The RMS is back. A notice outside the shipping agency downplays the seas she faced while returning.
Luggage has already been transferred to the ship, so an easy stroll past the mule yard to the water.
Sadly, no mules or donkeys. I wonder how my friend Big Headed Barger is doing?
Sadly, no mules or donkeys. I wonder how my friend Big Headed Barger is doing?
I stop to chat with St. Helena's Chief of Police Peter Coll, Keith, Cilia and Simon.
The tender waits.
Luggage is handed aboard.
Bruce (on the left) hopes to periodically return and continue management training on the island.
Shortly after boarding - only fifty-four passengers - the RMS signals departure with a long, mournful sounding of the ship's horn. 'My St. Helena Island,' in the country style so popular with Saints, plays on the speakers.
I succumb to another picture as Jamestown slips to stern.
The western coastline is dappled with elusive spring sunshine. I can see where I had some of my most memorable walks.
St. Helena is a place where things always happened slowly. Now, disquiet as Saints await the assault and its uncertain consequences. Many are skeptical about an airport. If it comes, there may be modest improvement in a tiny economy. For medical emergencies, undoubtedly a lifesaver. However, this means abrupt change, societal upheaval that elsewhere happens over decades, even centuries.
Currently, the few visitors make a real effort to get here. That’s much of the appeal. Solitude, lack of commercialism and a genuine interest in travellers makes St. Helena very special. With an airport, it becomes another place on a mass tourism ‘bucket list.’ I will not be on an airplane to Jamestown.
For a little over three hours, I watch with the effort for a sight one will never see again. The island becomes less and less distinct, obscured by mist and distance, dipping beneath the swell.
A sudden toss of the ship; I regain balance, look back and St. Helena has merged with sea and cloud and has gone. We are alone in the South Atlantic.
