In my four months of motherhood, I’ve re-learned how to sleep. Late-night wake ups come with a ticking time clock, a suspension in a half-awake state, teetering on the edge of dreams just enough that it’s easy to sink back into the pillows. My number one rule is to avoid opening my phone at all costs, lest it steal away my tiredness. But that night was different. That night I took a cautious glance, and saw a WhatsApp had arrived not two minutes earlier. “Is anyone awake? My waters have broken.”

This wasn’t a drill, or a vague “I think something’s happening.” My friend was in labour. She wasn’t due for another month. On an island, that sentence carries extra weight.

I was jolted awake immediately, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and blindly felt around for a hoodie, all the while explaining to my husband in hushed whispers where I was running off to in the middle of the night. The plan was simple - the helicopter had been called, and was due in at quarter past. Could I watch the house briefly while my friend’s partner drove her down to the landing site? It would land on the grass in front of the castle, the flattest, most reliable stretch of ground we have, beneath the dark silhouette of red sandstone.

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They were ready to leave when I arrived, bags packed at the door and the car facing outwards. We whispered goodbyes and good lucks, and they drove off into the night. The house was quiet, her two cats staring up at me with bleary eyes - much too early for visitors, after all. My face was pressed up against the window, watching the skies for the telltale lights of the helimed. You can usually hear it before you see it, but perhaps the waves were just a bit too loud today.

But quarter past turned to half past. Then 20 to. My phone lit up again: “The helicopter can’t land, we have to turn back.”

The weather had closed in - the winds had begun to pick up. We watched on a flight tracker app as the helicopter made it to Rum all the way from Stornoway, only to boomerang round the south of the island and head straight back to Lewis. We sat for what felt like hours, chatting through contractions - and broaching the possibility that we may have to deliver this baby here by ourselves.

Until suddenly, confirmation. The lifeboat would come. An hour or so, they said.

My friend laboured at home while plans rearranged themselves around her. We poured another cup of tea. The helicopter turned back. The lifeboat crew assembled in the dark, pulling on kit, launching into black water.

By the time the boat arrived, dawn was beginning to dilute the night. And later, safely on the mainland, she gave birth to a healthy, perfect little girl. Small but strong. And absolutely beautiful.

A lot of people ask me how healthcare works here. They ask what we do in an emergency, and how we get to A&E when we’re separated by miles of choppy sea. I always reply in the same way: “Honestly, it’s better here than it ever was in Glasgow!”

And for the most part, that’s true. Out here, I’ve managed to see my GP on many more occasions than my practice in the city. It feels personal - the doctors here know my cats’ names, and make themselves at home on my couch while they talk us through appointments. There’s no scrambling at 8am to enter the same-day appointment free-for-all, no stuffy waiting rooms or receptionists that often sound like they’d rather be somewhere else. But in that moment, when the whirring blades of help didn’t appear and the lifeboat was miles away, I felt the full, sharp edge of what island living can mean. It’s a balance of faith and vulnerability.

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I thought of my own entry into motherhood just four months ago. I was safely on the mainland, having left two weeks prior to my due date and hunkering down with my in-laws close to Inverness. When labour started, it was inconvenient and painful and overwhelming, and ended in an emergency c-section. But it wasn’t logistically complicated. There were no weather forecasts to consult. No contingency plans involving sea or sky. I realise now what a privilege that simplicity was. We live with unpredictability, yes. We accept that weather will always have a vote. But we also live inside a community of people who answer messages and pagers at 2am, who show up, who launch into dark seas when a helicopter cannot land.

My friend’s daughter will grow up knowing her dramatic entrance to the world, delivered not just by a hospital team, but a chain of neighbours and volunteers and a strong mother. And I will always remember that night as the first time I truly felt the scale of this place, and, at the same time, the strength that holds it together.

Elle Duffy lives and works on Rum

© Herald Scotland