Chapter 1

How does one become President? It usually involves a heroic backstory woven in a tapestry of adversity, courage and near death. As Abraham Lincoln once said—‘Great leaders are moulded in the forges of adversity’—or was it Boris Johnson? I don't recall. Anyway, that's not important. My path to President was nothing like that. It wasn't something I strived for nor coveted. It did, however, involve near death.

For the second time in as many days, I thought I was about to die. One could consider it to be three if they were to count the incident with the Girl Guides at Glasgow train station—personally, I am choosing to forget that and concentrate on more pressing concerns.

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My most urgent concern being the fragile boat which was precariously keeping us afloat. Crash. It smashes into yet another wave. Much to his amusement, our death-wish captain grins and cackles indistinguishable rants. His booming voice was the only other thing I could hear beyond the sounds of the violent sea, his Scottish accent hiding any traces of an English language I recognised. For the briefest of moments, the combined sound of waves and macho Scottish bravado stifled my internal monologue—a monologue that soon screamed above everything. Shit, shit, shit.

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Hamish—my captain for what looked like would be my final trip on this mortal coil—had greeted me at Glenfaragh harbour with all the enthusiasm of a bulldog visiting a vet for the removal of his … well, you get the picture. A large scar, starting at his right temple and following his jawline to his chin, dominated his face. It cut a line through the dense grey beard he wore. Personally, I would have gone for the shaven look, but then again, I'm not a seafaring man, so what do I know?

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I fantasised about what could have given him such a dramatic feature. A taught rope violently tearing from its mast at sea, flinging it through the air like a whip cutting into his face; or a cruel bar brawl in which he was defending his honour with brutal violence; or was it the work of a covetous lover, her advances spurned as she sought jealous revenge. I guess I would never know.

"Hello, good Sir, I hope you are feeling in fine fettle this good morn."

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Okay, that's probably not how he greeted me, but for the life of me, I have no idea what he really said. All I know is his huge hands cut into mine. Decades of rope work, sea spray and, let's be honest, fistfights had left his hands like gravel as he squeezed the blood from my hands.

My manicured—don’t judge—hands were no match for his bulbous mottled paws. Years of working in a comfortable air-conditioned office had ill-prepared me for his life on the ocean waves.

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Hamish was hard to age, but I would say in his seventies. He wore an oversize dark green pullover—although there is probably a Scottish word for what he was wearing—Shabernacle or something like that. His Shabernacle had been patched up many times—although I doubt by him. His hands were more practised at clubbing things to death than delicate needlework.

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"Thanks so much for taking me today."

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He shrugged his broad shoulders and led me down the walkway to the boat. The smells of the morning catches filled the air as fishing vessels chugged into the harbour, laboured laden with bounty.

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A group lined atop the harbour wall, their eyes following my every step. I glanced up as their steely glare became more intense. I felt I was being proverbially poked with a stick as it seemed the whole town had come out to see the Englishman embark on his odyssey. They laughed so loud that I jumped, and I quickened my step, skipping forward to catch up with Hamish. Boy, did he walk quickly.

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Memories flared up to the last time I had taken this trip all those years ago—abstract memories of smells, the taste of the sea air, and the sounds of clunking masts. I must have been seven at the time, possibly a year younger, or even a year older but no older than nine when I last visited the Isle of Koch. (Which is pronounced Kosh, not the way everyone else seems to think.)

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I remembered little detail about that trip to the Island, but today somehow, everything had a familiar ring about it.

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Hamish stopped at a small launch, grabbed my luggage and—without any respect of the stitch work of Louis Vuitton—threw my case into the boat.

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And when I say boat, I mean a small boat. It reminded me of the boat I once took out with my dad on the lake in Hyde Park. He would row me around for minutes regaling me of stories of pirates and naval battles. He would let me row occasionally but would soon get frustrated with going around in circles and being splashed and quickly regain control of the vessel. Even then, I wasn't built for a life at sea.

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Mercifully this boat had an outboard motor, so there would be no rowing required today. I wanted to make a comment about needing a bigger boat, but it seemed less than manly considering it was 'just a wee hoop' to Koch. Seriously it's pronounced Koch.

It turns out 'joost a wee hoop' was a phrase that meant exactly the same as 'just around the next corner' when we were kids. As the mainland vanished behind us, I struggled to see our destination amongst the eternal grey nothingness ahead of us. I'd only been in Scotland for two days, but I feared I might never see colour again.

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The flimsy vessel buffeted against the angry sea, and, as the boat dropped from the crest of yet another wave, I could feel my whole being fall. The elements of my rather ambiguous breakfast rose from the pit of my stomach to the back of my throat. I had survived the night at the bed-and-breakfast from hell, but alas, Mrs Miggins breakfast would finally finish off what she couldn't.

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Mrs Miggins—not her real name, I may add—ran what seems to be the only BnB in Glenfaragh. Now one may ask why I call her Mrs Miggins? The answer is twofold. Firstly my ex and I would always refer to any woman who ran a similar establishment as Mrs Miggins—a kind of in-joke with a nod to one of our favourite TV shows. The second reason I called her Mrs Miggins was that I never did catch her name. She would simply refer to herself as Mother.

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Now, when faced with a six-foot skeletal, androgynous person in front of you, 'Mother' is not how you want to hear them refer to themselves. Particularly after the unpleasantness at Glasgow station. I wasn't sure who or indeed what she or he or they were referring to when they said, Mother. Was she the Mother? Referring to herself in a creepy omnipotent third-person way—like an elderly Scottish Kanye West. Or was Mother a real person? A Keyser Soze type bed-and-breakfast owner pulling all the strings. Or was she - and this kept me awake most of the night - in fact, a man dressed as his mother whilst concealing his dead matriarch in the attic.

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As I clutched the butter knife I had liberated from the train— in an ill-conceived plan to arm myself after … well, you know—I settled on the fact that Mrs Miggins was, in reality, Mr Miggins and I would somehow end up sold in the local pie shop. Tourist Pier. Get 'em while they are fresh. 

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Luckily I survived the night—and the breakfast—eating what only can be described as probably the last guest.

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Without the hint of a smile, or any emotion, come to think of it, Mother escorted me out of the house shouting, "Dunny, you dare put a review on trip advisor. I canny be doin' with any more city folk guests."

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So I held my head over the side of the vessel, battling to subdue my breakfast. I lost said skirmish and heaved my stomach contents over the side of the boat. I heard my captain's booming voice. I caught the words pigs, green and birds amongst what I can only describe as babble. Yes, babble. It was Scottish babble. As Scottish as any trope one could imagine.

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The breakfast—yes, let's call it breakfast, it didn't look like anything I had ever eaten before but considering Mrs Miggins served it at breakfast-time, I have to assume that is what people eat in this part of the world—left my mouth. At that exact time, much to Hamish's amusement, the sea and the wind—and I suspect Hamish—conspired to catapult the vomit back into my face.

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Hamish cackled. He had spent most of the journey with his face pressed into his smartphone—his knee doing all the steering. Without looking up, he expertly managed to crash into every break in the rough sea. My face stung by the salty water.

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In all fairness, once I had relieved myself of Mrs Miggins breakfast, I felt a lot better. I was now able to appreciate my surroundings—a grey meandering white noise of nothingness. In the distance, I could make out a slightly darker shade of grey.

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Please, for the love of everything, please let it be Koch.