Pelagic magic
by Anthony McGeehan
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Pre-planning takes you only so far when it comes to pelagic trips. You can get everything right -comfortable vessel, sober skipper, pleasant weather, and very unpleasant chum -but the birds are a law unto themselves. That said, there was a quiet air of unspoken confidence permeating the birding crew that stepped briskly aboard Neil Gallagher's Lionnir at Burtonport early on the morning of 15th August 2003. Neil, by the way, is the most punctual and efficient skipper since Drake. By 0830hrs we were gone. The sun was shining and the air had an Arctic clarity after two days of north-westerly winds, which had eased to a gentle northerly breeze. Boats at anchor reflected like varnished oil paintings. Lines of Shags crossed the bow as the little boat pushed west, Frodo-like, under the towering might of Aranmore Island. It was the kind of morning that made you feel glad to be alive. Some expressed the view that, even if we didn't see much, it would be a good day. Nice enough sentiments: but absolute balderdash, of course. Time to implement Plan A. Theoretically, this was straightforward. The idea was to travel in a north-westerly direction until we were about 50 kilometres from land, then run south, and eventually turn for home. Chum stops would be made at intervals, dictated by either the presence of birds or to relieve boredom.
The inescapable truth was that we just hoped to bump into stuff - somewhere, somehow. There are no known hotspots - no upwellings from deep water canyons, no 'shelf break' within travelling distance, no convergence fronts where currents meet. Radar and rosary beads would be our guides. The first half of a pelagic is usually more productive than the second half. Not because of the birds; it is because birdwatchers tend to be more alert in the morning. Wide-awake eyes latched onto a Bonxie, then a Sooty Shearwater, followed by regular sightings of Storm Petrels.
Bonxie, off Burtonport, Co.Donegal, 15th August 2003 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan). Everyone knew that if we were going to be blessed, a Wilson's Petrel would be our chief scalp, so all petrels were looked at as thoroughly as possible. That is a difficult task and one of the main reasons for using chum. An early slick pulled in a few for scrutiny. Each had a tell-tale chalky underwing stripe: the fastest way not to identify a Wilson's. The voyage continued. Bloody Foreland, Muckish, Errigal, Slieve League and Rocky Point all receded into the distance behind the boiling wake. Mercurial brief encounters with petrels continued, some Manx Shearwaters glided past, and a sunfish flopped about on a peaceful Hemingway ocean. Time wore on. Had this been a cruise, now would have been the moment to pull up the deck-chair and read a Mills&Boon. As it was, the lack of bird action was becoming a worry. Launch plan B. We changed course. A submarine contour demarcating a slightly deeper water zone lay about 15 kilometres due north. In all probability this would make about as much difference to the concentration of seabirds as a puddle in a marsh, but checking the area promised at least 'important negative results'. Several times we had seen other vessels at sea. Two were crab-boats hauling pots, others were trawlers going at full steam. All were birdless. Another trawler appeared on the horizon, this time too far away to notice if it was fishing. Should we divert and have a look? Why not. By now anything close-up with wings would be welcome. The trawler was rocking gently, she was towing nets, and was enveloped by a ticker-tape shower of birds. Neil grew anxious. We were an unidentified vessel approaching rapidly at twenty knots and silhouetted menacingly against the sun. The trawler might think we were Al Qaeda. He wanted to know the name of the boat so we could make friendly radio contact. He also wanted to know if any of us spoke French or Spanish.
The Avro Warrior, off Burtonport, Co.Donegal, 15th August 2003 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan). A buzz gripped everyone on board. What were the birds? A mob of useless gulls? No. They were Fulmars, thousands of them. And Gannets galore. Pulse-raising identifications began to be shouted out - Bonxies, Sooty Shearwaters, Bottle-nose Dolphins, and bucket-loads of Storm Petrels. Finally, the name of the trawler: Avro Warrior, registered in Waterford. She was Irish! Could we stay alongside? No problem. The agreed set-up was the closest thing there is to pure happiness. The Avro Warrior had her nets on the bottom and was drifting along slowly at only six knots. By running parallel with her wake and keeping the sun behind us, we saw everything. We were positioned like a skua sizing up targets at close quarters. The swirl of birds sparkled in the silver sunlight. Where do you start? Look - bandits overhead! Skuas were aloft and watching proceedings. Two adult Pomarines, an Arctic and, pandemonium, an adult Long-tailed Skua with full tail streamers, their tips fine enough to thread through the eye of a needle.
Long-tailed Skua, off Burtonport, Co.Donegal, 15th August 2003 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan). A Blue Fulmar passed at not much more than arm's length, then a Black Tern did the same. Storm Petrels skittered by and yet more Skuas were piling in, two more Pomarines as well as the almost ubiquitous Bonxies. We filled our boots from the main course and then hankered for dessert. Many more petrels were well astern. They were either shy of the Fulmar masses or preferred to feed further back, where the wake smoothed out. We reduced speed and let the Avro Warrior get ahead of us. Then we swung into her wake and sat there, drifting down the lines of dip-feeding Storm Petrels. No one really bothered to count them, they were everywhere. Pole position was at the back of the boat. The collective scanning retinas of ten or more birders meant that the chances of a petrel with broad, paddle-shaped wings and frosty-grey upperwing panels slipping past undetected were slim - unless it kept well away. It didn't.
Wilson's Petrel, off Burtonport, Co.Donegal, 15th August 2003 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan). It was pitter-pattering with its slightly smaller cousins, at times down to ten metres or less. It hogged the spotlight and we worshipped its every pirouette and moonwalk for about half-an-hour. Even Neil could pick it out - the Wilson's puppet-petrel, Irish dancing on the sea.
Wilson's Petrel, off Burtonport, Co.Donegal, 15th August 2003 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan). No sooner had the Wilson's veered off at a pace we couldn't match than a Sabine's Gull materialised in its place. For some this was the only gull seen all day.
Sabine's Gull, off Burtonport, Co.Donegal, 15th August 2003 (Photo: Anthony McGeehan). People began to lapse into a state of euphoric bewilderment. Whatever next? The Lionnir legged it back through the lines of birds and we rejoined the Avro Warrior. Our turn of speed equalled that of many Storm Petrels doing the same thing. For the first, and possibly the last time in our lives, we were flying over the waves in unison with the birds themselves. Memories became more selective after that. Minke Whales arcing on the surface and then vanishing into the depths, 'fully-spooned' Pomarine Skuas looking down at us as they idled past against a Caribbean blue sky. Nobody felt in the least bit queasy all day, even the threadbare offerings of an Old Mother Hubbard morning had added drama to the afternoon's lottery win. Pelagic trips can be cruelly disappointing but the best of them leave you feeling privileged to have 'been there and done that'. It feels good when you share the stage with the cast. Anthony
McGeehan Additional photos of the Wilson's Petrel can be seen in the August gallery here. |
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