The Corryvreckan
By Angus Millar, age 13
The hard wood splintered my frozen hand, the cold water sprayed my body. I heard the deep Scottish accent of the burly captain. Looking around I saw our strong bodies pushing and pulling, not daring to leave sync. I looked down at my dilapidated hands unable to feel anything. The whitewash sprayed my face again for a second time. We moved forward at a steady pace. I felt the cold air heave at my face.
Glancing up, again hearing the captains’ cruel shouts break over the wind “hoist the sails”, he called. I saw the white sail rise up quickly, it unfurled to make a beautiful pale angel towering above me. One by one, they rose to their full blanched might, swiftly they set about capturing the monstrous wind and taking it into their precious arms. There was a sudden surge forward aided by the reborn wind, and we sailed onward.
Onward and onward, we sailed, across the wrathful sea. Seeing the huge basalt rock ahead, the captain screamed, “full left rudder”. I heard the huge boat creak as it heeled too leeward. We charged to the other side of the boat, trying to balance it out, then I felt us fall gently backwards flying past the dark bleeding rock.
Once again, we chugged on, the wind starting to pick up, suddenly blowing past my ears. We had now, thankfully, abandoned the splintered oars but my hands would still not rest. We pulled the huge mainsheet, trying not to let the angel slip and burn our hands.
We sailed like this for what felt like hours. Just then we caught sight of the gargantuan piece of land. There was a huge beach filled with golden sand and behind it the beautiful evergreens. This was our homeland. This was Scotland.