My On-line Drop-In

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I have wanted to post an entry to my blog for a few months now but have held back on the account of the current episode of clinical depression I am fighting. I did not want to write yet another bleak expose on my condition, no matter how cathartic this may be for me and informative it might be for others. Anyway, yesterday I was wandering along the coastal path with my mind wandering ahead of me as usual and it occurred to me that I do in fact have something I want to share. So here goes.

I am struggling with my depression and to be honest, there are times at the moment when I don't believe I will ever recover from this. Whenever I seem to make any steps towards the light of recovery so to speak, there is an insidious force within me which drags me back towards the self destructive belief that I am not worth anything - that there is no point in my making plans for a happy future. This is the gist of the destructive thinking with numerous negative amendments along similar lines. The outcomes of this range from a strong desire for suicide to my self-imposed alienation because of increased social anxiety. I keep myself to myself aboard our boat in the harbour and rarely venture into Tobermory town because of the possibility of meeting people I know. 

But here's a thing. If you follow me on Twitter (@LifeAfloat), then reading the above may come as a complete surprise. This is because out there on that social media platform I am highly visible and interactive with my regular tweets, sharing my photos and generally interacting with my followers. Anyone would assume that the manner I portray myself on Twitter, is the way in which I live my life, almost as an extrovert.

The reason why I am writing about this is because recently I decided to decline an invitation to partake in the AGM of a fund-raising committee I have belonged to since arriving in Tobermory a year ago. I know that some members of this committee follow me on Twitter and I feel guilty about declining the attendance of this very important meeting on the grounds of my depression and yet in the realm of Twitter I am apparently outgoing and carefree (or so it must seem). I have made the assumption that if I were my committee colleagues, I would be questioning my lack of attendance and overall commitment to the group when it is clear on Twitter nothing seems wrong with me.

I was pondering this as I walked along the shore path, the sounds of the nearby sea muted in my consciousness because I was concentrating on my dilemma. This is one of the attributes of my depression, it causes me to overthink and to wade deeper into the morass of my distorted view of my world and what my twisted perceptions of it are. Then, in a moment of clarity, I realised I could write about this and in my own way, explain why it is I can be outwardly connected on Twitter but struggle to connect with the people in 'real life' situations. 

In my early episodes of my clinical depression in the late 1990s, I was living in Windermere in the Lake District, England. I was alone and lived in a small one bedroom flat. I was unemployed and deeply depressed. During that eighteen month period I had three admissions to the psychiatric ward at the general hospital in Kendal. During the lucid times between these admissions I would attend, twice every week, a 'drop-in' facility in the village of Ambleside for local folks who were suffering severe and enduring mental health issues. This 'drop-in' was staffed by NHS psychiatric nurses and a couple of care assistants. For a few hours we would gather for coffees and teas, sandwiches and low key activities such as arts and crafts, presentations and maybe short walks if the weather was good. In any event, it was simply an opportunity for folks like myself who were finding life challenging because of their poor mental health, to come together and share each others company. It was good to get out of my flat and socialise.

I do not have access to a similar social facility here in Tobermory. However, I am fortunate to enjoy a sizeable following on the social media platform of Twitter, and even more fortunate to enjoy chatty and friendly relationships with a good many of my followers. Many of these folks have become good on-line friends.  I have been open about my mental health travails and I'm comfortable about being open when I am struggling with a severe bout of depression. I attempt not to labour my illness but I'm sure this may shine through with a few bleak postings. This means that there may be moments when I will withdraw from Twitter while I work through a particularly difficult patch or simply feel the need for some quiet. People understand and offer me their warm thoughts and good wishes. 

In many respects Twitter is my on-line 'drop-in' where I am able to interact in an open manner where I am accepted for who I am. It is an environment where I'm able to socialise without fear of judgement or a sense of having to put on a 'cheerful' outlook for the sake of doing so. Paradoxically, for such a huge visible arena (my followership is global), I feel quite at ease. I think this is because I can choose when to engage with Twitter and when to step back and keep myself to myself. I am able to be safe in my boat cabin while chatting with people who know me and respect my place in the world. If there are people who become new contacts, I do not worry because there is a perception of anonymity which adds to my sense of safety. 

This is why at the moment I am outgoing on Twitter and live a secluded life here in Tobermory. As I continue to recover I hold the hope that it will not be long before I begin to re-engage with the aspects of Tobermory community life which I hold dear to and I value.

Finally, thank you to my many Twitter friends and followers who continue to unwittingly provide the support I seek in my recovery. 

Cleaning Her Bottom!

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There comes a time when a necessary chore can no longer be deferred and it's necessary to get the job done. One which had been weighing heavily over me for many weeks was the need to clean Anna Maria's hull - her bottom.

As a yacht owner for six years now, I'm well used to the annual task of ensuring the hull of our boat is clean from barnacles, weed and other marine hangers on. Up until now, I have had the boat lifted out of the sea on a cradle and then put on stands in a boat yard so I could complete this job at my leisure. This year however, I found myself in the situation of not being moored within a marina with easy access to a boat lift and a dedicated boat yard. Instead I would have to sail the yacht a good days distance away to the closest marina and have her lifted out there. This presented me with the problem of finding the time to do this. To effectively get everything done it would take me at least three days and this was if the weather was settled enough to do this.

The only feasible option for me was to dry Anna Maria out alongside the old drystone Fishermen's Pier here in Tobermory one day during a spring tide, work as hard as I could between the tides to clean her and paint her with anti-foul paint. It was likely too that the financial cost for this would be a substantial fraction of the hundreds of pounds I had been quoted by the marina to have her lifted out, washed and put on stands - even for just one day. I had seen other local boat owners follow this process here and it was really the most obvious solution. 

Why then did it take me so long before I eventually took the task in hand? Well, I had never dried a yacht out alongside a pier before, let alone cleaned her hull and painted her between tides. I was nervous of making a mistake, getting things wrong and at worst, causing our beloved home to topple away from the pier onto her side in the mud of the harbour. So I vacillated and every spring tide put off the moment of taking her in all the while guiltily noticing the accumulation of vibrant green weed sprouting from her hull. 

In the end, after seeing how encrusted the hull was with barnacles during a particularly rough day when the lively sea state showed off to all and sundry the very sorry state of Anna Maria's bottom that I decided on the next spring tide I would take her in and clean her. Well, in my head I made the decision...

Needless to say the spring tide arrived and it was with guilt ridden relief that I saw a local tour operator had taken the drying out berth to enable them to clean their boat which meant I couldn't get in. However, I had made a decision so I wandered across to the pier to chat to a local fisherman about the protocol for bringing non-fishing boats alongside. I had been told anecdotally that it was fine for people to dry their boats out so long as they vacated the berth at high water to allow fishing boats to return, but I wanted to make sure. I really didn't want to put a black mark against my name here in the harbour amongst the hardworking fishing community.

I discovered as I had been told, it was fine to bring our boat in so long as I cleared away as soon as I was afloat again - additionally making a donation for the upkeep of the pier. Armed with this reassuring permission I felt my confidence in bringing our yacht in soar to a new level.

Two days later at eight in the morning I slipped our mooring and motored slowly into the calm waters of the pier, effortlessly berthing alongside. I was secretly very pleased with how I managed this without fluffing things in a mad panic to secure the mooring lines or heaven forbid, thumping the boat into the stonework. Feeling very much a local, I waited with copious mugs of coffee for the tide to recede and our boat to lower gently onto the harbour floor. In my overconfidence I di not consider how I was to list (tilt) Anna Maria against the pier wall so that there was little chance of her toppling away and onto her side. I had assumed that by securing her with lines fore and aft, preventing her from surging back and forth and by tying both masts (she's a ketch) from high up to the pier, she would be safe. However I was shaken when a wisened fisherman sagely offered me advice about listing her and spoke to me about the importance of doing this properly. Thankfully he helped me do this by lending me two large tubs which I filled with water and placed amidships on the deck on the side closest to the pier. Their combined weight ensured the boat eventually lay at an assuring jaunty angle against the wall once she had gently taken the ground.

I watched the depth sounder carefully when the time came close for her to touch the sea bed but the actual moment was difficult to determine. I think I noticed she was aground when it was obvious she did not move when I pushed away from the wall. However there was a significant amount of water beneath her to still drain away and it was a good couple of hours before I began to think of getting under her hull to have a look. Eventually it occurred to me that because I had missed the apex of the spring tides, I might not have complete dryness beneath to work so I dressed myself in my sea kayaking dry trousers and climbed down the pier ladder to have a good look.

I was dismayed! her hull was swathed in barnacles and weed hung like emerald green dreadlocks from much of her bottom. It looked to me to be a mammoth job. With a heavy sigh I looked morosely at the small paint stripper I had in my hand, waded into the water up to my waist and set about scraping what barnacles and marine detritus I could reach without having to submerge myself. It was pleasing to note that little effort was required to remove the encrustations but I also noted that with a small paint stripper, it was going to be a long job. Undeterred I set forth at a vigorous rate of knots - pleasingly scraping strips of barnacles from the smooth hull. Every now and again I would stop this process to use a stiff floor brush to clean as best I could the areas I had laid bare. I worked hard. As the sea receded so I was able to reach more of the hull until eventually I was standing by the rudder at her stern. The section of hull alongside the pier wall was the most challenging to clean and I emerged from under here covered in sea food smelling crustaceans. I looked a sight! The propeller took an effort to rid it of its growth and the rudder stock was a difficulty too. Eventually though, with the sea beginning to creep back in I was confident that her bottom was clean and I was pleased.

I replaced the badly corroded pear shaped anode and with a one last once over with a hose, fresh water and a brush I emerged back onto the pier feeling a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction - yet - I had not painted her with anti-foul paint. The returning tide was too quick for me and the job of cleaning her had taken too long so this was a task I had to leave for another day, another spring tide.

Now began the long wait for the water to rise enough to float the yacht and I hung about in the sunshine, surrounded by tourists taking photos of the iconic colourful Tobermory buildings and drinking copious mugs of lemon and ginger tea. Eventually I noticed with satisfaction that Anna Maria shifted when I stepped aboard her and she was ready to leave her temporary berth and head back out into the bay to her mooring. Not before time too. The sunshine had now been replaced by heavy rain and standing about on the pier was no longer an enjoyable pastime. With panache I cast off her lines and deftly manouvered her away from the pier wall and into the deep water. It almost felt to me that she was now far more sprightly than she had been of late and was twitchier and far more responsive to the helm. I imagined too that she felt a satisfying glow below - her bottom now nice and clean!

A Fresh Start

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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.

On our mooring in Tobermory Harbour.

On our mooring in Tobermory Harbour.

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.

Digging Deep - A Sea Kayaking Parable

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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.

Proaig Bothy

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.

"One Flew Over..." Life On a Psychiatric Ward

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My Space                               Photo: Nick Ray

I clearly remember the first time I was admitted to a psychiatric ward. It was 1998 and I was in crisis with deep clinical depression, very thin and underweight. Then, as I walked onto the ward with the Community Psychiatric Nurse who had brought me in, I remember two emotions flooding my limbic system. The first was fear - a fear of the unknown, the fear of becoming mad, the fear of "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest". As the loudly alarmed door to the ward closed behind me, the second emotion then enveloped me and this was by far the most useful one. The sensation of safety and the relief of no longer being totally at the mercy of my depression.

Eighteen years later and this is my fifth psychiatric admission. I wouldn't say that I'm now an old hand but I do know what to expect and the fear of the unknown - the fear of entering a world of madness from which I may never escape, has long since disappeared. It's an odd experience for me to feel a sense of normality in an environment where 'normal' is a concept which many folks here are struggling to determine. However being here does seem familiar and comforting. This comfort is largely due to the healthily warm therapeutic atmosphere created and embodied by the staff team. The ward is a safe environment where apart from physical and verbal violence, anything goes. Expressions of human emotion in all its guises are OK here which is a psychological release for many - like myself. In our society we filter how we express our core emotions of Joy, Fear, Anger and Sadness because we may harbour shame and reticence in doing so. Here on the ward, my tears of sadness are unapologetic. My anger is not extinguished but allowed to burn out naturally. My fear is not quashed but encouraged to be faced and somewhere amidst all these, there are increasing moments of pure joy which burst through the vacated chinks in the emotional armour I have created.

We are a transient, sometimes ragged band here on the ward. Each of us carries our own wounds and we require healing in individual ways. There are unwritten and unsaid laws of existence here. We do not delve into each others lives apart from asking where we live and what family we may have. Any other information which is offered up by a person is warmly received but even then we do not unpick at any loose threads of information for fear of unravelling more than either party has bargained for. We accept each other for who we are no matter what behavioural traits we exhibit. In a way, we are a model social community where each person is met with openness and trust and where no unfair judgement is meted out. Nevertheless tensions do arise and we can choose to interact less with folks we have little in common with.

There's an awareness too of the intimacy in how we live and share our lives on the ward. Sleeping space is shared four to a room, meal times are shared, there are two television rooms and a quiet room and the seating in the entrance hall is a favourite place for folks to hang out. Many on the ward are not allowed off the premises either at all, or unaccompanied. This means that for many of us we are living together 24/7. We learn the valuable lesson of tolerance very quickly and in doing so we accept we each have our personal foibles.

Routine is key to our happy existence here. Very quickly I slipped into being governed by the times for breakfast, lunch and dinner. In between these are set times for tea and coffee breaks. I soon identified what is important for me and I established a routine to meet my needs. I rise at six for my first coffee of the day and to watch the morning news. Often I will be the only person up (apart from the night staff) and I enjoy the calm and solitude. I enjoy the time between getting up and breakfast at eight because of the relative serenity around me. Our time on the ward is very much our own - we are not compelled into any activity though we are encouraged to participate in what is on offer. I enjoy the pottery sessions on a Thursday and the art and craft sessions on a Tuesday. Other than these two I entertain myself with reading (avidly) and teaching myself watercolour painting through the university of YouTube. Very rarely I will allow myself to sleep during the day and when I do it is a delicious luxury. Even more rarely I will sit and watch daytime television knowing how alluring "Homes Under the Hammer" can become after a while. You'll pleased to hear, I hope, that I avoid watching "Jeremy Kyle" at all costs! Dinner is at five in the evening. I find the time after this drags a little where I drift in and out of the television room or sit and read. I sometimes watch a film or programme on BBC iPlayer. After the tea break at eight I then begin to count the minutes to 10pm when I get my medication and a sleeping pill. I need this fast acting sleeper (as we call them) to knock me out before the snoring commences in the room I'm in. My three erstwhile companions are pretty loud and it's impossible for me to fall asleep if they tune up before I have dropped off.

So the routine of life here marches on. Days blend into each other and the weeks slide by just as effortlessly. It's certainly not an uncomfortable existence but neither is it one that I hope to continue indefinitely. It is serving its purpose. I feel safe, I feel cared for and importantly, I feel acknowledged. There is power to be gained from living in the moment - the power of now. I am healing - there is no doubt about this.

I think that in general society is far more aware and more accepting of mental health distress than it was when I first encountered the service nineteen years ago. The view of mental health hospital provision has moved way beyond the one portrayed by Jack Nicholson and his cohorts in the renowned 1975 film. I am confident of openly sharing my mental health experiences and not hiding them away for fear of judgement or shame. However I am less confident about making an admission of my mental health history when it comes to seeking employment and I find this very sad.

I am ready to leave hospital now. The routine has begun to grind and I am missing home terribly but I have to accept that I'm going to be here for a good few weeks more. My ECT treatment is due this Friday and so begins a new phase of treatment for my depression. I can put up with my life on the ward in the knowledge that I am tackling this weight I have carried with me. However I look out of the windows at the budding plants and trees longing for the freedom of the open seas and the cry of the Gulls above. It won't be long now.

The Inner Storms

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My last post was in early February. Since the middle of that month I have been a patient in the wonderful care of the psychiatric ward in the Mid-Argyll Hospital. I have severe clinical depression, an affliction that has dogged me much of my adult life. This time though, this particular bout has been unusually tortuous and I have struggled at times to make sense of the world and my place in it. Suicide is a subject many of us find challenging to openly speak about which is why depression can be such an insidiously serious illness. For me, suicide is not a simple 'get out' clause, it is the seemingly obvious resolution to my inner turmoil. The struggle I have in believing that I have value to offer and I am valuable to the important people in my life. My desire for completing suicide offers me a sense of deep and timeless peace - a peace that I often struggle to find in my life.

Thankfully, despite the emotional anguish I experience, there is within me a strong desire to continue living. This is why in mid-February I was able to seek the assistance first from my GP and then the psychiatric team of the Mid-Argyll Hospital. The sense of safety I experienced once I was admitted to the ward was an overwhelming one. At the point of admission there was the usual tussle within myself to follow or not to follow the advice of the GP and the ward staff. However once I made the decision to accept admission, I was able to relax (somewhat) and allow the pent up emotional tensions within me to be slowly expunged. This process has not been straightforward nor particularly pleasant. I have time and again slumped to the depths of my soul and faced my demons head on, believing at times that these would ultimately triumph. These demons continue to combat me and my sense of self as a worthwhile individual is far from complete. My recovery from this depression is slow and tenuous to say the least.

In a few days time I begin a course of ECT (Electro-convulsive Therapy) in the hope that this approach will knock my depression on the head - pardon the pun. It is not known how many sessions I will require but it is generally thought that six to twelve are the normal amount. From all accounts I understand this to be a safe and effective approach to curing severe clinical depression with odd renewal sessions from time to time as required. For me, the prospect of no longer feeling and experiencing the deep emotional anguish I have been is of course hugely attractive. It means quite simply that I will be able to smile with the world again.

I am not ashamed of my depression though I do feel shame when I recall some of interactions with people while deeply depressed. I am happy to speak of my condition in the hope that it helps others who may be experiencing depression or living with a loved one who is. As I have always been told - it's good to talk.

The Storms

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As I type a heavy gust has slammed into the starboard side of the boat and we violently heel to the port. Instinctively I lean my body to counter the sudden movement and quickly glance at my mug of Lemon and Ginger tea to check it isn't spilling. All is well.

Around me the noise crescendos with the halyards flogging on the mast and the wind howling through the rigging surrounding us. It's all discordantly tuneful and I'm used to it. The fierceness of the gust eases as quickly as it arrived and the boat rocks back to her upright position with a couple of slight wobbles before she settles. My body easily rides these subtle movements. A screaming whistle from far away tells me that another gust is on its way and seconds later we are thumped again by the invisible force of the powerful wind.

Storm Henry is now on his way north, dissipating as he trundles across the ocean towards the Arctic Circle. Before him Gertrude paid us a visit a few days earlier and before her it was Frank who dropped by. Frank was particularly devastating for much of the country and we were glad to see the back of him.

Our stormy visitors arrive uninvited but not unexpected. We see them girding their loins way out west in the Atlantic, their deepening low pressure and their isobars ferociously narrowing as they relentlessly trundle towards us. They turn away from landfall at the last minute almost as if ensuring that the maximum force of their accompanying gales will hammer our coastal landscapes. The rain they carry with them is mercilessly dumped in almost Biblical deluges which our natural watercourses cannot cope with. Each time we find ourselves hunkering down, battening the hatches and clearing up afterwards - like cleaning the living room after a particularly boisterous party.

These are natural events which it seems are becoming more prevalent. A consequence of the poor care of our planetary life systems. We are reaping what we have sowed and as such, really, we cannot complain. It is not a case of nature pitting herself against humanity or us fighting back to survive the wrath of her dark moods. It is a case of us living with the consequences of many generations of Human mismanagement of Nature's perfectly balanced and fragile life systems. Collectively we are responsible for the havoc that is wreaked each time our now named winter storms wander across the Atlantic to visit us. These storms are not malicious. They do not purposefully intend us harm. They exist with all their ferocity because somehow we have projected into them the greed and avarice of our species - our insatiable and unstoppable desire to devour the very planet that provides us with sustenance.

These storms are merely a reflection of our collective esurient nature.

In the meantime, I learn to prepare for their arrival by placing extra lines on the boat, checking all fastenings and stowing all loose items. As an individual of our species I live in a manner which I hope shows respect for our fragile life system but I know with a heavy heart that I am as responsible as we all are for the regular arrival of our uninvited fearsome winter visitors.

The Beginning

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Every journey begins with a single step and so it's true with writing a blog. My intention is to write here as often as I can, sharing ideas, thoughts and feelings about my life on the boat, my sea kayaking adventures and my life in Scotland in general. I enjoy writing, particularly if I'm sharing matters that excite and interest me.

I'll write about just about anything that catches my attention but I'm sure the common theme will be my life as a sea kayaker and a yacht live-aboard. It feels exciting embarking on this blog because I cannot be certain about what lies ahead. Whatever transpires I hope I catch your attention too and in some way evoke a variety of responses to what I am sharing.