The day of the shipwreck
As I stood near the beach, I saw that hull of a ship. By the shores of Loch Linnhe, overlooked by Ben Nevis the tallest mountain in the United Kingdoms. With the imposing Ben domineering the scenery, just on the side of the banks, it was laying there. The Corpach Shipwreck, or the old boat of Coal, the wreck of MV Dayspring, moored between the Scottish villages of Coal and Corpach.
The waves, frenzied dancers in this maritime drama, painted the scene with foamy strokes. The Corpach shipwreck, a skeleton yet to find its resting place, etched itself against the canvas of the sea. As I approached destiny, the ship quivered in the winds, sounds came from the ship, almost as if the long dead engine was sputtering alive, the stories etched into its timeworn planks.
As I near the boat, it becomes apparent to me, that people are discouraged from going up there. With signs forbidding entry, barbed wire around the side, it was almost like watching a porcupine, raising its spikes in the face of a would-be predator.
Yet, after investigating the boat, a small hole in the barbed wire showed itself. Clearly, other people had been here before, a piece of the rigging was tied around the side, acting as a would be ladder for any adventureres.
As I stood on the deck, the wind whispering tales of stories and adventures whipped around me. The ship beneath my feet, a construction of bygone eras, strained against the wheel of time. My eyes, now misted with the passing of time, fixed upon the impending spectacle. What was once the shell of a boat, turned into MV Dayspring in its heydays. Where there was rust, now gleamed in the sun with freshly painted metal, the slippery decks, now spit polished wooden planks, the windowless frames, forever looking out into the sea that tore them asunder, now renewed.
A subtle vibration hummed beneath my feet, a signal that the currents of time were about to part. The air thickened with anticipation, and suddenly, I was transported. The ship transformed, as if someone had turned the timer on the cosmic clock.
The day of the wreck
The year is 1979, and the MV Dayspring was returning from the North Sea, ladened with the herring it had caught. It had been a weeklong tour, in the wild North Sea, but the crew was finally returning, via the Caledonia Canal, back to safe waters. The crew, while weary moved with purpose, the sea seeming so much more peaceful than the wrathful North Sea. I observed them, unseen, as they navigated the waves with a confidence that betrayed the impending demise. They had no idea what was about to happen.
The wind, once a gentle caress, turned into a fierce howl. The ship groaned, a creature of wood and metal caught in the wrath of nature. Having survived the battering of the North Sea, the ship was in need of repairs. Waves, giants of liquid fury, rose with an insatiable hunger, the ship was screaming with the sound of bended wood, screeching metal and the yells of the crew. Nevertheless, the crew, faces etched with both determination and fear, fought against the inevitable.
In the heart of the chaos, the captain barked orders, the crew clung to their posts like leaves in a storm. The ship, a dance partner in this relentless tango, succumbed to the maelstrom. Wood splintered, the engine whined as it was fighting against wind and waves and time seemed to hold its breath as the vessel embraced the cruel kiss of the rocks.
The crunch, when wood meet with rock, when the engines sputtering came to an abrupt halt, tore through the air. The howl of the wind, the flaying of the sea, seemed to ween off, as the battered crew looked around. While they had survived, the ship had not. A gaping hull into the engine room, broken planks, and water leaking in, signed a death warrant for their trusty ship.
Back to today
Back in the present, the ship’s timeworn interior mirrored the aftermath of that fateful day. The air retained a phantom scent of salt and bravery. The Corpach shipwreck, frozen in its eternal embrace with the shoreline, whisperes the stories of what happened that day. The day where MS Dayspring sailed for the first time.
Now, forever bound to only taste the waters, it once braved, it is laying there at its final resting place. A testament to history, a living fossil, on the quiet shores of the Loch Linnhe.
The ship, now both relic and storyteller, a testament that history passes, and sometimes, it leaves marks of its passing.
This is a fictional telling of the wrecking of MS Dayspring, but standing on the boat, it is easy to be carried away by what stories might have happened with the boat. If you find yourself in the northwest Scotland, near Fort William, do pay it a visit. It is a tremendous sight.
