For long and terrible seconds, I think that they can’t see, that they don’t understand. And then, for longer and more terrible seconds, that they can and they don’t care. But then I see Charlie running across the sand. I hear his voice, clear and clean, above the rising storm, the furious sea.

‘He wants to come back!’

And then those lights are no longer still.

Kenny and Charlie put a skiff – a big one, at least six-man – into the sea close to the headland. But the surf is too high; even with the help of two others – I think Jimmy and Bruce – they can’t keep it steady, they can’t gain any ground.

Most of the figures have come down from the bluffs now. The beach comes alive with dizzying lights like directionless fireflies. But some remain stationary; lone fixed points against the skyline that anchor me, keep me focussed; remind me of my mother.

The wind becomes more ferocious. Howling and ricocheting around the cliffs and headlands. The waves batter me, washing over the rock in endless punishing assaults. More people help to push the skiff into the sea. So many I can’t recognise them, so many that I can no longer see the boat at all, but finally it gains momentum, and I can see figures climbing aboard, frantically trying to row their way free of the surf. For one moment, it looks like they will – the skiff rides high once, twice, but then the wind changes again, and the next wave slams into its port side, tipping its crew into the sea. I can hear their shouts, see their frantic efforts as they try to control the upturned boat, but the sea hurls it back onto the shore, washing those figures back with it.

Thunder rumbles, heralds icy quick rain that pounds against my skull. Lightning cracks and flares, and the sea swells higher. High enough that in the white-bright light, those waves look like the sky. Like the world. Salt stings my eyes, my throat. Spasms shudder through me, chattering my teeth, stopping my heart in longer bursts.

Figures crowd around the skiff again, pushing it back into the waves. But two run for the bluffs, climbing fast before heading east. I recognise Jimmy in front; he must be going for his creel boat, or maybe the outboard dinghy pulled up on the slip at Bàgh Fasgach. I don’t know who’s following him, only that it’s not Charlie. Because he promised me he wouldn’t leave. I see him climbing into the skiff again with three others, rowing and rowing against the sea and the tide. And I hold my breath inside my chest as the wind and current push them closer, closer.

But not close enough. Less than fifty yards from my rock, the wind throws them westwards, into the shadow of the headland, the sea there surging higher and threatening to smash them against the cliffs. And then I let out a sound, high and thin, when it does just that, spinning them around once, twice, before launching them against a cliff face. I don’t hear the sound it makes, not over the wind and the thunder and the hard-drumming rain, but I hear the shouts and screams on shore. In another flash of lightning, I see the boat splinter, see the bodies thrown free and frantically swimming. Finally spat back onto the beach.