An extract from Three Brothers in a Boat
Day 139, Saturday 30th August
JAMIE
With less than a mile to go, we eased the pace, letting the oars run a little lighter, savouring the last remaining moments aboard Rose Emily. I couldn’t quite believe it was all about to end.
As we approached, the clock struck 11.30 a.m. and I heard the distant sound of bagpipes. More than one. I knew who it would be, but still I didn’t want to let my expectations get ahead of me. The sound drifted across the water and we made our final turn, pointing directly for the harbour mouth. I rowed in the mid-position, Lachlan at the bow, Ewan standing at the stern and steering with the hand lines, the way forward visible from his vantage point.
It brought me back to the end of our Atlantic row ‒ my back to the oncoming crowd, reading the moment in the face of our helmsman. Ewan beamed, tears gathering and rolling down his salt-worn cheeks. He tried to describe what lay ahead, the scores of people who had come. But there was no need. His expression said it all.
As we passed the harbour walls I caught sight of a few of my closest friends ‒ Nick, Matt, Alex and Angus ‒ all with pipes in hand, having travelled halfway around the world to welcome us into Cairns to the sound of ‘O Flower of Scotland’.
The sound sent a shiver down my spine. Then one came in at the wrong moment, missing the group cut-off and playing a wayward note ‒ our music teachers would have been dismayed. I laughed out loud. Some things will never change.
The marina opened ahead of us and I saw the pontoon for the first time ‒ only 50 metres to go. Less than a stone’s throw away.
Cheering, shrieks, whistles and horns came from the shore. And then . . . there was Mum. She’d made her way to the end of the nearest jetty and was waving frantically to make herself seen. She was holding her phone up awkwardly, the screen turned towards us. And then it hit me. She was on a video call, and Dad was on the other end of it. I let out a shaky exhale ‒ a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. Of course, she’d hold him up like that.
It would be about three in the morning back home in Scotland, and though I couldn’t make him out, I pictured him alone in his flat in Edinburgh, in his dressing gown. All I wanted to do was hug him.
The unmistakable voice of our cousin, Guy, crackled through the radio ‒ the signal we’d been waiting for. Oars down. It was now or never.
I lifted my pipes, flares strapped to the drones, and struck them up. Lachlan yanked at the ripcords and they burst into brilliant red flame. Moving quickly, he lit two for himself, and held them above his head. Ewan followed suit. Smoke swirled around the boat, and I could feel the heat on the back of my neck. These Peruvian flares were intense. One of Lachlan’s began to pop and splutter and he ditched it into the bucket on the deck, half-filled with sea water. It fizzed away, and I thought, ‘That had better not put a hole in our boat ‒ imagine sinking this close to shore.’
Then I felt the tassels that held my bagpipes in place begin to give way, and as I reached the final part of the tune, I realised they were on fire. Not figuratively, quite literally. For a brief moment I wondered if we’d taken it too far, the acrid smell of fireworks and burning plastic in the air.
But the flares died down. The cheering swelled. Ewan pulled on the hand lines and 50 metres became five. And as the smoke thinned, it all began to feel very real.
