My Seven Year Switch

My life has been determined by the number seven or combinations of it. Being born on the 14th of July may have something do with it, although I’m not the horoscope kind. At fourteen my asthma went away. I joined the military at twenty-one and left aged thirty-five. Much of my life had been lived in seven year chunks; Moray, Italy, Germany and the Midlands are a few.

I’m not Shetland bred but I had the privilege to work there, have my son born in Lerwick and raise my family on the Shetland Mainland between 1992 and 1998. Funny that, seven years! Fantastic views from the house at Toft looking towards Yell. A semi-tame otter wandering into the garden. It sat on a warm stone, as interested in my children, as they were with it, once we had taught them not to yell or try to chase it. A ruined croft in the garden, perfect shelter for vegetables and doubling up as an outdoor freezer during frequent power cuts. The phone in the dining room was blown, literally, off the wall and reduced to a lump of melted plastic from a lightning strike. One gale so strong that all the windows sang for hours with the air pressure.

Island folk might well be nodding their heads, as I struggled to understand a friend born from the moors, sea and rocks with an incomprehensible dialect. He had never set foot out of the islands. Many a good chuckle was had where ‘Shetlish,’ Shetland-English succeeded. You never try to be a Shetlander and those who are, don’t have to. You can bring along a hundred new-fangled ideas, as long as you don’t try to force them on the unwilling, or insist that they are better. The result, for me, was a mutual respect and a camaraderie with a unique, warm and honest to your face people. Eating berries, direct from the moorland heather on a rare warm and wind-free day, was an experience not to be missed. Hearing a knock on the door late one night, to be presented with a side of salmon that would leave supermarket shoppers speechless are just two, amongst a myriad of memories that would quickly overstuff any scrapbook.

The bizarre could become normal and the truly bizarre, surreal. Visiting as a casual tourist, or fulfilling a bucket list is completely worthwhile but it can’t equate to living there, breathing the morning air when not fighting to open the car door, hoping it won’t be ripped off. Adjusting to the seasons - winter and something that isn’t quite winter. The joy of secret Kergord. How many have driven along the A970 never knowing that a hidden woodland, bursting with irises and daffodils in the spring, lay just out of sight. As you drove around the bend it was worthy of a Star Trek teleport. The glorious loneliness of Gluss Isle, attached by a small sandbar like an umbilical between a newborn and its mother. It was also the time of the Klondykers. I was there when the three sank, putting an end to that particular saga, fading into the evocative memory of these sturdy islands. The ferry to mysterious Foula. And always, the faces, the voices, the music, the humour and generations-honed common sense that would make most philosophers look for different careers. Bizarre being normal was taking the little boat to Mousa Broch with my wife and her parents. There are no tracks but that didn’t stop us pushing, or carrying a buggy through waist high grass and passing it across stone walls.

I was an engineer with a multitude of systems along with a degree of responsibility on land and sea. There was never a dull moment. Work was hard, callouts at ridiculous hours, frustration, satisfaction, critical decisions and the knowledge of doing something worthwhile. I’m still proud to have been a member of a small club that made a big difference. A quick half-pint of adrenaline wasn’t unknown! For me, this sums up Shetland and my work like nothing else could. To all those who dream of a different job!

Ocean buoys are icebergs, with more below water than above. They are also much bigger than that little twinkling light suggests when seen from the shore. They had flashing identification codes and a rotating wheel that turned each time a bulb fused. When it was on the last one, it sent a ‘death’ signal to the control room. Then it was time for me, complete with sea survival suit, radios in waterproof bags, tools strapped to the wrist and a sealed bag of spares. The boat that took you to the buoy couldn’t stand by idling. The wash was too great. So, it disappeared into the blue, or frequently grey yonder, leaving me on the buoy with land a distant smudge. Due to currents, tides, waves and wind, buoys have a peculiar motion. All adventure park ride designers should experience it, and I'm trying to fix it! That day, I heard the distinctive sound of a grumpy gannet. I looked up and found one staring at me, unhappy with this orange blob of an intruder. I tried explaining that I had a job to do. The translation into gannet speak was either lost, or it was just intent on being obdurate. The sound of it retching, preparing to empty its stomach contents over me, is not something one wants to hear. My conversation took on a frantic tone. “I have as much right to be here as you do. This is my buoy too. Stop looking at me like that. I don’t care if you’re a protected species!” I can remember saying this and more, accompanied by much vigorous spanner waving. The gannet went ‘bururp,’ with a heave of its chest but I was spared. With a final disdainful cock of the head, it flew away. I watched it, trying to convince myself it had just really happened.