Against the North Sea

Far Out subscribers —

Hi, I’m Bryce Campbell, and this is Far Out, a newsletter from the road — usually America or New Zealand, but today: Scotland.

For six years, I have worn the same leather boots across many different jobs, many different continents, and many different seasons. But now, the sky has adopted a deep Scottish Grey, the sea has begun to summon her white caps – one by one, from here to the horizon – and I am, despite my comfortable feet, chilled to the bone.

It will not be long before the wind spurs and the rain drops. Those boots, as experienced (and freshly waxed) as they may be, will try to hold their own – I am confident in that much. But they will hold no match against a North Sea tirade. That is why, despite my initial questioning, I now see that my wife is more intelligent: Grace has left the chilly house and ventured into the chilly world in sandals, with the foresight to see that wet feet can't get more wet.

And so, we begin our day, on the brutal eastern Scottish coast, as we arrive in St. Andrews.

Weaving through narrow alleys and roads which lack – as all pavement in Scotland seems to – any road markings, we soon find ourselves in the old harbor. Here, there are no parking signs, unlike every other street in town: 'should I get a ticket,' I think to myself, 'at least it isn't my fault.'

To our left is a cliff, with stones just visible from here. Stones typically pique my interest, but today they are the subject of Grace's desires – she has heard about an assortment of stones found in St. Andrews and suggested we come. To our right is a set of buildings, the most colorful we have seen in weeks, which hide behind them a very ... not straight ... pier.

I have a healthy, if annoying, tendency to want to walk to every historical point in a place: a pier, a distant sign, maybe even the edge of a cliff. We had just made our way to the end of this one, when I reached for my camera.

But in my hurry to the ocean, I never grabbed for it when we left the car. We departed Fordoun, our home base for the last two weeks, with nothing for breakfast but a cup of coffee, and that was 3 hours ago. Still unrefined in the ways of fasting, I suppose my mind was elsewhere with regards to the camera – and now, my repeated mumblings about 'literally starving to death' were at odds with my very real desire of a photo featuring what I can confidently say are the most colorful homes in Scotland.

Fortunately for me, Grace knows better – somehow, she always does. In her wisdom, she proposes a deal I can hardly resist: we go get food (I get fed, she doesn't hear me 'literally starve to death'), and then we will return, having grabbed our camera, to snap a photo.

That plan was, taken at face value, flawless. Hers always are.

A quick check on Google Maps reveals the first true divide in our fresh marriage: I am a firm believer in a minimum of 4.6+ star ratings, and my wife is not. We fumble through a list of options, most far too fancy due to the fact that – as we soon found after first driving into town – St. Andrews is not known for its stones, but rather for its grass: because 600 years ago, someone decided to build the oldest golf course in the world. As a result, on this very day, the restaurants are very unfortunately, golf-priced.

Thankfully, the inexpensive cheese toasty is a Commonwealth staple. Known to me, and probably to you, as a grilled cheese, this sandwich is held in the same regard in places as far apart as Scotland and New Zealand as chicken tenders & fries are back home.

Thus, we set our desires upon The Cheesy Toast Shack. A short (grueling, starving) 7 minute walk leads us to an inconspicuous hole in the wall just behind the beaches dunes. There is no one in line, but many waiting for their order, so Grace and I approach and share our desires: one Buffalo Chicken toasty, and one Red Leicester toasty. I pay – and notice the poster advertising Seagull Insurance. It is not a joke: £1 is all it takes to save you from what are, according to this advertisement, absolutely sinister seagulls.

But £1 is about $1.30, my card has already swiped, and seagulls aren't very intimidating. It takes a few minutes, but soon our names are called and Grace receives the goods. We take a short walk, across a carpark, up a grassy hill, to the top of the single dune.

The beaches in Scotland rarely come paired with the warmth (or sun) you'd expect. Still, though, it is encouraging the perseverance with which the Scottish enjoy their beaches. Off to our right, there breaks a waist-high A-frame wave: a perfect, crisp break on the sandy bottom results in a central ball of whitewater, which extends both left and right in a beautiful line, curling to the beach. I can imagine the hollering of my friends back home, had we been blessed with a wave such as this. But in the water, there are six or seven figures – all clad in thick neoprene – who seem intent on appearing as though they might like to paddle for each set that passes by, but they never actually do.

Unfortunately, the very observations I have just made cost me dearly. Half a Buffalo Chicken toasty, just departing the plate for my mouth, is ripped straight out of my hand. I am enraged, but my great childhood wish to fly was never granted, and thus, I am resigned to a grounded, defeated rage. I sulk for a split second before two locals rush behind Grace and I from the carpark and yell, 'Did ye get the insurance?!?!'

The consequences of my actions are immediate, and the embarrassment I feel – as a boy from South Carolina, who has an impressive track record of terrifying seagulls across the luscious white sands of Charleston – is great.

'I am supposed to know the coast,' I think to myself. 'How could I let a bird do this to me?'

But my wife, the encourager that she is, stares into my eyes and says, 'Go get another one.' I shuffle my hands and look down at the remnants of cheese all over the ground. Then I raise my head, and my eyes land upon an extremely fat gull – one whom you would think should not even be capable of flight – as its white feathers are drenched in buffalo sauce. It is stuffing its face, and the only revenge I can exact is rooted in greed:

With a strut in my step, I walk back down the grassy knoll. I am second in line at The Cheesy Toast Shack, and now I have time to carefully read the Seagull Insurance notice:

£1 - goes to charity:
insures any sandwich against seagull theft

Uninsured, at great loss, and does not fund charity: Bryce Campbell. Still, with a twinge of pain and slight shock in my voice, I tell the lady at the window my story:

'I know this might sound unique,' I begin, 'but I have just had my sandwich stolen out of my hands.' Her co-worker to my left lifts her head from wrapping a sandwich and offers a kind, understanding look. 'I know it's a bit late, but can I add the seagul--' She gently begins to speak over me and simply says, 'What was the sandwich? I'll put it at the front of the queue.'

With one Great British Pound to charity, my fortunes have been restored. I return to Grace with a new Red Leicester, held closely to my chest, under a tight grip. I am followed by gulls – though 'followed' is hardly a sufficient description. I am tracked like a thief by a different kind of Flock.

Moments later, I return. Grace inquires about the cost – I share that we are only one pound lighter. I take a bite of my sandwich; she tells me to hold it close. I do. Between my legs, surrounded by both of my hands, engulfed by the paper bag.

I go for a second bite.

There is a slow screeching from behind.

My mouth is open, the edge of my sandwich has entered.

My eyes are a witness to the unbelievable. A seagull, 25 feet above us, to our right, catches a gust of wind. He is propelled at incredible speeds, not straight towards us, nor straight down at us, but across us – the power of his wings is felt off the tip of our noses.

He glides across Grace, with his head retracted. But before I can act, or even my subconscious can even initiate a defensive reflex, he (seagulls are always he's), while flying, launches his neck at me in a fashion I thought only known to alligators.

Immediately, my mouth holds only a small piece of cheese, my hands are empty, and two surfers fresh out of the water, in the carpark, come running over and yell, 'Have ye' go' yer seagull insurance?!?!'

I had no interest in learning if insurance covered the replacement of the replacement. And to make matters worse, the next thing I am shown is a video from Grace of that very same seagull, downing an entire mouse that washed ashore while I was getting my new toasty. That was the final straw: as my face glows red with rage, I tell her that we must leave.

We head back towards the pier, the last half of my insured sandwich in tow, as we are stalked again, by a Flock. Hovering 3 feet above my head, our privacy has been invaded and a warrantless search conducted. My childhood nature returns in a moment - I go on the offensive. I chase this bird across the grass, and it goes on the run, until I can finish what remains of my Red Leicester.

Down on the pier, I capture the photo I once wanted for a letter, despite now having been robbed of any enthusiasm and all positive thought. But something we see landward, up above the very cliff we parked under, has caught our eyes.

The rest of the day is the stones on that cliff. That’s this month’s members-letter, coming this weekend.