By Seán C. Malone and John Sweetman
“And let’s try a wee dram of Laphroaig,” I said to Seán. A rare bottle of this peaty, rare single-malt came about as the result of a trade between us. The trade details are obscure but somehow involved a battery for his vintage Ford for a bottle of whisky in return, but to be shared. The battery I traded to Seán was guaranteed to last longer than the bottle of whisky.
Every so often over many decades we have had the fortune to enjoy a nip, now and then, of the peaty bliss from the Isle of Skye.
“Do ya suppose we save a dram for our Haggis trap?”
The “Haggai” are reclusive residents of small, remote Islands and they awake from hibernation on our blessed Isle for Robby Burns Day and feast at the Sportsman’s Club around February. They are lured out of their secretive lairs by a surfeit of decent single-malt and a plate of “Tunnocks” biscuits, for which we have a secret stash.
The Haggai are small, furry creatures known to be partial to decent whisky and only found within Island habitat. They are mostly friendly, except to the English. Naturally Seán and I, being of Scottish and Irish descent, are on good terms with them.
So naturally, our conversation turned to the wonder and mystery of our mutual long experiences of living on islands. Both of us have spent great portions of our lives on or around islands and have a special affection for our Island life. Seán has a view of island life that is special.
From Seán: After a hard day in Seattle, I knew I was on Vashon again as I climbed the hill from the ferry and rolled the window down to breathe in the fresh scent of the wet fir trees.
I’ve been around the sun 84 times and spent 24 of those years living on three islands: 36 years on Vashon, seven years on Prevost Island in the Canadian San Juans, and one year working for a Columban missionary on Cheju Island, Korea.
I’ve traveled around the world, worked in 7 countries as a documentary filmmaker, and never found a better place to live than Vashon.
When a ferry crashes the dock and service is suspended, it reminds me of John Dunne’s poem of 1624, “No Man is an Island,” affirming that any loss to “Man” is a loss to all Mankind. When ferry service to the mainland is suspended for any reason, making an appointment, or missing work, affects all of us.
A group of vigilantes stopped Captain Peabody from landing the Illahee ferry in 1948. As related by my father, the army provided landing craft for Island commuters for a short time. He described the spray coming over the bow of the open landing craft.
Vashon had its own ferry system for three years when it became impossible for the Vashon Ferry District to operate their ferries, and they sold out to the state. Peabody’s Black Ball Line sold most of their ferries to the State in 1951, and Washington State Ferries became operational. It seems that “problems” have become part of their “service.” Ever since.
