Swimming with Seals

by Victoria Whitworth

  SWIMMING WITH SEALS

  Victoria Whitworth

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About Swimming With Seals

  Victoria Whitworth began to write this beautiful, powerful book after she joined a group of intrepid sea swimmers. Gaining courage with every swim, Victoria came to rely increasingly on the healing therapy of the water, rediscovering her own power and femininity in the company of seals, gulls and orcas, soothed by the limitless beauty of sea and sky.

  Swimming with Seals blends elegy – an exploration of change and loss in the face of death – with discursive memoir, tracing these themes from childhood to the present day. It is also a treasure chest of history and myth, local folklore and archaeological clues which give us tantalising glimpses of Pictish and Viking women, of the rulers and farmers and saints whose long-hidden secrets are occasionally yielded up by the land and sea.

  Victoria describes this book as a love letter, and so it is: passionate, generous and, above all, exquisitely written.

  For Kristin and Seamus, Archie and all the cats.

  You know why.

  ‘You never enjoy the world aright,

  till the Sea itself floweth in your veins’

  —THOMAS TRAHERNE, Centuries of Meditations

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Swimming With Seals

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Map

  Swimming With Seals

  Appendix

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Cover Painting

  Preview

  About Victoria Whitworth

  Also by Victoria Whitworth

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  This book had its origins in Facebook posts. I got into the habit of composing them while swimming almost daily over several years at the Sands of Evie in the West Mainland of Orkney, constructing little prose-poems, paying attention to details of weather and tide and wildlife, enjoying the challenge of describing the same activity in the same place in language that was just fresh and different enough, day after day, year after year.

  Reading the responses to these posts from friends both within and outwith Orkney made me realize that I was falling into the trap of taking Orkney for granted. This enchanted archipelago had become my new normal. Having the beach to which I so arrogantly refer as ‘mine’ in these pages reflected back to me in my friends’ eyes also showed me anew the extraordinary riches of this little patch of land, sky and sea.

  Although the narrative has as its backbone the experience of swimming repeatedly – obsessively – at the one beach in Orkney, it also draws on my experiences of childhood in North London and Kenya; of looking after my ageing parents in London, and my mother’s death; and my marriage, pregnancy and early motherhood in York: all of which happened before we moved to Orkney.

  A word about structure. There is little chronological linearity, and this is intentional: memories are raw, messy things, triggered by stray associations of smell and touch; often disconnected; always fallible. In my mind’s eye I see this book in the form of a necklace of beads of varying age, shape, size, colour and raw material – the kind of necklace the Viking Age woman buried at Westness on Rousay wore to the grave she shared with her baby. The narrative, the string holding my beads together, is an account of a single swim, which took place at dawn in late January 2016. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in the last weeks of my familiar life. Along that linking string, the chapters are laid out, each with its own story to tell. Some of the original Facebook posts separate the chapters, like smaller beads. I have taken the dates off them but otherwise there has been no editing: they were written between 2012 and 2016, and in every season, but reading them now they seem like postcards from a dreamlike time and space, detached from the conventional calendar.

  In the copy-editing process, my attention was drawn to the way that the book varies between metric and imperial measurements. On examination, there is a consistency to this variation: I find I naturally use imperial in personal, subjective contexts and metric in scientific, objective ones. Intrigued by this, I asked friends what their experience was, and found this kind of ‘bilingual’ practice to be universal, with some people adding other examples, that they think in Fahrenheit for high temperatures and Centigrade for low ones, or that they normally cook with metric weights but always bake in pounds and ounces. Given that the unstable and embedded nature of knowledge is one of the themes of the book, I have decided to retain my original usage.

  More than anything, this book is a love letter addressed to Eynhallow Sound, the land around it, and the creatures who live in it. Especially the seals.

  MAP

  Some swims are harder to put into words than others. This one was liminal; grey veils; the boundaries thin between worlds. Air 10 C, motionless, mizzly-drizzly. Last night’s full moon made for a low, low tide at 3.30 this afternoon, no sign of yesterday’s swell but a flat grey surface merging imperceptibly with mist and smirr and sky. Rousay and Eynhallow barely visible. Few birds around, the occasional peep of oystercatcher and ululation of curlew. One hoodie crow hopping jerkily about the ebb, pecking at the middens of kelp. The water feels cold. It is so still and quiet that I do what I rarely do alone in winter dusk, and swim out to the nearer of the two buoys that mark the lobster creels. A curlew flies in great loops overhead, crying continuously, and I think of the souls of the dead in The Wanderer, coming back as seabirds. I spend a lot of time underwater, staying down as long as I have air, in a deep green world. The shallows are littered with scallop shells, and I dive for them repeatedly, gathering half a dozen to take home. Badges of Santiago: they suit my pilgrim mood.

  *

  I have a routine, winter and summer alike, one which I find deeply comforting. I park outside the grey-harled loo-block, leaving the car unlocked and the key in the ignition (it’s only polite when parking in spaces that a tractor might need to negotiate to leave the keys in so the farmer can shift your car if necessary). I go into the Ladies’ in my flip-flops and robe, and I leave them there. I make a little mat from paper towels so I can stand on it when I come out of the water later and strip off – I don’t want to leave a wet sandy mess behind me. Then, wearing only my swimming costume, I walk down to the beach.

  My bare feet curl away from each cold surface in turn: first the chilly tarmac of the little car park, recently resurfaced by Orkney Islands Council; then the ruts and puddles of the grassy track that leads from the car park, bending to the right, around the dilapidated hut long abandoned by fishermen and down to the beach; and finally the sand itself. Depending on the state of the tide, this walk from car to sea, which I do almost daily, and sometimes more than daily, can be fifty or a hundred yards. On a fine summer’s day, it’s effortless pleasure. In a howling January gale, it’s a battle worthy of epic.

  Today is January, but there’s no gale. We have had a week of blasting south-easterlies, bringing endless rain, but a lull has arrived at last. There are breaks in the cloud, and no more than a stiff breeze. The sun has not yet risen, but the slow winter dawn of the 59th parallel means that light has been seeping from the south-east for a couple of hours already, and the sky is a lumpy, uneven grey, with shifting hints of the blue beyond. To my right, to the east, where the waters of Eynhallow Sound are cluttered with more islands – Egilsay, Wyre, a glimpse of Eday – there is a vaporous blur of peach and apricot cloud.

  Over the last few years this be
ach has become my world. Revisiting it in all weathers and seasons is a compulsion, one I can only struggle to understand. Partly, I come here because of the compressed riches of its archaeology and wildlife, its visual beauty and the overwhelming sensory stimulation: the stench of rotting seaweed, the shrieking of the gulls, the wind cold on wet skin, the bitter-salt brine in throat and sinuses. It’s my bolthole: where I come to escape the pressures of work, the domestic grind, all my aches and pains, and the slow-motion misery of a failing marriage.

  The Sands of Evie lie at the heart of a bowl of hills and islands, in the parish of Evie, on the northern shore of Orkney’s West Mainland. To the uninitiated eye the vista is barren, treeless, sparsely inhabited, raw, wild, as though time and humanity have had no effect here. Orkney has a powerful minimalist appeal in our clutter-obsessed culture, an allure which I felt profoundly when I first came here, nearly thirty years ago, and which I have learned only slowly to see beyond. The truth is that the landscape in front of me has been written and overwritten many times across thousands of years, scraped back by forces of geology and weather as well as human activity, revised and inscribed again. Standing here, shivering slightly, bracing myself for the water, I am overlooked by Neolithic and Iron Age sites; cemeteries where Picts and Vikings buried their dead; the ruins of twelfth-century churches and chapels; an island where a saint was martyred; another with a castle built by a giant; a third which was said to belong to the supernatural Fin-folk, a sinister Orcadian twist on mer-people, one of whom snatched a human woman from this very stretch of sand where I am standing now, while her husband’s back was turned. The hills are thick with peat laid down in the Bronze Age, divided by drystone dykes built with rocks the crofters cleared as they carved out their livelihood, those fields drained and regularized by the improving, imperious Victorian lairds. Along the skyline the latest in turbine technology turns in the same wind that is making me shiver. Viewshed is a concept popular in archaeology, a way of understanding the landscape phenomenologically, experientially, from the perspective of the people using it. A viewshed consists not of what is there, but what can be seen. The viewshed from this beach encapsulates the whole of Orkney in microcosm.

  But there is more to this space than that which can be perceived directly. Whole worlds lie hidden underground, under sand and under sea. Robert Rendall, poet, scientist and Kirkwall draper, knew this beach better than anyone. In his 1960 memoir Orkney Shore he compares standing on the foreshore and gazing at the sea to being ‘in flight over Europe, looking down over a cloud mass that spreads out to the entire compass of the horizon, there is little to remind one of the varied terrain that lies beneath – sandy dunes, rough hillside, rich alluvial soil, wide forest lands, each with its own flora and fauna…’ He reminds me of the complexity of even a small patch of shore. Where I swim, the shells that turn up most are limpets, top shells and winkles, occasional scallops, sometimes little cowries. But the other end of the Sands of Evie, the easterly end, is a very different ecosystem from my familiar west, although only a few hundred yards and a stretch of rocky shore divide them. It’s much shallower: you have to wade a long way out before it’s deep enough to swim, and the flat sands are thick with razor, trough and auger shells, all rarities up this end. It’s dislocating to think of that parallel molluscan world. Rendall thought so too: ‘At the back of my mind, whenever I walked across a sandy beach, came the thought that beneath my feet was a dense unseen population living its own life undisturbed by the world of air and only becoming active when the tide was up.’ Rendall specialized in molluscs, and their hidden lives, but there are other creatures to contend with as well, bigger and more obvious but equally mysterious. Thousands of birds, resident and migratory. The seals that haul out on the Eynhallow skerries, whose singing comes wavering across the water. Cetaceans – Orkney waters have been particularly busy over the last few days: a school of herring has swum into Scapa Flow, and two humpback whales and a minke have arrived in its wake, glutting themselves in the inshore shallows. A pod of orcas has joined them, rare visitors in the winter.

  There’s change over time to comprehend too. First the Picts built their houses and then the Vikings buried their dead over there at Gurness, in the collapsed ramparts of the Iron Age broch tower. Across the water on Eynhallow, I can see a house first built as an Arts and Crafts holiday cottage, now a base for the University of Aberdeen’s long-term study of fulmars. South along the shore from that there’s a medieval stone ruin around which Victorian crofters constructed their now-vanished houses. The earliest accurate map of Orkney, part of an atlas of Scotland published in Amsterdam in 1654, shows many of the landmarks I can see now: the hill of Cofta, looming darkly to my left; Alhallow, the heart-shaped island between Mainland and Rousay which I know as Eynhallow; and the headlands of Akernefs and West Nefs. These names are Scandinavian, though, not Scots; and they were already seven or eight centuries old when the Dutch printers first pinned them to the map.

  Some things we do not know, and never will. What names the Picts used for these same landmarks, before the Norse-speaking Vikings arrived in the ninth century and renamed everything, is anyone’s guess. The Iron Age dwellers in the broch towers must have called their structures something but it wasn’t broch: the word may look Celtic (like loch) but it’s ultimately Norse, the same as borg, a fortress.

  The sand slopes away from me, at first a dry jumbled palimpsest of old boot- and paw-prints, then a fine smooth surface made largely of crushed shell, today thickly strewn with lumps of ravaged kelp scattered across the beach like bodies in the aftermath of a battle. Woven in among them is the wreck of a lobster creel, a mass of rusty iron and tattered net. I step awkwardly on my now-freezing soles from patch to patch of exposed sand. In among the slithery tangles of kelp are hundreds of limpets and top shells, fragments of red and purple sea urchin exoskeleton and shed crab shell, little white lumps of coral. The tide is low and ebbing, the breakwater exposed, and there is a steady suck and drip of water from the massed seaweeds growing on it, as the waves lap and splash around the margin. Half a dozen oystercatchers take off in peeping protest as I come closer. Further down the beach, towards the Knowe of Stenso, a solitary heron ignores me. I pause, just where the dark trace of the last wave is soaking back into the sand. Two hundred years ago this beach was an industrial workspace for the processing of kelp into potash, a backbreaking enterprise in which seaweed was burned in slow fires, polluting the air with arsenic-rich smoke, tended by the crofters for the profit of the lairds. Today it’s a place of recreation, dog walking, sandcastles in the summer. But for me it’s also still a place for processing, for emotional and spiritual alchemy.

  This sea and these islands, the wind pimpling my skin, the spray on my right cheek, these are palpable presences in the here and now, transforming me physically. They also reach far back in human and pre-human time. But more than that, they extend sideways into parallel universes, counterfactuals: making me ask how history might have been different; how my own life might have taken other paths. And the sea and islands are also metaphors, scientific, religious and literary, forcing me to think about the nature of knowledge, how the past was understood in the past, the relevance of theories about what it means to be human. Swimming here makes me question everything I have known, in the face of time, danger, loss and death. The quest to find the right words to encapsulate this place is taking me on a long and winding journey.

  I walk to the edge of the water, and hesitate.

  The display on my car’s dashboard has told me that the air temperature today is two degrees Celsius, and I’m guessing the water is about six. I don’t have any way of verifying this: I dropped and broke my thermometer in the loos a few days ago, and the new one I have ordered online hasn’t arrived yet. But after several years of swimming through all seasons I am learning to judge the water by other means than the mechanical. The speed with which the blood leaves my hands and feet. The force of the gasp expelled from my lungs when I launch out.
The strength of the icy grip on the back of my neck. The shock of cold on my scalp and face, indistinguishable from pain.

  This is the hard bit, the forcing myself into the sea, with the wind-chill wicking the heat fast from my shivering skin, in the face of the knowledge that the water will steal my warmth up to twenty-five times more quickly. I must project my imagination up and over this barrier, anticipating the thrill of swimming, which I know will come, even if I cannot now feel or believe it. Delayed gratification: Freud’s reality principle in action. To keep walking into the water now is an act of faith in the most literal sense: a formula to which one can resort when belief is being tested, or in the face of temptation; an express and willing assent to a truth which transcends immediate experience.

  I am an academic specializing in the history, art and archaeology of north-west Europe in the early Middle Ages; I am also a terminally flawed and failed Catholic, married to a very devout one; and my mother was a psychotherapist, specializing in the dynamics of large groups in her earlier work, and later becoming a hospice-based counsellor working with the dying and their families. She was not quite a Freudian; and I am certainly not one; but we talked about Freud a lot, and I find him a useful point of reference, even when I disagree profoundly with both his working and his conclusions. Therefore, thinking in a mishmash of these cultural references comes naturally to me. And yet at the same time I know they are metaphors; that our knowledge of the past (including our knowledge of our own pasts) is unstable; and that psychoanalysis turns faith inside out, exposing how we use it to bolster ourselves against fear and neurosis. I have grown away from faith, as a hermit crab outgrows its borrowed shell; but like the hermit crab who’s not yet found a better option I still lug it around, clinging to the illusion of protection it affords me.