Diary from the Deep
by Anthony McGeehan
| In August 2009, Anthony McGeehan was one of a lucky crew of four surveyors who embarked on the Irish Marine Research vessel Celtic Explorer, on a 12-day mission to discover as much as they could about the cetaceans and bird life in our offshore waters. All photos by Anthony McGeehan. unless otherwise stated. It all began with a rendezvous in the wee small hours with David Williams (one of the Irish Whale and Dolphin Group’s observers) in Belfast. The drive to Cobh passed quickly; Ireland’s new road system has shrunk the country. At anchor and shrouded in misty rain, the Celtic Explorer’s green livery shone like fresh green leaves. The cabin I was allocated to share with Dermot Breen would not have been out of place in the upmarket end of a Holiday Inn. Lots of plug sockets and storage space blew away worries about cramped conditions on the high seas and a forced return to pen and paper to record the days ahead. The afternoon and evening were spent in briefings and a growing expectation of seabirds at dawn in a world whose dry land bonds will be slipped tonight. Along with Dermot, Maggie Hall and David Tierney, I was on board to enumerate all bird encounters over the forthcoming twelve days. A dozen more naturalists have other tasks. However, the peg upon which the voyage hangs is, in the words of Dave Wall, IWDG luminary and cruise Chief Scientist: “To conduct a habitat-specific survey of deep-diving cetaceans, particularly the little known beaked whales. These whales, of which five species have been recorded in Ireland (Sowerby’s, Gervais, True’s, Cuvier’s and Northern Bottle-nose Whale) favour deep waters (in excess of 1000 metres) with complex bathymetry. Little is known of their distribution or biology, and all are listed as ‘data deficient’. Focus will be on deepwater canyons, which slice the slopes of the Porcupine Bank west of Ireland.” It came as a shock to learn that cetaceans were susceptible to displacement by underwater sounds generated by humankind’s economic rumblings and military mischief. For example, by detonating explosions that send shockwaves revealing ‘drillable’ oil-bearing sediments northwest of Ireland (in Rockall’s neck of the woods). The sounds may well disorientate – or frighten away – beaked whales from canyon homes. Sperm Whales, common in the same vast Inner Space, could also be at risk – for a different reason. They hunt Giant Squid but return to the surface and refuel slowly by lengthy deep breathing, which stokes up tissues with oxygen. Then they submerge and head for the depths for up to 90 minutes. Alien acoustic bangs and other sonic interference reverberate over many miles (and leagues) and can cause dives to be aborted. Besides the racket of economic exploitation, there are the smoke-and-daggers shenanigans of the military. Prima facie evidence links naval exercises at sea with the discovery of ‘Cetacean Free Zones’ once the Doctor Strangeloves of this planet have finished playing war games. The voyage, therefore, had a serious purpose.
Common Dolphin.
Day 1: Wednesday 19 August First light revealed total grey. Sea and sky almost merged. No white wave tops despite a ruffled ocean. After the expected ignition sequence – Fulmar, Gannet, Great Black-backed Gull, Lesser Black-backed Gull – the first binocular scan locked onto a shearwater. It was a Great! Storm Petrels were scurrying past (all going in the same direction, whatever that was) and then a Bonxie and Manx Shearwaters were added to the tally. I assumed that we were southwest of Cork. Wrong. I glanced across to the other side of the ship and spotted the familiar silhouettes of Dursey Island and the outlying islands of the Bull and the Calf. In reality we were less than ten miles offshore and not yet over the horizon.
The route of the Celtic Explore, August 2009.
Time for indoctrination into the survey’s techniques. Basically, shout out everything to a scribe and categorize each species under number, distance, direction of travel and activity. Only after a bird was tracked visually could binoculars be used to ascertain identity. Hence, Storm Petrels tended to be under-recorded on the data sheets, despite the species being common. Furthermore, only those species seen ‘in quadrant’ were logged: counts were limited to a 90 degrees sweep ‘ahead and starboard’ or ‘ahead and port’. Never mind. I’m no scientist. The scale of a large vessel chugging along and not pausing to deploy chum meant that attempting to sift through Storm Petrels and check for Wilson’s became a difficult task. The birds were not close. Dermot and I had suspicions about one or two out of 300 Stormies seen in the course of the day. As the morning worn on a cocktail of inclement weather put a dampener on earlier good vibrations. The wind picked up, rain was more on than off, and white tops spread like measles over an increasingly lumpy sea. The promise of a bright afternoon was extinguished. Just as a sense of fatigue was setting in, I spotted a large shape in the water. I didn’t think it could be a cetacean and ran to the rail, shouting simultaneously. I looked down to see a bed-sized Leatherback Turtle looking back at me. Wowser! Human sails refilled instantly. Then, just as we were headed for the continental shelf, a girl from IWDG fell and wrenched her ankle. Poor thing. The skipper decided to get her ashore. We turned around and headed for Dingle Bay. The remainder of the day was spent re-crossing inshore waters. Back came the large flocks of Manx Shearwaters, rafts of Guillemots and little clusters of Storm Petrels. Squads of Common Dolphins raced to accompany the ship and despite rain-soaked binoculars it was a delight to slice through teeming rafts of intermixed dolphins and birds. A Blue Fulmar swimming alongside a typical Fulmar was followed by a late evening Cory’s Shearwater. Quality at the end of a long day. It laboured into flight about seven miles west of the Tearaght, Kerry, and slid away south – out of the path of an incoming westerly gale.
Storm Petrel.
Day 2: Thursday 20 August Neither Dermot nor I stirred until sometime after 0800hrs. By then chinks of sun formed a halo peeping around the heavy flange clamped like an iron curtain over the porthole. Dermot creaked it out of the way. Full daylight revealed Great Shearwaters just yards from our bunks! Pandemonium ensued. He pulled on trousers, jacket and binoculars and was gone. My mentally rehearsed manoeuvres were abandoned. A minute later I was on deck – feeling fine – and gawking at a flying carpet of 50 or more Great Shearwaters cruising, circling and cavorting in a playful game of round-and-round the boat. A few Sooty Shearwaters and Bonxies were in the throng but not much else.
A raft of Great Shearwaters. The sea shone blue in the sunlight and the birds sparkled like diamonds. Breakfast was forgotten. News came through that today’s survey was cancelled due to high winds in excess of Force 5. None of this bothered the birds – or me. It became obvious that Great Shearwaters were slipstreaming the boat on an ad hoc basis. Occasionally a splinter group settled on the sea. Then more arrived. Maybe they were the same birds back again? Who knows. [In fact, watching Great Shearwaters on subsequent days, the same birds really do take ‘time outs’ and then fly back along the wake to rejoin the boat. This is made considerably easier for them since we steam along at a snail’s pace due to towing hydrophones. The speed is no more than eight knots, often less.] They were amazing to watch. Two were in moult; the first time I have seen ratty specimens on this side of the North Atlantic. I loved the way many dropped one foot to keep themselves up off the surface while skimming to within touching distance of it. Motorbike racers do much the same thing when they lean into bends at gravity-defying inclinations. Another trick was to trail, momentarily, a wing tip in the water, ‘downhill skier’ style. Again, this seemed to be an action designed to administer a slight steerage correction. Tail raising and splaying both feet astern to create drag, were other feats employed to adjust rate and direction of travel. Colours across the wings’ curved upper surface switched from pale to dark with the tilt of the bird. Depending on how the sunshine struck, the secondaries could, one moment, shine like silver – and then be plunged into darkness. Furthermore, secondaries on one wing were capable of turning frosty while those on the other remained dark. Precisely the same ‘asymmetric light trick’ plays across Sooty Shearwater wings. The rising and falling of the flock was endless silent choreography. Mesmerizing to watch.
Great Shearwaters. And so the day went on. Giant waves and Great Shearwaters. The ocean was up and roiling. Occasionally huge walls of sea reared up and gleamed black as obsidian before calving into white spray, making smithereens of themselves and sending up clouds of spume that hung in the air like wreaths of smoke over a battlefield. Then, at around 1730hrs, I rolled a six. I latched onto a smaller, faster-moving shape just beyond some wheeling Great Shearwaters. Eyes went to binoculars and image went to brain. The answer came instantly. Luckily it was something I knew and zero time was lost. The bird hung there like Polaris, the brightest star in a firmament of ocean. It was a Fea’s Petrel. Seabirds don’t come any better than this. A lifer for Dermot. Several of us saw it. Like the Great Shearwaters, it had its wings locked in a good-to-go aerofoil setting and zipped along well clear of cavernous troughs. It was clearly smaller than the rest of the cast. Having been blessed on four previous occasions I am no longer blinded by adrenaline when I see the species and took time to take it all in. The combination of a tubby cigar body on boomerang-shaped wings is so characteristic. The wings’ outline is smooth (as though planed) so a soft angle at the carpal is as aerodynamic as a bent fin. The wing tip is a blunt point, streamlining the bird into a suit of plumage fit to cut through the air as effortlessly as a scythe. Fea’s Petrel is a boy racer among gliding seabirds. The dark underwings against a white belly and little white ‘leading light’ armpits were obvious eye-catchers. So too the dark outer wings, ‘zoned’ grey inner wings and back, and a lighter grey tail – like a Fulmar’s. The bird was planing in an arc that took it around the front of the vessel. Dermot and I were forced to abandon good shelter and dash to the opposite side and pray that we could pick it up in mountainous Roaring Forties seas bathed in silver light. We did, and still in colour since it remained ahead of the ship, alas steadily vanishing into thin air – still sweeping, still soaring, still suggesting that flying into a 35mph headwind was a cakewalk. Yeah baby! Life tasted very sweet at around 1800hrs, fuelled by food smells that wafted up from the galley on the deck below. We went down for dinner. High spirits were enhanced further when Dermot spotted a small petrel hunkering down low among the waves. Thanks to our height above the sea it didn’t take long to upgrade Dermot’s suspicion that this was no ordinary Stormie. He was right. Wilson’s at last! In the wind, the bird was attempting to hold itself firmly. The wings were held in a ‘raked-back yet cupped-in’ plane: so no wings aloft, ‘big bat’ silhouette. Nor any classic puppet-on-a-chain walking on water. Actually, the bird looked quite long – probably due its chopstick legs accentuating the tail appendage. Under the circumstances we saw it well, although the frosty upperwing panel was not that easy to see in a half gale.
Wilson's Petrel.
After dinner we were back. The swirl of shearwaters was still there. As I staggered through doors and onto the open deck (staggering through doors is de rigueur in today’s weather) I saw an adult Sabine’s hanging over the wake. I met Dermot and we nailed the Sabine’s again; Maggie was also able to add it to her life list.
Adult Sabine's Gull. Next came a snatched view that seemed destined for anything but a conclusion. Dermot mentioned that he had seen a small shorebird – Dunlin, probably – flying over the sea. Minutes later, there it was. Its little wings were beating so fast that sometimes they seemed a-quiver. Nonetheless, it was zooming around and, although hard to follow, it occasionally came close. As it swept around the wake it pushed closer to where we were, high on the sides of the bow. First it came up the port side, then swung back, then tried to make headway along the starboard side. Bit-by-bit, its features could be checked. It had a short bill, neat breast band ‘high’ across the chest, immaculate white underparts like a summer-plumaged Sanderling, upperparts that often shone with the tone and texture of a digestive biscuit and a thin wingbar. It seemed crazy, but the inescapable truth was that the bird was a Baird’s Sandpiper. Repeat: I was looking at a Baird’s Sandpiper fluttering around the Celtic Explorer in wild seas 160 miles west of Kerry. Was this for real? Well, yes it was. Dermot agreed and Maggie, Dave and Jane all saw it too and could see the same set of distinguishing marks. Everyone was happy and, in the end, the bird made no more frantic appearances. Perhaps it landed on the ship? Time will tell. I quit for the day to begin writing this stuff. Meanwhile Dermot stayed on deck and returned with news of a Grey Phalarope. What a day.
Rain squall. Day 3: Friday 21 August By mid-afternoon the theory bit the dust. Why? Our path was over deep water. Yesterday we cruised southwest over the outer reaches of the Porcupine Bank, depth 300m. Today we were further southwest (before turning northeast in mid-morning) and spent the day coursing over seas that were a dizzy 3000m deep. Out here the marine environment, in its bird-accessible surface layers, must equate to the Sahara. Deep-diving whales inhabit such waters – both Sperm and Fin Whales were seen and heard today – but not winged life forms. As the day wore on the sheer absence of birds became, of itself, interesting. I said to David Tierney, “Today will have been worthwhile if, at the end of the voyage, it stands out as a gap.” The deep abyssal plain would, de facto, have revealed a secret and added a nugget of knowledge about seabird distribution. That is, avoid looking over deep water? However, the weather was more than kind, with warm sun and just two-eighths cloud. The sea rocked us at sharp tangents all day since we were running northeast but in a westerly wind and three-metre swells. At mealtimes, if the canteen floor had been stable, the explanation for all the flying crockery and utensils would have been an army of poltergeists. Despite the impoverished avifauna there was a highlight. An adult Long-tailed Skua drifted by in mid-afternoon and a V of 13 Whimbels passed southeast. How did they know that they were going in precisely the right direction for Iberia?
Adult Long-tailed Skua.
Two calling Oystercatchers seemed very incongruous this far from land (165 miles out). Turnstones were encountered on a few occasions. One group consisted of 13; in total, 20 passed. At about 1800hrs a splendid pod of three Pilot Whales broke the surface. Their sweptback fins, squash-ball heads and glistening wet blackness surging through white water were a terrific sight. Day 4: Saturday 22 August
Porthole view. Pilot Whales were close by and gave Sea World views tearing through a raft of Fulmars. The mammals raced at the napping tubenoses as though trying to take them unawares. Apparently, that is precisely what they were up to: bad-tempered beasts that wouldn’t think twice at having Fulmar for breakfast. Outdoors, conditions were dodgy. The lowest deck, appropriately emblazoned WET DECK, was sloshed by run-off. I stood, camera in hand, curious to see how the ship handled the Law of Physics that says ‘buoyancy overcomes water’, only to find that the mathematical equation proving a large wall of water divides in two when it hits a solid surface, meant that several tons of crashing sea was suddenly heading directly at me. Luckily the wet lab door was open and I leapt inside seconds before a large measure of the North Atlantic drenched both camera and me. Phew! I decided that the bridge was the place to be – inside and able to look out from behind huge armoured glass windows. Although spray-splattered, the views were breathtaking. The ever-friendly crew gave everyone free reign, even turning on windscreen washers and wipers to improve the panorama of a sea onion-weathered by the wind. Richard, the second-mate from Schull in west Cork, told me that it was gale force eight and that the wind was southerly.
View from the bridge. Since we were heading northeast the roll wasn’t ‘too bad’. Shortly we turned northwest but it didn’t feel much worse on the bridge. Our position was 53 degrees N and 14 degrees W. We are still over deep water (2000m) and heading into a deeper canyon (4000m). The hydrophones are picking up clicks from Sperm Whales feeding on Giant Squid in the inky depths below us. I put on headphones to hear their intermittent lisping notes, emitted to echolocate prey in the dark. The faint noise resembled a begging Meadow Pipit chick. Odd that one of the largest living things can sound so meek. Unfortunately, in the bad visibility, nobody saw any surfacing for air. Along with Simon Berrow, I did see some Striped Dolphins: smaller and whiter-faced than Common Dolphins and amazingly energetic leapers. A small gaggle of up to half a dozen Great Shearwaters tucked in behind the boat. Fulmars outnumbered them by about three to one. At least three Sooty Shearwaters put in cameo appearances, as did a juvenile Arctic Tern, about ten Lesser Black-backed Gulls (LBBGs) of which two were adults, an adult Gannet and – briefly – a Leach’s Petrel. Hypnotic ogling of Great Shearwaters was the drug of choice. The simple elegance of the species in winds gusting up to 53 knots is a joy to behold. What a privilege to be out here watching them in conditions of unbridled opulence.
Sooty Shearwater.
Lunch was chicken Kiev with homemade tart for dessert. I opted for the starter only – delicious chunky vegetable soup and crusty rolls. All queasiness is gone. So long as I don’t impersonate King Canute on the Wet Deck I should be okay. Day 5: Sunday 23 August
Wheatear, caught in the lights of the Celtic Explorer at 0430 hrs (Photo: Jane Kelleher). All looked the same: sandy-backed with buff bellies and warm ginger-brown chests and cheeks. They kept pace with our slow 8 knots. They were beating into a southwest headwind and driving rain. When I stepped out of a lee and leaned over the rails to peer down at one, the cold wet night set me shivering in seconds. It was hard not to feel sorry for the waifs, using up energy in constantly undulating flight. Tonight is a battle against the elements. I explained to Eugene and Jane that the little songbird pilgrims may well have left Greenland two days ago, perhaps at dusk on Friday. Instead of getting a tailwind from the northwest, they have encountered adversity. All through Friday and Saturday the winds have been strong southwest or south. Such conditions ground migrant Wheatears around Ireland’s western seaboard. I have seen that happen. Instead of being unapproachable and sprightly, little packs sit near each other, huddled and crestfallen. Might they settle on the ship at dawn? Through the night they know to keep flying. The dark is for migration, not resting. It would be fantastic to see one perched in daylight. Right now it is strangely unnerving to get out of bed on the high seas and see the small print of migration in action. Having read about the mind-boggling transoceanic flight performed by Greenland Wheatears, it is a shock to witness it at first-hand on a black night and gaze at a tiny bird facing a watery grave if it gives up the struggle against driving rain and sapping headwind. Awake again at 0930hrs, I got the news that one Wheatear was on the ship at dawn but flew off immediately. The morning was bright and clear. Lots of sunshine and pockets of puffy white cloud. The wind was southwest, around force four, although sometimes force five: the hallmark of which is said to be white caps blown off wave crests and turned into spray. Another day of ‘canyoning’ is planned. The hydrophones are in the sea and picking up plenty of Sperm Whales. We track along and across canyons (depth 4000 metres) and hope for cetacean sightings, the Holy Grail of which would be beaked whales. Three came up while I was asleep, so there is a buzz among the IWDG contingent. However, writing this at 1600hrs after most of the day on deck, I am becoming even more convinced that deep water is a seabird desert. The canyon edges are not proving to be the realm of anything except Fulmars. They are out here in low densities and appear to be the only thing with wings that regards the zone as home. Maybe they feed at night? Each morning a group of them is to be found loafing astern. During the day a small gathering of, usually, less than ten criss-cross the wake. From time to time Great and Sooty Shearwaters appear in their midst. A handful of Gannets appear and then disappear, as do tiny numbers of Kittiwakes. LBBGs are the only big gull in town. Juveniles outnumber adults, although sometimes a pairing of adult-with-offspring suggests familial ties.
Fulmar in a gale.
Apart from the preceding list of ‘regulars’ there is the prospect of a range of ‘possibles’: each in transit and none inhabiting this Empty Quarter. So far, today’s haul includes, one apiece: adult Sabine’s Gull, sub-adult Long-tailed Skua, Blue Fulmar, Grey Phalarope, Arctic Tern and, like the LBBGs, another migrant from Iceland: a juvenile Black-headed Gull. It is (sort of) fascinating to construct a picture of seabird distribution on the basis of what we are not seeing. No bird-harrying skuas (there is almost nothing to harass); no Stormies; no auks (not even Puffin); no numbers of shearwaters. A Manx Shearwater did pass and the only petrels were (two) Wilson’s Petrels. Steaks tonight. The culinary odours are driving Mr Breen and me mad on our watch point above the galley. Black Forest gateaux had hardly hit our stomachs by the time we were due back on watch. The final two hours were, like the rest of today, a giant lucky dip. Concentrate hard enough and you might knock off a respectable scalp. So, although the soup of seabirds was definitely consommé, there were a few titbits floating near the surface. Specifically, another adult Sabine’s Gull, a Cory’s Shearwater, a handful of Great Shearwaters (day total approximately 30), a Bonxie and, new for the trip, a juvenile Sanderling flying past at close quarters. By 2000hrs the sea started to look menacing. Walls of black water reared up and thudded against the bows, their surfaces striated in white, akin to spilled yoghurt sent flying for six. Wind gauges high on the mast began to spin like palm fronds in a hurricane and rigging wires whined in the wind. The sound was ominous. It was such a noise that, if heard indoors on dry land, would cause more logs to be thrown on a fire while hearing the elements howl.
Rough seas.
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