The Hen Harrier was almost new. Made of white pine planks on larch frames, she was the penultimate Greencastle skiff built by the late Gilbert Clark of Port Charlotte, Islay. She was 24 feet long with a sharp stern, light but strong, a craft of great beauty built by an extraordinary man using the materials he cut from ‘bends’ sent from forests on the mainland and planks prepared in his own superb workshop overlooking Lochindaal. The experience gained over a lifetime combined with the patience of a craftsman to build a boat that smelled lovely and looked lovely and touched everyone who entered the workshop – and not a plan in sight. It seemed half the village filed into the shop on a daily basis, not to gauge progress but because the conversation was always scintillating and often hilarious – Gilbert was a wordsmith without equal.

When I took delivery of her I could hardly wait to get the Hen Harrier to sea. She had the dubious distinction of being the first sea-angling boat grant aided by the Highlands and Islands Development Board. Once in the water she had a grace I have never seen matched, exemplifying the saying about boats – “If she looks right then she is right”. In early June we went fishing night after night in all weathers, getting great catches: sometimes cod and always mackerel but especially haddock, plump ones about three pounds in weight. All the time getting to know one another, I quickly worked up a trust in her and the single cylinder Lister diesel which had the skiff cantering along at six knots while only sipping fuel in the process – I doubt if she was as happy with my performance.

Bob Early, who fitted her stern gear, owned a shark rod and tackle. He had attempted, unsuccessfully, to catch sharks in the North Channel between Islay and Ireland, dangerous waters with all sorts of races. When a tide changed without warning these would suddenly manifest themselves in huge standing waves which terrified the inexperienced and sometimes the experienced.

Even then I knew I was foolish to buy Bob’s rod. With hindsight I think it was the vicious looking hook about six inches long that attracted my interest, but as soon as I clinched the deal I started looking round for a crew.

An obvious choice was Bill Syme, who in his time had hunted big game in India, mature and unflappable. Jimmy Mainland, an Orcadian, the local lighthouse keeper coming up to retirement after a lifetime in the service and an excellent fisherman, agreed to come as well. As I had only three rods I reckoned that was enough.

We agreed that we would head out at the first spell of settled weather to arrive in the North Channel at slack water just before the ebb which flows south. We would fish for a couple of hours so that we would head for home before the tide got too strong. All these plans were based on Admiralty Charts and Cruising Club data because our local knowledge was nil. What we did have was a fund of stories of catastrophes and narrow squeaks that encouraged us to temper our hopes for our day out with a great deal of caution.

To complement our array of rods, hooks and fearsome homemade instruments designed to retrieve our prey, I had arranged for a dustbin full of blood from the local slaughterhouse to ‘chum’ the water to attract our quarry. It was deemed an essential lure irresistible to any sharks that might be cruising in the vicinity.

It did not enter my mind at that stage that the shark as a species is reputedly able to detect blood in the water twenty miles out and might therefore arrive at our chosen spot in force. My thinking was more along the lines that a single shark – not too small and certainly not too big - would respond to the stimulus of a couple of buckets of blood tipped over the side by presenting himself to take the bait, minded to being spiked and hooked aboard. Then I got down to the difficult problem of arranging for our food and drink for the next day. As the weather was really settled and my chosen companions were available – the choice of Chablis for the salmon pâté seemed inspired!

Crawford Anderson, a Church of Scotland minister, a larger than life individual and a good friend who was holidaying with us, insisted on joining us. Then Iain Gillespie, a vet, also asked if he could come along.

We set sail from Port Charlotte pier with everything checked, double-checked and with spirits at a high, I suppose by bravado whipped up by feelings of self satisfaction and large surges of testosterone. The sea was like glass and we had the morning sun full on us bearing down from a cloudless sky. The pipes were out and the scent of tobacco added to our sense of well being. We had eight miles to go so we pointed the bow between the Mull of Oa and the Rhinns. To get fresh bait for our hooks we would stop and catch a dozen mackerel off the hamlet of Nerabus.

Seating arrangements on the skiff were four seats in front of the engine and one abaft for the man at the tiller who looked forward while the rest of the complement looked out over the stern. Iain was in the bow seat, then Jimmy Mainland, then Bill Syme, then me with the dustbin of blood between my legs just in front of the engine. Before we left, Crawford had insisted that he wanted to steer; as it was such a lovely day he got his wish.

Crawford was in top form and pulling my leg mercilessly as was his wont, his face split with a perpetual grin. Suddenly – we were about half a mile away from our first stop – Crawford gave a shout: “Shark!” and pointed. We all looked round but could see nothing. I got immediately on my high horse and in sentences liberally laced with the “F” word which I knew he hated, told Crawford that it was well known that ministers were bad luck on boats, especially on fishing trips, and if he didn’t stop his caper he would be landed. Crawford was still protesting as I shut down the engine when we had arrived off Nerabus and we lay about one thousand yards off shore.

We got out our line frames and started to lower our ‘darraghs’ which were hit at once by mackerel. We were all pulling them in when all of a sudden, not a hundred yards away, not fifty, not twenty, but ten yards away the sea parted and a huge black head broke the surface, moving at right angles to our stern. The creature’s eye seemed to be the size of a saucer and that eye was definitely looking directly at me. It exhaled with a sigh, then disappeared beneath the sea, its spear-like fin at least four feet high slicing the haze left from the exhalation.

What our faces looked like to Crawford after the creature disappeared – he saw nothing and was unaware of the source of the dissipating dampness enveloping him – must have been interesting. Now my reflexes kicked in, driven by sheer terror. My voice in the highest of falsettos squeaked “What was that?” There was no immediate response from my friends behind me.

When Jimmy Mainland – veteran of a lifetime spent in small boats – offered after what seemed an age “Was it a porpoise?”  I found myself galvanized into action. “Chuck the lines over the side!” I squealed, starting the engine and shrieking at the puzzled Crawford to head for the shore.

The gap between the Hen Harrier and the shore seemed miles wide.

I expected the attack to come at any second. I had no doubt that the creature had already decided that I – with the dustbin of blood between my legs – should head the menu. It crossed my mind to ask Crawford to change places with me but he was a lot bigger than me and catching on quickly to our predicament. To get him to move would have required a lot of force and, what was worse, a loss of face in front of the rest of the crew.

Fear does peculiar things to the mind. The skiff had seemed to flit across the water as we left the pier but now she was acting like an old tub just making headway and no more. My companions seemed calm though a bit pale and in complete denial about what we had experienced. I, on the other hand, was fighting off hysteria and seemed to be heading for a full-blown heart attack, exacerbated by the dustbin and my conviction that the attack was about to explode.

We reached the tiny beach beneath my house at Nerabus, the tide enabling us to charge up the beach with the engine at full throttle. We scrambled ashore and instantly all four of us relieved ourselves in unison on the grass, much to the minister’s dismay.

The dustbin of blood was quickly lifted out of the skiff and emptied on the grass well above the tideline.

By now we were exhilarated by our narrow escape and unanimously decided to cancel our trip, sitting down in the sun to eat our early lunch. I have never enjoyed anything so much.  I relaxed on the machair grass with relief flooding over me, yet at the same time I relived the horrors we had just experienced. After a couple of hours’ sunbathing we thought it would be safe to head for home so we loaded ourselves back on to the Hen Harrier and hugged the shore until we arrived safely home, appreciative and thoroughly chastened.

From the moment the head submerged behind the boat, although we were scanning all horizons, we never saw it again. The creature was a lone killer whale, a species which had never been recorded as attacking a human being up to that time. With the benefit of hindsight and my later contact with dolphins up here, the look it gave me was probably benign and not threatening.

That was the end of my shark fishing. But the shark hook is still hanging in the shed to remind me that pride comes before a fall.

The Fright of my Life – by Archie Mactaggart, 25 years in Cromarty.