We Float Upon a Painted Sea Read Free

west coast took the brunt of it. There’s a lot of debris floating out on the ocean. It’s not safe.”
    “I’m heading to Boreray. How’s it looking down there?”
    “The forecast is for a force 7 gale. I really shouldn’t let you…” Donald MacNeil swatted the air as if to dismiss his protests. He said,
    “I’ll just turn the bow into any big waves and ride them. That’s what I always do. I might see you later, down the Puffin Bar?”
    “Aye, you might but I would rather you wait…” Donald MacNeil put the engine in gear, cupped his hand to his ear, gesturing that he couldn’t hear McIntyre over the mechanical sound.
     
    The lobster boat passed out of the floating harbour leaving acrid fumes dispersing in the air. McIntyre coughed. He waited and watched as the boat made its way out to open sea. The islanders were originally from the mainland, hand picked by all accounts for being adaptable, but they were also hardy people, he thought. Many of them were contracted to bioengineer the island and make it fertile; more arrived to work on the micro-climate control project, the biomes, but curiously they all decided to stay; most likely to escape the troubles back home. The island seemed to be on the periphery of the modern world: the pace of change was slower and they had never experienced the same problems with drugs, crime and pollution as they had on the mainland. Folk from the city fretted about their diet, credit card debt and not meeting work targets, but although island life wasn’t without its stresses, concerns revolved around a more palpable world - the sea, fishing, the weather and good Poitín were the main topics in the Island’s local pub.
     
    City dwellers had generally cared little for nature, unless they were inconvenienced by the winter snows. They were surrounded by a sterile environment of concrete and tinted glass, thought McIntyre. They felt detached from the living planet and not part of it, but the floods had affected all, regardless of where they lived and the energy crisis of the late 21st Century had arrived at everyone’s front door. The military had returned and the search for methane hydrate and shale gas had brought more strangers to the shores of the island. The hydraulic fracturing companies had given promises of wealth and economic prosperity, but the islanders made it clear they weren’t interested. Changes were made to legislation and the industry came nevertheless. Democracy was an illusion, thought McIntyre.
     
    When the tremors first occurred the natives would curse and mutter expletives under their breaths, but now they were part of everyday life, something they reluctantly accepted. There were some jobs but not as many as had been promised. A drilling accident had polluted the sea around the island with hydraulic fracturing fluid and the local marine life started to die back - the production company had denied responsibility. Later, the fishing industry collapsed and the local fish processing factory went into administration. Some locals found jobs eking out a living from the land or the black market, but those that could, took jobs on the rigs, rather than return to the mainland, where tales of flooding, food shortages and street rioting were rife.
     
    McIntyre watched the lobster boat hurdle a large swell.  He held his breath and then gasped in relief when Donald MacNeil waved to him in the distance. Smiling, he returned to the Harbour Master’s office. He examined the Commandant’s face. He was expecting his skin to be tanned after his holiday, but it was a shade of grey only described on a painter's chart. Finally, McIntyre said,
    “One of the local fishermen...
    “Fishermen?” interrupted the Commandant, shifting his eyes to the ceiling, “I come from a long tradition of fishermen.”
    “You mean your family own a salmon farming company in Harris – it hardly makes you the Old Man of the Sea does it? ”
    “I know a fisherman when I see one, and they