recall that I felt more fear during the second jump than I did the first.

Analysing this now, I make the assumption that the first jump was one of pure excitement and because I had never jumped before, I really had no fearful expectations apart from the possibility that my parachute might malfunction. The rest of the experience was purely an adrenalin fuelled moment, which I had longed to complete ever since I was a young boy. I loved flying. I had been an Air Force Cadet at secondary school and I took any opportunity I could to fly in the ancient Chipmunk aircraft on summer camps and regular unit trips down to the nearest RAF airfield. I also gained my Glider Pilot wings before I passed my driving test, flying solo at the age of sixteen. My solo flight lasted just over sixty seconds and earned me the right to volunteer at the RAF Gliding School every Saturday, with solo flying at the end of the day, for two years after. My first solo glider flight is worthy of a separate story in itself.

So, by the time I found myself shuffling towards the gaping doorway in a Cessna aircraft, high above the quintessential rolling Herefordshire countryside, I was an avid aviator of sorts, who wondered what it would be like to hurl myself from an aircraft and drift down to earth under a silken canopy. I felt no fear, simply excited anticipation. The poor man who was sitting beside me on the cabin floor was weeping silently. Our relative perceptions of this mutual experience couldn't have been more different.

The first jump itself was everything I had hoped for. The complete exhilaration of sitting in the open doorway, my legs dangling with nothing below them until the ground far below and then the command, "Go!", followed by the few seconds of buffeting mayhem as the parachute snapped and cracked open and my body hanging motionless beneath the ochre canopy. These were the days before the 'square' canopies and the large round billowing mushroom above me spilled the air softly, just like the handkerchief parachutes I used to make for my plastic soldiers when I was a boy. What will remain with me in memorable crystal clarity for ever, is the silence. For the brief minute or so I was drifting earthwards, I was suspended in a solitudenous silence which, quite simply, took my breath away. It was one of those perfect moments of absolute awareness. It was probably the first time in my life where I was conscious of all that was occurring - around me, to me and for me.

Less than two minutes after leaving the plane, I neared the ground and seconds later, I saw the hardened grassy surface of the airfield rushing to meet me. With a thud which extorted an unbidden, "Ooft!" from my lungs, I hit the ground and I executed what I thought to be a worthy parachute roll. The air in the canopy dissipated and it collapsed in a whispering rustle beside me. My first ever parachute jump was complete and I was elated!

Imbued with confidence, back at the parachute club offices, I readily signed up for another jump the next day!

Twenty four hours later and once again I'm sitting on the cabin floor of the Cessna aircraft and this time there isn't a weeping man beside me. Instead, it's me who was feeling the nerves. With the naïve and excited anticipation no longer present, I was free to contemplate the possibilities of risk and failure. My stomach was tense and I was not enjoying the moment as much as I hoped I would. The moment of the jump arrived and instead of sheer exhilaration swamping my senses, I was agitated and matter of fact. I want the jump to be over. What I remember of that moment is fearing the landing. I looked forward to the moments of hanging silently beneath the billowing canopy but it was the final seconds and the rush to the ground which filled me with fear.

Needless to say, everything was fine and the jump was effortless and enjoyable. Even my landing was not as I had feared, though I do remember thumping onto the airfield as hard as the day before.

Now, in the present day, I'm about to embark on my third major sea kayaking fundraising trip and I'm feeling the nerves. There is no longer first expedition naivety to mask my concerns and I am finding myself dwelling on aspects of my forthcoming journey which require particular attention because of possible hazards and the risks involved. Similarly too, I am worrying about my overall ability to pull this venture off - to succeed in its purpose. I worry that because I have been successful in past sea kayaking adventures, folks will have expectations of me doing so again and I have much to live up to. I realise that more than anything, I am expecting a lot of myself and it is actually myself who I don't want to disappoint. As the departure date for my journey draws closer, I am experiencing a sense of ground-rush, time concertinaing and the many important preparatory tasks rushing towards me. The memory of my parachute jumps thirty two years ago reveal themselves clearly in my mind and it is the memory of the ground-rush which I feared the most.

What I realise though, is to hold onto the recollection of that incredible moment hanging in space under the parachute canopy, alone and in awe of the world around me and below me, enveloped in peace and serenity. For it is this experience of solitude, alone on the vastness of the ocean, which fills me with this peace I crave in my life. This is why I return to these journeys in my sea kayak, time and again. The senses of fear and the ground-rush of anxiety then, are merely distractions which serve to heighten my preparedness to safely enjoy my oceanic solitude.

The moment I scrunch my kayak off the shore and into the sea on the 7th May, will be like the moment I'm dangled my legs out of the aircraft door for the second time all those years ago. All that awaits is the final push, and I'm away, encompassed in a world where anything is possible.

April 23, 2018

Gratitude

April 23, 2018/ Nick Ray

It's just a few weeks until I set off on my Three Peaks by Kayak adventure raising funds for Odyssey.

Any venture such as this requires top notch equipment to ensure my safety and the possibility of its success. I have received incredibly generous support from kayaking equipment providers and individuals over the past few years and I'm indebted to them for this. Without their generosity, it's doubtful that I'll have been able to resource myself adequately to undertake the journeys I have.

I am always grateful for sponsorship and receiving much needed equipment. In return, I hope I offer useful publicity to the businesses and providers who help me. More than this, I like to think of any sponsorship arrangement as an ongoing partnership where I hope to continue to acknowledge their support long after my adventure has taken place.

For the Three Peaks by Kayak, I am truly grateful to Alan Hinkes for agreeing to be the Patron for this particular adventure. We met during my 2015 journey around Scotland and it's an honour to have him on board. His mountaineering achievements are inspirational as is his continued work encouraging people to make the most the outdoors has to offer.

I continue to be indebted to Sea Kayaking Scotland for 'Sahwira', my NDK Explorer sea kayak. She has served me faithfully through my 2015 journey, my Scottish Islands Peaks last year and innumerable trips in between. I think we've paddled over 3000 miles together since April 2015. 'Sahwira' by the way, means 'lifelong friend' in Shona, a Zimbabwean language.

Leonie of Art & Sea - Custom Vinyl Graphics is generously supporting me yet again this year, gifting me free graphics for new sponsors and sea slates for me to write essential notes & times on my deck. The graphics she provided for my 2015 trip are still looking excellent despite the wear and tear they have received.

An exciting new partnership has come into being with Gael Force Group who have generously provided me with an Icom hand held VHF radio. I am looking forward to our developing relationship over the coming years, especially since I worked for them way back in 2013.

Reed Chillcheater presented me with a spray-deck for my Islands Peaks challenge last year and this excellent piece of kit is now a firm favourite of mine.

YB Tracking sponsored my unit and tracking for my 2015 trip and assisted me in purchasing a YB unit with a donation of 100 credits for my Islands Peaks last year. I'll be using this again this year.

The buoyancy aid and kayaking trousers I use were provided by Kokatat for my 2015 trip and these are going strong.

My paddles too, from my 2015 trip, have many paddling miles left in them. They were sponsored by Celtic Paddles.

I still wear the three T-shirts given to me in 2015 by Gael8 Designs - they are old favourites.

And finally there is YOU - all of you who support me with warm words of encouragement, by making generous donations to my fundraising effort and for showing an interest in my mad cap ventures.

Thank you to everyone. Thank you! :)

July 18, 2017

A Fresh Start

July 18, 2017/ Nick Ray

8th May 2106! That was my last blog entry and what a lot of water has flowed under my bridge since then. I'm not certain where to begin, so I think I'll resort to a hasty summary of what has happened since that last post.

I ended up staying in hospital well into the summer and returned to our home in the marina on Loch Fyne. My recovery was well under way and it was wonderful to be home again but I still had a way to go before I could confidently say this bout of depression was at an end. It wasn't long before we were making plans for a move to Tobermory on the Isle of Mull as well as making ready for the arrival of our new yacht too. Karen had found a job in Tobermory which suited her down to the ground and the opportunities for work there for me were far greater than they were on the Cowal Peninsula. So, in August 2016 Karen moved to Mull and I waited for the new yacht to arrive which it did at the beginning of September. It was a momentous moment when along with a friend I cast off from Portavadie Marina to sail our Colvic 33 to Tobermory. Four days later our new home was safely berthed on the pontoons in Tobermory Harbour.

There followed a period of settling in where I took time to establish myself in the community and sadly continued to struggle with severe bouts of depression. Thankfully I was well supported by the community mental health nurse and the psychiatrist. Despite the periods of deep lowness I found myself enjoying my new surroundings. The Isle of Mull is a lovely island with so much to explore and enjoy. The walking is second to none and the coastline is one of the finest to explore in a sea kayak. As the winter deepened we hunkered down in our boat and safely rode out the passing winter storms.

The new yacht has transformed our live aboard life. She is twice the size of our previous yacht and is well appointed with two sleeping cabins, two heads, a shower, hot water system, a lovely saloon and an excellent galley. She is also a lovely boat to sail - seaworthy, which is ideal for us. The extra space has allowed us to live comfortably with a sense that we are definitely in our home and not in a small yacht.

When the New Year arrived we found ourselves becoming accepted by the Tobermory community. I became involved with the local lifeboat fundraising committee and from this I was invited to become a Deputy Launching Authority for the Tobermory Lifeboat. An honour and a responsibility I'm proud to have taken on. In doing this I have found my social circle has widened to the point where I can't remember enjoying the company of so many friends for many years. It is a wonderful feeling to go about my business around the town and always be bumping into folks I know and who know me. Another important aspect for me is the fact that folks are interested in me and for the first time in a long, long while I feel acknowledged for who I am.

At the beginning of the summer I established a sea kayak guiding service in Tobermory with the generous assistance of Chris of Clearwater Paddling. Essentially I am working for him as a guide here on the Isle of Mull but without his generosity in agreeing to set up a Mull wing to his business, I would not be doing something I love - sea kayak guiding. So far the business is going well and there is a lot of interest. It is lovely to take people out and around Tobermory Bay, showing them the sights and sharing with them the joys of sea kayaking on the west coast of Scotland.

I am free of my deep depression at the moment and I look forward to the coming months with hope and excitement. There is a lot to be joyous about living here and there are many times when I pinch myself to make sure that I am where I am.

I look forward too to writing many more blog entries with a more upbeat tone to them.

May 08, 2016

Digging Deep - A Sea Kayaking Parable

May 08, 2016/ Nick Ray

A few days ago my wife took me to the beautiful wee beach at Kilmory on the Kintyre coast between Loch Sween and West Loch Tarbert. It feels like a secret idyll which involves a ten mile journey through some of the finest wooded and coastal landscape that Scotland has to offer. The lovely white sandy beach faces west with the panoply of the Islay and Jura skyline dominating the view across the breezily ruffled Sound of Jura. We had taken a picnic and we settled back to a wonderful few hours under the strengthening early summer sun. It was glorious.

Looking across the ten miles to the Isle of Jura I was reminded of the day last year when I kayaked forty seven miles from Proaig Bothy on Islay via the lifeboat station at Port Askaig, back down the Sound of Islay into the Sound of Jura, across to the mainland and then northwards to Crinan. The day before I had kayaked forty five miles from the Mull of Kintyre to the bothy on Islay. These were to be the longest mileage days of my trip.

I had set off from the bothy at six in the morning and paddled against a gusty wind and the makings of a strong opposing tide. I hopped through the eddys along the shore delighting in the sculpted cliffs mottled with intriguing caves. At my passing, seals sloshed off the rocks into the sea and inquisitively trailed in my wake. Slipping neatly through the swirling tidal waters into Port Askaig I arrived alongside the lifeboat. After a quick scramble ashore to visit the lifeboat station I was soon afloat again keen to make the most of the eastward tide down the Sound of Islay.

With a strengthening following wind and a favourable tide it took me only an hour to paddle the eight miles to the tip of the island of Jura where I turned northwards into the Sound of Jura. Now, as I kayaked along the eastern coastline of the island the wind was on my port beam and as I emerged from the shelter of the various skerries I was almost bowled over by the gusts. The forecast was for strong winds reaching twenty five knots. What had been plain sailing now became something of a struggle, maintaining steady headway while coping with the forceful gusts. Reaching the Small Isles which guard Craighouse Bay I drew deep breaths while I rested and smiled at the antics of the Common Terns and the eponymous Oystercatchers. My plan was to kayak along the Jura coastline to the narrowest point of the Sound and find a camp spot. The next day I would hop across to the mainland and make my way along the north Kintyre coast to Crinan where our yacht, my home, was moored on the canal - and where my wife was waiting.

By the time I reached the open mouth of Lowlandman's Bay the strength of the wind was beginning to really dog me. I began to lose the will to continue and I debated with myself about pulling ashore at the earliest opportunity and calling it a day. There would be no shame in doing this especially while the conditions were like they were. From time to time fierce rain squalls would sweep down on me from the Paps on my left and make life pretty miserable. I plodded on - slow paddle stroke after another. By the time I reached Lagg four miles later, I was about done in and ready to stop.

Then, seemingly from nowhere the decision to make the six mile crossing to the mainland occurred. It was rash and possibly unwise given the strength of the wind but I went for it anyway. I had a desire to spend my night on the mainland with only a few remaining miles to complete before reaching home the next day. What followed was an exhilarating (if frightening) hour and a bit blast across the Sound of Jura to the safe haven of Keill Chapel harbour. The sea heaped up around me and surfed me along. From time to time the odd wave collapsed onto my stern deck and at times my spraydeck causing me to reach out in an urgent brace. I couldn't relax for a second wary of rogue waves which threatened to slap me over. It doesn't do to look behind when kayaking in a large following sea - it is ominously frightening! I made it safely across and breathed a huge sigh of relief when I was finally sitting in the calm waters of the harbour. I set about scanning the shore for a suitable place to camp but could only see watery bog fringing all around. I was worn out but there lay within me the desire to keep going. Looking out I saw the sea smashing itself furiously against the natural rock harbour walls. It seemed fearsome and I really didn't want to head back out into it. I sat still and pondered my situation.

I could camp here. I had camped in worse places. I could paddle further and stop at the next most suitable spot but this was likely to be five miles away. I could keep going all the way to Crinan and then I would be home. I tussled with these choices while around me the wind and the sea roared their advice - egging me onward.

Then it happened - I dug deep into my resources, executed a purposeful sweep with my left paddle blade and headed back out into the wild seas.

Within me the desire to reach home had strongly outweighed my weariness and my respect for the conditions. It was going to be a demanding few hours but I knew I had it within me to cope. I set off for Crinan, counting each mile as I completed them and realising that I was relishing this particular challenge. I was paddling along a lee shore so the conditions were incredibly rough. Despite this I made excellent progress and three hours and ten miles later I was pulling into the relative calmness of Crinan Bay, eventually landing on the slipway at nine in the evening. I unloaded the kayak and was enjoying a welcome glass of beer with my wife in the hotel bar by last orders!

I recalled all of this while sitting on the beach under the warm sun with the light glinting off the calm waters. Before me now, lies another challenge of sorts. I begin my series of ECT (Electro-convulsive Therapy) treatment for my depression and an extended stay in hospital. However I feel I have reached the end of my tether with hospital life and I am definitely ready to return home. It feels to me that I can't take much more of this - the confined space, communal living, regemented routines and being indoors instead of out. Yet the goal of recovering from my depression is extremely attractive and seems after such a long time (years in fact) to be within my reach. It's there if I can stay the course - if I will stay the course.

I'm sure you can see the link - all I have to do to achieve this is to dig deep, head onward and take my chance while I have it. The reward is plain to see.

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