Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Between a rock and a contrail on Ardlamont.
I got up on the sixth day of our expedition after having slept very little. The pain in my injured shoulder had steadily worsened making sleep all but impossible. To make matters worse I had finished all my painkillers. Our plan had been to spend a further two days exploring the Kyles of Bute before returning to Ardrossan on the Ayrshire coast. However, I could not face a further miserable night so I explained the situation to the others and we decided to head directly to Ardrossan some 42km distant. We did consider whether to paddle 33km to Brodick on Arran and then get the ferry to Ardrossan but it would have put my injured shoulder under too much pressure to get the last ferry.
There was absolutely no wind so the sails remained furled on our decks. My friends accommodated my injury by paddling slowly, much more slowly than...
...the passengers on this Trans-Atlantic jet, which was the only other sign of human activity. Long after the jet had gone, the reflection of its contrail writhed like a snake in the water ahead of us.