Midgies and bonxies

We anchored late this afternoon just off the island of Coll. A stiff westerly wind made it cold enough that most everyone had their sunset cocktail below deck. Except Graham and me.

I asked Graham if he minded the cold wind and he said no. “It keeps the midgies away.”

Graham is obsessed with midges, those nasty gnat-like biting flies that always seem to travel in swarms. They’re like Dracula, Graham says. They can’t stand the light. But once the sun goes down, “They’ll eat ya alive.”

They’re worst the further west you go, says Graham as he spreads a little Avon “Skin So Soft” on his arms. Then, noticing two large seabirds flying overhead, he starts in on his second-favorite topic, great skuas.

“I fuckin’ hate those birds,” he says, sipping on a smoky Lagavulin. “I’ve seen ‘em attack a baby lamb,” he says dramatically, “dive bombing them from behind and plucking out their eyes and then killing them.”

He looks up at the burnished sky. “Bonxie bastards,” he says.

I can’t help it; I have to ask Graham the obvious question: Has he ever been attacked by the birds?

“Aye,” he says quietly. He looks down at his feet. “Hit me from behind. Reminded me of getting whacked with a ruler on the back of the head from the nuns,” he says with a little smile.

He pours himself another finger of Lagavulin and holds the bottle out towards me. I wave him off. “I think Topi has dinner on,” I tell him, standing up. “Fish cakes and sweet potatoes.”

“I’ll be there shortly,” he says. And I leave him alone in the gloaming with the midgies and his whisky.