It is just after 9 o'clock, and the sun rises over the mountains of
mainland Scotland. Its light sweeps west, and shows up a ship's mast
protruding from the sea, only a few dozen yards from the shore of Holm
Point. The figure of a man can be made out, as he holds on for dear
life. As he has done for nigh upon seven hours. Others had been with
him, but their strength had given out, and had fallen into the sea
below. The man is saved from his precarious position. He had been one of
about three hundred on board Iolaire who had left Kyle the
evening before, expecting to arrive in Stornoway at 2 am. Instead, two
hundred would never return home, and some sixty would never be
retrieved.
A gruesome sight presented itself on the
shores, beaches and rocky outcrops of eastern Lewis, around the bay of
Stornoway. East to Knock, north to Sandwick and Stornoway, south to
Grimshader. One hundred and forty bobbed on the tide, lost in the Iolaire.
Those that could be retrieved were taken to the naval base at the
Battery in Stornoway, to be identified and collected by family.
Those
who had not yet had news of the tragedy would soon receive it, as
elders of the church went round, the bearers of the news of loss. A
brother, a father. An uncle, a nephew. A son, a cousin. No village was
spared. No family who was not directly or indirectly affected. The
stories abound, but are not readily told.
It is 2013,
and dawn has broken on a new year. Four years ago, several hundred
gathered at the little memorial at Holm Point to remember. It was a
beautiful mild winter's day, with not a breath of wind. We looked
south, across the Minch, where the jagged humps of the Shiants, the
distant lines of Skye, and on a day of exceptional clarity, even the
hills behind Kyle can be made out, 75 miles away. In this day and age, a
short journey. In 1919, a journey that was never completed by two
hundred and five souls.
Rest in peace.
A full listing of names can be found here
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