Chapter 53 - The Basalt Sanctuary
The pocket beach on the lee side of the outer island was a geological anomaly—a crescent of coarse, black volcanic sand wedged between two towering walls of basalt columns that rose like the pipes of a cathedral organ above the surf.
We dropped the anchor in five fathoms of crystal-clear water where we could actually see the sandy bottom undulating beneath the hull like a giant pale blanket. The towering cliffs blocked the biting northwest wind entirely, creating an eerie, sheltered microclimate where the air was warm, smelling faintly of kelp, sun-baked stone, and guano.
"This is incredible," Fay breathed, standing on the cabin top with her binoculars pressed to her eyes. "Look at the rock formations. They look like geometric staircases carved by some ancient, obsessive stonemason."
"Columns formed by cooling lava contracting millions of years ago," I said, setting the anchor snubber and wiping my hands on a rag. "Nature’s architecture. Beats a high-rise in Manhattan any day of the week."
We lowered the dingoy—our trusty inflatable Avon—over the side, tossing in a waterproof pack containing a thermos of coffee, our notebooks, and a pair of heavy-duty binoculars. Rowing ashore through the rolling surf required precise timing, but years of practice had turned us into competent watermen. We rode the crest of a grey-green roller right up onto the black sand, leaping out into the knee-deep foam to haul the dingoy high up the beach before the next wave could drag it back out.
The island interior was a wild, windswept plateau covered in waist-high sea lavender, creeping juniper, and millions of screaming, nesting seabirds that eyed us with supreme indifference. We hiked up to the highest point of the ridge, where the wind hit us with full force, flattening our jackets against our chests and whipping our hair across our faces.
From up here, the ocean stretched away in every direction without a single break, a vast, curving expanse of brilliant cerulean blue that met the sky at a razor-sharp edge. To the east, nothing between us and the coast of Ireland; to the west, thousands of miles of open water rolling toward the Arctic circle.
Fay stood at the edge of the cliff, her arms outstretched like she was trying to catch the wind in her sleeves, her face tilted up toward the sun with an expression of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
"Do you ever feel like we're ghosts?" she called out over the roar of the surf far below. "Like we died years ago and this is just what heaven looks like for people who hated offices?"
I walked up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder against the biting gale.
"If this is heaven, we got off cheap," I shouted back, burying my face in the crook of her neck. "No paperwork, no commute, and the best coffee east of the meridian."
May you like
She turned in my arms, wrapping her hands around the back of my neck and pulling me down into a fierce, salt-tasted kiss that left us both breathless against the wind.
We spent hours exploring the basalt caves at the base of the cliffs, finding tide pools filled with neon-purple sea urchins and translucent pink anemones that waved lazily in the crystal-clear water. By the time we rowed back out to the Vagrant Spirit, the sun was sinking behind the western horizon once more, setting the basalt columns ablaze with fiery streaks of orange, copper, and deep crimson.
