I slammed shut the car door and smashed the beached silence. A cat black as a highland night eyed me from the tall grass and bolted when I tried to shoot his photo. I was intruding. This coarse red beach in western Shetland didn’t want or need me here. But the red and green and blue and white of this vision drew me in.
The low tide had left a skiff naked and awkward. A crude cement slab prevented it from going to sea, from going to where it would want to go, if it were sentient. I’d broken free of my own moorings many months ago and cast myself adrift into a maelstrom of uncertainty, risk, and fear – much like people I’ve met on this journey: Diane and Ian of Trochelhill, Boyd now working on Caterhams and fishing rods, and Rene and his wife who left Holland to follow dreams in Scotland.
There is passage through, or at least there is the belief. And like this boat’s, how rough and ugly our anchors are. Reawick’s red sand and silence spoke volumes as I perused its expanse looking for sea glass, seeking to piece back together the quietude.