Charlie Bradshaw

It rains again today, not that I expected anything different. The tin roof above me hums with the steady drumming of droplets, a sound as familiar as the rhythm of my own breath. I look out over the jagged coastline, the waves churning far below like restless ghosts. This island, Tristan da Cunha, has been my world for eighty-one years. It has shaped me, weathered me, much like the rocks it surrounds—sharp and unyielding, but steadfast.

I used to brave those waters, hauling lobsters from their hiding places among the reefs. We’d go out in boats small enough to feel the heave of every wave and the sting of every spray. Back then, I thought the ocean’s fury was something I could tame. Now, I know better. The Roaring Forties blow with an indifference that reminds me how small we all are. But still, it’s ours. This wind, this rain, this patch of volcanic rock—it’s all I’ve ever needed.

I stepped away from the boats some years ago. My legs aren’t what they used to be, and neither is my back. Now, I spend my days repairing nets or listening to the chatter of my grandchildren. They’re the light of my quiet years, their laughter a reminder that even here, in the world’s most remote corner, life flourishes. They ask me about places they’ve only read about—Brazil, South Africa, even St. Helena. I tell them they’ll see those places if they’re bold enough to leave. But I also tell them that the vortex road back to Tristan will always bring them home.

There’s no airport here, just ships that come when the sea allows. Some dreamers arrive now and then, thinking they’ve found a paradise of peace and solitude. They’re not wrong, but they don’t always understand the weight of the isolation, the endless rain, or the wind that never fully quiets. You must love this place to stay, and I do. I can’t imagine anywhere else where the air smells so raw, where every storm feels like it’s speaking directly to you.

The Kármán vortices swirl in the clouds overhead today. I’ve seen them often, but they still hold a strange beauty, a reminder of the forces that shape this place. Some might call it loneliness, but I call it belonging.