We sat among strangers, stuffed into wet suits and squeezed into a van headed toward a beach. No one was quite sure what to expect when we arrived.
The website had used words like “climb,” “scramble,” “swim” and “jump.” It added: “A hair-raising and spine-tingling journey of exploration.”
We were going coasteering.
Never heard of coasteering? Neither had we until I started digging around the Internet as I planned our family’s summer vacation in Scotland. My husband, two boys and I would tour castles, visit tiny villages and eat haggis, but most of all we wanted to experience Scotland’s nature and geography to its fullest extent ― the cloud-kissed mountains, sheep-dotted glens, legendary lochs and rugged coastline.
We were headed to the western highlands near Oban, a coastal town filled with bed-and-breakfasts and seafood. Think Charlevoix, but instead of whitefish, there was haddock, and where we have Petoskey stones, they have rocky cliffs.
Coasteering originated in the United Kingdom and combines sea swimming, rock climbing and cliff jumping. Yes, cliff jumping.
On the travel site TripAdvisor, I had stumbled on Stramash, an outdoor adventure company on the outskirts of Oban. They offer a series of what they call Adventure Days that include things like sea kayaking, sailing, archery, mountaineering and coasteering.
When we arrived at Stramash’s office, we met Rob, our guide for the day. He was young, tall, muscular and built for jumping off cliffs. I am over 40, mildly athletic and afraid of heights. And yet here I was in a wet suit, life jacket and helmet so I could jump off a cliff.
Tucked northwest of Oban is Ganavan Bay and a crescent-shaped patch of beach abutted by steep cliffs. This is where we headed in that musty-smelling van.
It wasn’t until I plodded into the cold ocean water that I wondered, “What was I thinking?”
Thankfully, the wet suit did its job ― it kept me warm from the icy ocean water. We started swimming toward the cliffs.
I don’t know if it was the weight of the wet suit or the buoyancy of the life jacket, but swimming was difficult. I was last to reach the cliffs and completely out of breath. Again, “What was I thinking?”
My younger son stayed close to his dad, just to be safe. This was, after all, an ocean, filled with lots of unknowns, not a Michigan lake. My confident older son, a teenager, didn’t even look back to see how the rest of us were doing.
One by one, we leapt.
Rob explained the proper way to climb. And fall. Grab hold of the black rocks, not the greenish ones, those are covered in razor sharp barnacles, and when you start to fall, push away from the rocks.
As we began to climb, I said, “I’m not going to be able to do this.”
Yet, I did it. I’d find my footing and hoist myself up, around and over the rocky crags.
Now it was time to jump off the cliffs. There would be multiple jumps, each one higher ― and harder ― than the last one.
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Owen Widdis prepares to jump into the ocean from a rocky cliff along Ganavan Bay on the outskirts of Oban, a seaside town on Scotland’s western coast. (Detroit Free Press/MCT) |
You aren’t supposed to jump as much as you are to leap. Rob demonstrated first by striking a runner-like pose; one foot in front, one foot in back, and like a gazelle he leapt off the first jump.
Not practiced in the art of leaping, I couldn’t decide what felt natural, left foot in front and right in back or vice versa. Frankly, nothing felt natural as I stared over the cliff, 3 meters above the waves.
One by one, we leapt, some of us more gazelle-like than others.
The next jump was about 4.5 meters. Boosted by the success of the last jump, I didn’t hesitate.
However, the final jump was 7.5 meters, almost as tall as a three-story building.
My older son was the first to go. He had been pretty brave the whole afternoon, but even he hesitated before jumping. After he emerged from the dark-green water, he let out a yell and waved up at us.
The other mother in the group stood just to the side of me looking down and said, “We’d regret it if we didn’t do it, right?”
“Right,” I said, with zero confidence in my voice. I’d rather have a little regret than a broken neck.
After one more internal pep talk, I was leaping, holding my nose, off the cliff. The water comes sooner than you’d expect and the impact is harder than you’d imagine. The rush of water and sound is amazing and scary. Thanks to my life vest, I popped out of the water like a fishing bobber that just lost the catch of the day.
Later in the evening we drove back to the beach as the sun was setting behind the islands out past Ganavan Bay and we walked the dry path above the ocean and cliffs to where we had jumped.
We took a family photo and compared battle wounds ― I had scraped my face with my nails while holding my nose and the boys counted barnacle scratches.
Those little scratches quickly disappeared. The sensation of hurtling seaward from a Scottish cliff will last forever.
If you go
Oban is a small fishing village of about 8,500 people on the west coast of Scotland. Unofficially known as the Gateway to the Isles, it is a popular summer tourist spot with seafood restaurants serving that day’s catch, boat tours to the islands of the Inner Hebrides and the Oban Distillery, one of Scotland’s oldest whiskey distilleries and famous for its single malt 14-year-old scotch.
While in Oban and the western highlands, you’ll find a bevy of bed-and-breakfasts, hotels and quaint inns to spend the night. Another option is renting a self-catered cottage where linens and basic kitchen essentials are supplied, but for the most part, you are on your own when it comes to cleaning and cooking. A cottage allows a larger group to spread out and it doesn’t hurt that you can save some money on food by eating in.
Sites like HomeAway.com and VRBO.com list rentals of all shapes, sizes and prices. We rented a small lodge on a working farm called Ballimore Farm Estates about 30 minutes outside of Oban. We prepared most of our own meals to save money.
A long winding road, past fields of heather and thistle, takes you into the heart of the farm where we stayed, which includes a large manor house that sleeps 12, a small cottage for four and a slightly larger lodge ― actually, a duplex-style building ― that can sleep up to eight, depending on if you rent part or all of it. The lodge is comfortable, but not fussy and the best part is the view. The farm sits on hundreds of hectares of rolling hills complete with its very own fishing loch, Loch Tromlee.
Expect to wake to the sounds of bleating sheep and bellowing Highland cows grazing in the field right next to your bedroom window.
We paid 428 pounds (about $700) with a $100 refundable cleaning deposit and a three-night minimum for half of the lodge. But you can get in for as little as 70 pounds a night for this space in the off-season from November through March. There are special rates during the holidays.
By Kathy Kieliszewski
(Detroit Free Press)
(MCT Information Services)
