A Wild Swim

I wanted to throw the phone at the wall. I growled at the stubborn black screen. It taunted me with three bars of signal but resolutely denied me making any calls. How the hell am I supposed to do my job when I can’t speak to the people I need to speak to. Damn this island!

The sun drenched courtyard of the old farm was splashed with daffodils, while the rolling hills of Pembrokeshire gilded the horizon. But all this was lost on me right then. I think I was having what people might call a “First World” problem, or what I might call a Skomer problem.

The mainland lies tantalisingly close to Skomer. Only separated by the churning tidal race of Jack Sound, you’d be forgiven for thinking that modern communications signals would have no trouble beaming their way through the flocks of gulls and seabirds. Perhaps there is some as yet un-studied mobile phone signal refraction effect relating to numbers of birds in the air? All I know at this stage is that if I see the “Call Not Allowed” message a few more times then my phone is going to be yet another artefact at the bottom of the Sound, joining the 18 shipwrecks already there.

I probably shouldn’t be complaining because I knew that it was likely to be this way. But I can deal with it on a personal level. Being unsure of your next call or Skype with a loved one makes you say what you really feel, while your friends and family know you’re working somewhere extraordinary and will put up with wind slurred phone messages and abrupt ends to phone calls.

So there I am. Cursing at a phone on a glorious Spring day. I had to take a step back. I had to see people off the island that afternoon and then count the Puffins in the North Haven, and being in a bad mood was not going to help me do a good job at either of those tasks. I threw the phone in a pocket and looked at my watch. I realised I had time to do something not many people would ever do, and I knew it would be the tonic I needed.

So I grabbed my wetsuit and a pair of swim fins and started down the stoney track to North Haven. I was going to purge my frustration with a cool swim in the afternoon sunshine. I reached the landing and quickly got changed in the damp old lime kiln. I stood on the edge of the landing, contemplating the milky blue water for a moment before diving in.

The cold water felt cleansing. I kicked under water a few times and my fins pushed me further into the bay. I opened my eyes. The visibility was poor but as I reached the surface I could see hundreds of small orange legs. I broke the water and realised I was surrounded by hundreds of Puffins.

They didn’t seem alarmed. After a few curious looks down their painted beaks they just paddled away. I ducked under the water again hoping to sneak a bit closer but they weren’t fooled. The Puffins ducked their heads under water too and watched my clumsy progress with disdain. I was in their element. They’d survived a brutal Atlantic winter and travelled hundreds of miles in roaring seas and cutting winds, so I think I posed little threat.

After a lap of the buoys I rested, floating on my back. Puffins were wheeling around the bay, gathering in numbers before landings to inspect their burrows. Squadrons of Guillemots and Razorbills were leaving their precarious cliff ledges and passing low over my head. Thousands of seabirds filled the air. Their guttural moans and croaks made a raw, scratching symphony that rebounded from the high cliffs of North Haven. I realised I was experiencing this all from a place that not many people had been. I wasn’t just watching, I was part of it all.

The cold nibbled at my toes as I hauled myself out onto a concrete ledge at the foot of the landing. As I fiddled with my swim fins a Grey Seal surfaced silently just yards in front of me. It’s large black eyes considered me for a minute or two. I don’t know if it wanted me to come back into the water or was saying goodbye. Then with a flourished dive it was gone.

I sprang up the 87 steps to the lime kiln. I’d let the island get under skin earlier in the day. Skomer had been challenging me. Like the birds that thrive here, you can’t just show up and expect to get what you want from the island. You have to search for those unforgettable experiences. You have to earn them. But spend a bit of time here and you will become part of the island, and Skomer will open up to you.

I didn’t think about my phone for the rest of the day.