This story was the winner of the BillMowat short story competition 2025

The Triangle

‘That was ridiculous.’

The three of us were enjoying our coffee and cake at John O’ Groats, looking out past the famous signpost to the the big sweep of the Pentland Firth and across to the isle of Stroma.   The tables around us were mostly occupied by North Coast 500 tourists and their dogs but we felt a definite air of superiority. Were we not real local sea-farers, had we not just sea-kayaked around Duncansby Head on a spring tide? The chairman had his VHF with him, the lifeguard hadn’t bothered to change from his paddling salopettes and I wore my Paddle-Scotland jacket.

One of the visitors, seeing our evident proficiency and knowledge, had just approached us. How easy was it to paddle to that enticing-looking island, just a couple of miles away? He and his partner had their paddle-boards with them.

We had looked at each other. Where did you begin. I was the first to speak.

‘Nobody ever crosses to Stroma on a paddle-board. There are big tides out there, you can get speeds of up to 15 knots round Scarton Point. It might look smooth from here but those little bits of white are waves that would be breaking above your head. And then the fog could roll in. It’s a trip only for the experienced with all the right equipment. You have to Really Know What You Are Doing to venture out into the Pentland Firth.’

The lifeguard interjected.

‘A couple of weeks ago some guys had to be rescued by the lifeboat. Just got to them in the nick of time…’ 

‘I really wouldn’t recommend it,’added the chairman. ‘A paddle-board isn’t a suitable craft for the seas around here. If you really want to go,’ he added, ‘you should contact the owner of the island. He sometimes takes groups across in his boat and you might manage to tag along.’

The young man thanked us and went back to his smartly-dressed girlfriend. Perhaps they had done a bit of paddle-boarding on some smooth English lake. Hopefully we had forestalled another RNLI callout.

The cause of the recent shout had indeed been ridiculous. It was a family, with two young children and a dog. On a clear sunny day they had seen the island as they were driving their camper-van east towards Gills, and thought it would be nice to paddle across in their cheap inflatable kayaks. They set off from Huna dressed in light clothing without life-jackets, knowing absolutely nothing about sea or weather or tides. By a fluke, their attempted crossing coincided with slack water and a calm sea, they successfully reached the island and spent a couple of hours exploring.

In complete innocence they set off to paddle back and were immediately caught by the now-strong west-going tide  which carried them at speed towards the turbulent waters of the Merry Men of Mey. Even then, they did not realise the danger they were in. Fortunately a whale-watch was taking place and someone called the coastguard from St John’s Point. The lifeboat arrived just minutes before the boats would have been swamped and capsized.

We carried on sipping our coffees as various tourists took photos of each other by the signpost.

Beyond Stroma was the hump of more distant Swona, with the white lighthouse on the Pentland Skerries far to the right. ‘I’ve always wanted to do the Triangle,’ I said pointing in turn at the three islands, ‘but never had good enough conditions.’ 

I mostly paddle alone. I’m not a fast paddler, having had a major heart operation and being on the wrong side of 70.  But I know about weather and tides and the sea, and can keep going for miles at a steady pace.

‘I’d be up for that,’ replied the lifeguard.  He was a frustrated white-water paddler and would take any opportunity to play in fast-running tides and breaking waves. He’d enjoyed surfing through some narrow gaps on our trip round Duncansby Head which even the chairman had avoided. 

‘We did that trip over 30 years ago,’ said the chairman. ‘Left Groats at five in the morning, a brief stop on the Skerries and then breakfast on Swona!’ He was a veteran of more than 40 years paddling and knew every inch of the coast. 

The Triangle involves visiting those three islands which lie right in the heart of the strongest tides in the Pentland Firth. It’s a trip few paddlers have accomplished and needs very careful tidal planning. ‘But,’ added the chairman looking straight at me, ‘You need to be fully paddle-fit for a trip like that!’

The upshot was that we agreed to plan a Triangle trip and marked down several days when the tides would be neap.

Summer came, and went. The wind was almost unrelenting and neap tides usually coincided with a force six or more. Boats were put away in garages and winter swimming-pool training commenced. Hopes of the Triangle were forgotten… until early November when I received an unexpected text from the chairman. ‘Looking good for the Triangle on Saturday, still interested?’ I most certainly was. A freak spell of calm, mild weather had settled over Scotland under an unmoving high with a southerly drift and the weekend promised low neap tides.

And so it was that at five in the morning the lifeguard, the chairman and me gathered at a very dark and empty John O’ Groats harbour, having left my car at Gills. It would not be getting light till we departed the Skerries and the first part of the paddle would be in total darkness.

We did everything so correctly. The coastguard was radioed and notified of our plans. We all carried two different means of calling for help on our buoyancy aids. We had head-torches, glowsticks, helmets, drysuits, towlines, paddle-floats, spare paddles and boats loaded with emergency supplies and repair kits and spare warm clothing and so much gear we could have paddled to Shetland. The chairman carried out a full briefing on the shore, explaining the state of the tides, the vectors he would be using, communications, what to do if we got separated… at long last we were on the water.

Both the chairman and the lifeguard were keen night paddlers, I’d only been out once or twice in the dark but I knew that the two of them could cope with just about anything on the sea. It was me who was the passenger on this trip. And if I turned out to be not fully paddle-fit, they’d have no difficulty in giving me a tow. 

It was, indeed, remarkably calm. No wind at all and the sea flat, the paddle across the main flow of the Pentland Firth to the Skerries almost an anticlimax, simply a case of relying on the chairman’s knowledge and experience and using the various flashing lighthouses as transit markers.  We landed just briefly to walk up to the lighthouse on Muckle Skerry then as the first light glimmered to the east, set course for Swona, five miles to the north-west.

As the west-going tide strengthened the conveyor belt of the Pentland Firth gave us a remarkably fast and easy journey to our next uninhabited island. It was breakfast on Swona indeed, as the sun rose on a day warmer than many in June. Proper breakfast, too, the lifeguard had brought a camping stove, a big frying pan and plenty of sausage and bacon. 

‘Global warming,’ explained the chairman, ‘quite remarkable, never seen November conditions like this in forty years of paddling.’

Everywhere were grey seals, mums with pups. ‘A bite from a seal is very nasty indeed,’ warned the chairman. ‘You’d need to go straight to A&E and get strong antibiotics. It used to be known as seal finger, and you’d likely lose the finger even if you didn’t die of sepsis.’  What with that, and the aggressive wild cattle which roam the island eating the seaweed on the shore in winter, none of us felt like venturing far from the boats. In any case it wasn’t long before we had to set off for the next leg, back across the main stream to Stroma, four miles to the south.

‘This is the easy bit,’ informed the chairman, ‘you just time it so that the tide changes half-way across and paddle due south. You get swept west, then east, and end up bang on course.’

There was just the Orkney Ferry to contend with but the chairman had planned for this too and had already contacted the captain.

The sea was flat, the sun shining, the sky blue. Conditions were better than almost any that year. ‘Quite remarkable. Quite remarkable,’ commented the chairman again.

We swung west of the notorious Swilkie whirlpool and paddled south below the high cliffs with just an initial bit of contrary tide. The easy tide-race round the beacon had the lifeguard hankering after real white water,  and in the late morning we paddled into the little harbour at the south end of the island.

The grey seals take over much of Stroma in November, venturing far inland and mingling with sheep in the fields. Many were on the stony beach, the mothers splashed into the sea when we arrived leaving their white furry pups on the shore. We had to land carefully, pull the boats up between the pups and quickly make our way onto the island so that the mums would return.

I’ve visited the now-uninhabited island of Stroma many times but always at the very least like to walk up the road to the old church, passing many abandoned crofts on the way. Even by the road were seals, a photo I took of a pair mating proved too explicit to dare posting online.

A thin salt-haze hung over the island, now a light northerly had picked up which should make our final crossing to Gills especially easy.

Back at the harbour, the chairman was opening a large zipped bag. ‘I thought we might get a good day so I asked James to deliver this when he was over for the sheep a couple of days ago.’ 

As the lifeguard and I watched in curiosity then amazement, he extracted a large inflatable something, a split paddle and a little electric pump.

‘Great idea these rechargeable pumps, takes all the slog out of it,’ he commented as he attached the pump and in less than a minute had a fully inflated paddle-board.

I was the first to comment. ‘When.. did.. you.. take.. up.. paddle-boarding?’ 

‘Done quite a bit in Michigan, ideal on the lakes there in the hot summer. Much easier to take on a plane than a sea-kayak.’ The chairman’s wife hailed from the Great Lake state and the chairman made regular trips across to visit relatives. ‘Usually too windy in Caithness. But today should be perfect. You can tow my boat and I’ll paddle-board along with you, completely safe.’

So with the lifeguard towing the chairman’s kayak, we set off at slack water towards the mainland, the chairman tall on his board. ‘You see so much more when you stand up,’ he commented, ‘pity the weather’s rarely good enough. This T-shirt weather is just amazing for November!’ 

The sky was blue, the sea gently rippling, in such conditions you wonder what all the fuss is about.   We were about a third of the way across when the chairman suddenly exclaimed,

‘Good God, what’s that?’

He turned and began paddling westward, hard. We followed, and saw what he’d noticed from his higher viewpoint. A swimmer, clad in wetsuit, making obviously slow progress towards the mainland. By now, the west-going tide was picking up and she was in danger of being swept along faster than she could swim.

‘Do you need any help?’ shouted the chairman.

The swimmer looked up.

‘Probably yes, actually… I’m getting a bit cold… don’t seem to be making much progress…’

‘We’ll get you into a boat and soon have you warmed up, OK?’

Since we were already towing an empty kayak, it could hardly have been easier. We’ve practiced these thing so many times. Get the swimmer  to lie on her back by the empty boat, hook her outer leg into the cockpit then roll in while one of us holds the boat. I  gave her my warm belay jacket from the day hatch and  she took the chairman’s buoyancy aid, he could manage without one being safely attached to his paddle-board by a leash.

‘You two get her back to shore as quickly as possible, I’ll follow on behind,’ instructed the chairman.  We’ve practiced it countless times, the lifeguard put his tow-rope through my decklines and fastened it to the ‘casualty’ boat. While she lent on my boat for support I could reach across to paddle and the lifeguard towed us both.  Indeed, he was glad of some real exercise after what had, for him, been a very undemanding trip and we set off at a furious pace for Gills, soon leaving the chairman well behind.

The swimmer, we found out, had been to Stroma, she was training for an unaccompanied swim across the Pentland Firth. But as she had begun to swim back  the tide picked up much earlier than forecast, as indeed often happens, and she found herself struggling. She could have been in real trouble had we not turned up. Back at Gills we re-united her with her car and then made for the ferry cafe to await the chairman.

To celebrate our completion of the Pentland Triangle we ordered two huge hot chocolates topped with marshmallows. But after nearly half an hour, having finished munching through our super-sized tray-bakes, there was no sign of the chairman. We left the cafe to find a dark grey November afternoon. The sun had been replaced with low cloud and as we walked down to the slip, the end of the ferry pier could no longer be seen. The wind had swung back to the east and brought in the haar.

‘Oh he’ll be fine,’ said the lifeguard, ‘forty years experience, knows these waters better than anyone.’

Ten minutes later, still no sign of him.

‘Do you think we should give the coastguard a little call, just to be on the safe side?’ I suggested. The lifeguard agreed. It’s what the chairman would have done himself had one of us been late.

The lifeboat found him two hours later when it was almost dark. In the calm foggy conditions they had resorted to stopping the engines and listening, and heard a distant shout. He was cold and tired but otherwise fine.

The chairman had been taking his time towards the shore when he noticed the fog rolling in. In the eddying tide and variable wind he found himself lost. No buoyancy aid. No map or compass, both were on his boat. Dressed only in T-shirt and shorts with no spare warm clothes.  No means of calling for help, his radio and phone were in the pockets of his buoyancy aid.  He didn’t even have a whistle or a light. All he could do was to try to paddle against the tides so as to not be swept too far.

It made the front page of the Caithness Courier.  The lifeboat crew had commented that while mishaps can happen to anybody, paddle-boards were not suitable craft for heading out into the Pentland Firth, especially in November. They emphasized that anyone going to sea should wear a flotation device and carry some means of calling for help, they should be warmly dressed, and they should be fit and experienced for the trip they were doing.

It took a long time for the chairman to live it down. And even now, if he starts sounding a little too pompous, someone will wink and say,

‘That was ridiculous.’