The outskirts of our town afford wonderful views from the cliffs at the harbor’s mouth. They are a short (and safe) walk from small carparks on either side of the now automated lighthouse that guides fishing boats in and tourists out to its stunning vista. With weather and health on our side, we laced up, wrapped up, and packed up for some sea air and a quiet stroll. As we passed the old folly in the pasture, on a bluff on the town side of the lighthouse, pies of “evidence” of the field’s bovine residents proved obstacles for me to avoid and waypoints for Maggie’s stop-sniff-pee process of hiking. As we crested the bluff and looked down into a small hollow where the silage bale sat, we found the lasses ruminating behind a stand of gorse in full bloom. But they paid us little attention, and Maggie and I continued toward the lighthouse. The reason for their sheltering in the hollow would become evident to us later.
Sea and Shore Alike Provide Beauty and Sustenance
Once we arrived at the harbor mouth and the beacon of our destination, we carefully descended (well, I went down with care; Maggie bounded with great enthusiasm) the stairs cut into the rock that lead to several places to sit and observe the beauty of it all. The stairs go all the way down to the breaking surf, but we decided that going partway down meant only having to climb partway back up again. I settled into a comfortable spot where geology provided both back support and footrest. Maggie took to exploring the scents of sea and shore deposited on tufts of rock samphire and in crags and joints of the fossilized sediment. Had it not been for the cheese sandwich I eventually unwrapped from my pocket, I’m not sure she would have remembered I was there with her. Paintings and poems have been conceived from vistas like the one Maggie and I shared that midday — all much better than I could convey. But the aerial dance of gannets drew my attention, and it is of them I feel able to write.
They Plunge, They Feed, They Recover
The first time I saw a gannet fly from this vantage, I thought it was one of the numerous types of gulls that inhabit this part of the island. It was perhaps bigger than most, but from a distance, specifics were difficult to discern. Until the bird fell from the sky. As if struck by a huntsman’s shot, the bird folded its wings back and plummeted into the waves below. I drew immediate analogy with my diagnosing MS attack as I watched the bird splash into the sea. Then it popped above the surface, gobbling a small fish as it did. The bird hadn’t fallen, but rather dived. Watching the small group of gannets from our resident colony on this day, I expected and even anticipated their dives and saw them for the grace and purpose they exhibited so much more so than on that first sighting. Their dives from beautiful flight appear to be the end of it all, but they resurface and once again take wing, although sometimes they bob on the sea a bit first. Perhaps the fall from flight can affect them the same way a rapid descent from my latest new normal into depths of difficulty can leave me a bit stunned. When the gannets do return to the air, they don’t always fly as high as before their dive. I suppose the belly full of seafood they swallowed whole makes for a bit more work. For me, it’s a learned course of recovery and tentative attempt before returning to former heights.
Two Lessons Learned From Nature on Our Day Out
The gannets were still flying, diving, bobbing, and taking off again as Maggie and I left our sheltered perch to make our way home. Refreshed by seeing the birds and by the reminder that I’ll always bob to the surface after my disease sends me crashing beneath the waves, I was also reminded that the good days don’t always stay good. The cattle had been sheltering behind their knoll because they sensed the coming squall. Maggie and I had not noted its approach as she joyfully sniffed and I relearned lessons from the northern gannet. We paid a cold, damp price for the lack of vigilance when a horizontal hail shower struck us in the open between spots to shelter. It seems that the birds weren’t the only element of nature from which I would relearn a lesson on that good day that turned bad, with little warning but great effect. Wishing you and your family the best of health. Cheers, Trevis
