S Bolton - Sacrifice

Tronal sat low in the water, without the mountainous cliffs that characterize so much of Shetland. In the early-morning light, against the blue backdrop of the sky behind, I could see tracks and, behind one ridge, the tops of buildings. No other obvious signs of life.

The wind was perfect and the dinghy was tearing along, but starting to keel over. Duncan signalled to me to put the trapeze out and a few minutes later I was skimming just inches above the water, at a speed that felt like flight. We bounced high on a few rogue waves and the spray stung my eyes. Beneath me, the sea looked like a shimmering mass of diamonds.

'Ready about,' called Duncan, and as I prepared to tack I saw that we were now only yards from Tronal. A crumbling stone wall rimmed the lower reaches of the land and, just a foot or so outside it, a barbed-wire fence. The land the double barrier enclosed had been tilled and green shoots of some early crop were forcing through. I saw a man on his knees, digging. He wore dull brown overalls and was almost invisible against the earth. He stopped working and turned round. I followed his gaze and saw a woman some twenty yards further up the hill.

'Lee-ho!' called Duncan and the dinghy turned, disorientating me, as it always does. When I got my bearings and glanced back we were already too far away to make anyone out against the dull backdrop of the island.

We were now heading south-west. Given the strong winds and the approaching storm, Duncan had chosen to steer us not out towards the North Sea but into the much more sheltered waters that lay between Unst to the north, Yell to the west and Fetlar in the south. We tacked again and Duncan had to shout at me to pay attention. But my mind was full of the woman I'd just seen. I couldn't be sure, I had seen her so briefly, but she'd looked in the later stages of pregnancy. I wondered if she were one of the unhappy souls about to give up her baby.

The boat was keeling hard, even though I was fully out on the trapeze, and Duncan wasn't looking particularly relaxed. Although these waters are more sheltered than the open seas to the east and west of Unst, the winds are notoriously flukey. Whatever the prevailing conditions, there are so many headlands and islands for the gusts to bounce off that you never really know what's going to hit you and when. We'd also strayed into the triangle of sea that the ferries use and had to keep a sharp lookout; those beasties move fast and they won't shift their course to avoid a careless dinghy. We sped up past the small island of Linga and I breathed a sigh of relief as we passed Belmont and were out of reach of the big boats. The thing about sailing that non-sailors never quite understand is that your mood can shift so quickly from exhilaration to anxiety to mind-numbing terror. Right now I was into anxiety and climbing. The wind seemed to have picked up, the trapeze was not stabilizing the boat and the rigging was starting to creak.

'Get back in,' Duncan yelled at me, none too soon, and I started to pull myself back towards the marginally greater comfort of the boat.

At that moment, there was a deafening crack. Thunder, I thought, the storm's an hour ahead of schedule. Then I heard a loud tearing noise and a cry of warning from Duncan. I was thrown up in the air and came down in the cold waters of Bluemull Sound.

Instinct had turned me the right way up and several feet above me I could see sunlight and clear, sparkling water. I kicked hard and broke through the surface. I coughed over and over, with no time in between to take in more air. I started to go down again.

Back under the surface, I remembered that although I was wearing a life jacket, it wasn't inflated. Forcing myself not to panic, kicking hard to keep myself from sinking too deep, I fumbled under the canvas flaps of my jacket for the red pull toggle. I had only to tug on it and the jacket would automatically fill with air, propelling me to the surface. Except I couldn't find the damn thing!

I knew I had to stay calm, so I gave up and went for the surface again. This time I managed to control the coughing just long enough to breathe in. The water was choppier than I'd thought and all I could see were the short, aggressive waves that bounced around me. No sign of the boat. Nor of Duncan.

I gave up on the toggle and fumbled for the air inlet that allows you to inflate a life jacket manually. I found it easily enough, ripped off the stopper and started to blow. After eight blows I was exhausted. I replaced the stopper and lay back in the water. My natural buoyancy kept me on the surface but the waves splashed so aggressively into my face that I felt myself panicking again. I pulled upright. Sixteen puffs later and I had to admit defeat. The life jacket was not inflating and I was exhausting myself for nothing.

I think I almost gave up at that point. I sobbed aloud and tried to yell but I could barely hear my own voice above the wind. I tried to raise myself higher in the water, to get some sort of bearing. The Bluemull Sound was no more than half a mile wide at this point and I appeared to be directly in the middle. I turned round in the water and caught sight of the boat, little more than a white speck, a quarter mile, maybe more, further up the Sound. Its sails were dragging in the water and it looked as though the mast was gone. There was no sign of Duncan.

I thought quickly. Unst or Yell? Unst looked closer and, instinctively, it felt right to head for home, but the cliffs are steeper and far less forgiving than those on the neighbouring island. There'd be little point in reaching land only to die of exposure at the foot of a thirty-metre cliff. I turned for Yell and started swimming.

Several minutes later, I'd made no progress through the water. I couldn't remember what the currents were like here in the Sound but I guessed I was swimming against one. I looked around again, hoping in the face of no real probability that someone would see me: a passing fishing boat, a cliff walker, another dinghy, anyone. That's when I saw the thing that was to save my life: not ten yards away and barely visible against water that was getting darker and greyer by the minute was a broken-off chunk of wooden pallet. I swam for it. Several times I touched it only to have it swept away, but finally I had it. I gripped it tight and started to kick.

The wind got up; the waves became choppier and the rain heavier. From time to time, sea-birds dived close, cawing at me. At first, I thought they were merely curious, then I got to wondering if they were trying to tell me something: not that way – you're heading straight for a rip-tide, swim south now – the current will take you in. After a while, I wondered if the prospect of carrion was the real attraction.

I know exactly how long I spent in the water that day because I always wear a waterproof wristwatch when I'm sailing. Having the watch helped almost as much as having the pallet. It kept at bay the bewildering disorientation of not knowing how much time was passing and it enabled me to set little targets for myself, even play games. I would swim for ten minutes and then rest for two, timing it to the second. Then I would lay bets with myself. How many more minutes before I could recognize sea birds on the cliffs? How many more before I could make out wild flowers on the rocks?

The pallet kept me afloat; the watch kept me sane; and my legs, strong from years of daily horse-riding, kicked me back to land.

It took three hours and twenty minutes to swim the quarter- mile from where the dinghy capsized to the island of Yell. That's the equivalent of about thirty lengths of a twenty-five-metre municipal swimming pool, and if it seems wimpishly slow, then you have to remember that swimming pools do not, as a rule, have tides, nor currents, nor freezing temperatures, nor heavy rain pelting down on you. But eventually it was over and by ten minutes to twelve I knew that if death by drowning was to be my fate, it wasn't going to happen that day. Thirty seconds later I staggered on to the beach.