the owl-eyed fisherman

(when I fell down an arctic waterfall)

I usually love this boat journey. It weaves me through islands that dome from the surface like skimming stones, it takes me along channels that heave and groan with the weight of all their water, it ribbons me between gorgeous birds above and seals below and sometimes (if I am lucky, if I am paying enough attention) a dorsal fin or two.

But today, on the boat to town, I find my fists balling up, my jaw clenching, my heart pounding. I am listening to a podcast about DOGE freezing USAID payments. I am learning that many people’s lives are in immediate danger due to the actions of one unelected and – as is becoming increasingly apparent – very dangerous billionaire.

And so, I have decided to write this post in protest; to write this post as my small act of rebellion. Here is the first in a series of personal stories about human kindness; stories from my life that warm my soul and make me smile – and I hope, if you are in need of a little light today, these stories might do the same for you.

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the owl-eyed fisherman

I want to tell you about the time I fell down a waterfall in the arctic.

It really is as dramatic as it sounds, unfortunately.

My partner and I were hiking a section of a trail called the Kungsleden in arctic Sweden. There’s no mobile signal up there, no way to contact anyone if things go wrong. The last message we sent before starting the trail was to my parents in the UK – we told them that if they didn’t hear from us on this specific date, at this specific time, could they please call the Swedish mountain rescue service and let them know we were missing. My parents (a little nervously) agreed.

And off we went – out into the arctic wilderness, armed with a map, a compass, a tent, a lot of rather dull but high-energy food, and two gigantic backpacks.

It was a beautiful hike – we walked next to a gushing river where reindeer drank from the forested banks, we climbed over an icy mountain pass, we emerged on the other side to see a huge, sweeping U-shaped valley formed by the slow graze of ancient glaciers and we walked right through the belly of that valley for days.

It was around midsummer, and darkness never came but the light had different moods and our bodies became attuned to them. When the light laid down low on the horizon, our bodies knew it was time to lay down too, and when the angle of the sun changed just enough for shadows to become a fraction shorter, up we would get again.

We walked, we talked, we walked, we dozed beneath that lazy sun, we watched long-tailed skuas sweep and swoop through the gape of the wide-open arctic sky, we heard the thunderous rumble of ravens grumble along the valley, we stumbled upon a rock ptarmigan and her beautiful brood of chicks. Oh, it was heaven. And everything went exactly to plan.

Until the day of the waterfall.

Every morning, I’d go to the nearest freshwater source and fill up our water bottles. One morning, when we were camping on a rock plateau above a large lake, I walked, groggily, to a river that flowed over the top of this plateau and down, down, down into the deep, black lake.

I couldn’t actually see the waterfall as I walked towards the river, but I could hear it – its call as thunderous as a raven.

In my half-asleep state, I didn’t think to check whether the rock might be slippery, I just marched right on over to the edge of the water. Too late, I understood that the rock was covered in a very thin layer of algae. I slipped right into the river, and in the river I also could not grip onto anything – the algae was everywhere.

I very distinctly remember thinking, after trying and failing to find something to hold onto: huh, there is nothing I can do but let this river carry me into the lake.

And also: there are probably rocks at the bottom of the waterfall.

And also: I really don’t want to die this young, but beneath this wide-open arctic sky is maybe not such a terrible way to go.

That last thought – gifted to me as I felt my body become vertical and join forces with all the power of the waterfall – surprised me. It surprised me because I would have thought, in a moment like this, that I’d be overcome with panic, that I’d have no ability to step outside of myself. But I found myself calm enough to be saying a thank you, of sorts, to that big unblinking sky.

And then I was being pushed into deep black water – under, under, under.

It was freezing, and it slapped every thought right out of my mind.

Only when I bobbed back up, a surprising distance from the waterfall, did I think: no rocks! And also: oh, good, I’m alive!

I looked around me, figuring out where to go to get out. The lake was surrounded by rocky banks but I spotted a bit that looked easy to climb and began to swim towards it. My clothes (my many layers of arctic clothes) were heavy and pulling me down already.

It was then that I heard it. A shout, coming from the middle of the lake.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a little wooden boat in the distance coming towards me – oars frantically whirring.

We hadn’t seen anyone for a few days, so this was unexpected.

I really needed to get to the bank before I got too cold, so I turned and carried on swimming. Just as I got to the rock, the little boat pulled up next to me. In it was a fishing rod and a small man with gigantic owl eyes and although he was speaking (rather frantically) to me in a language I did not recognise, the language of his eyes was a universal one – he was worried, very worried.

I – this strange wet creature who plopped down a waterfall into this lake and was now clinging to the rock like some slimy sea creature – said something like, I’m so sorry, I’m fine, I’m ok, I don’t speak your language (I don’t remember my exact words, but I do remember saying sorry about five times – perhaps some of my more misplaced apologies).

The owl-eyed man reached his arms towards me, although he was a few metres away, as if to catch me if I fell from the bank, and then he cocked his head to the side and gave me a questioning thumbs up. As I got to the top of the bank I gave him a thumbs up too, saying really, I’m fine, over and over (clearly – wet, pale, shaking – not fine).

His big owl eyes held mine for a moment and then he looked back to where I’d swum from. Lots of bits and pieces that had floated out of my pockets were bobbing around on the surface. Water bottles, a packet of tissues, some other things I don’t remember. And off he went, this little owl-eyed man in his little boat, zigzagging across the lake, towards my scattered flotsam.

Carefully, he collected each one of my belongings, brought them aboard his boat and put them into a little pile. Then he rowed back to me, and stretched up to pass me each item as I reached down to gratefully receive them.

Thank you, I kept saying.

But I wasn’t really thanking him for collecting all these worthless things, I was thanking him for the worry in his eyes. For the frantic way he rowed to me. For his hesitance to turn away, even though I was on dry land.

Once he’d handed me all my belongings, I smiled and said really, thank you, and he nodded, and he smiled, and he gave me a thumbs up, and just as I was walking out of view I turned to see if he was rowing away, but no, he was still there, the owl-eyed fisherman in his little wooden boat, and he waved at me and I waved at him and he gave me one more (slightly questioning) thumbs up and I thought – my god, humans are good, aren’t they?

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This is the first of the ‘kindness chronicles’, my small act of rebellion in a world where the news is dominated by humans who are the worst of us, and who do not represent us.

The next in this series will be about bears, hitchhiking, and a homicide detective (which sounds rather ominous, but I promise is a heart-warming story).

If you’d like to, please share a small story of human kindness from your life. Let’s remind ourselves that there is a lot of light in this world, despite the darkness (and the light is what we fight for).

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