Are Puffins Socialist?

Are Puffins Socialist?
I may have studied environmental politics while an undergraduate, but this really was not the sort of question I expected to have answer at work on Skomer Island. But it actually raises some interesting questions about the social life of the seabirds for which Skomer is famous. Let me explain.

The question of the political tendencies of Puffins came about after a Skype call to my girlfriend. I mentioned the upcoming Bank Holiday on May 5th and said it probably had its date set by the Christian calendar somewhere in the past. I was immediately scolded for my lack of knowledge and was told that the May 1st break is traditionally a celebration of the worker. In her native Denmark people will be gathering in parks and enjoying the warmth of the spring air and a few beers, communally singing The International while stroking their goatees and comparing notes on the ethical credentials of their coffees and organic t-shirts. Ok I may have made some of the last bits up and there’s no way the Danish are wandering around in t-shirts at this time of year.

This raised the question of whether I would be celebrating this most socialist of public holidays on Skomer Island. As I stumbled for a witty answer to buy time to eventually make myself look clever, it dawned on me that island life was rather socialist. Now I’m not talking about factory working, propaganda consuming, 20th century socialism as portrayed in the decidedly un-socialist media. Instead it’s more communitarian. On the island we work together, we fit our personal agendas around jobs that need to be done for the common good. For example we needed to take delivery of 10 big gas bottles and had to collect them in our small boat from the mainland. Gas is our cooking and heating source. We all use it. We all need it. So my to-do list for the day was immediately scrapped, as were those of four other people, because the common need to sort out our gas supply was more important.

As I was expounding on my rather dry theory of island driven socialism, my girlfriend asked me if I thought the Puffins are socialist too (see there was a link there all along, thanks for sticking with me this far). The Puffins seem very social. They gather in big groups at this time of year on the water before wheeling around the small bays of Skomer and eventually landing next to their familial burrows. But then they split into pairs and will draw blood fighting over the best burrow sites. They seem quite socialist on the outside but quickly decide that property is everything. Not quite socialist then, more like New Labour.

Meanwhile our Guillemots gather in huge numbers at certain well ledged cliffs. They spend April trying to synchronise their hormones so that they generally mate and then lay eggs around the same time. On their exposed nest sites, their only protection from egg thieving crows and gulls is safety in numbers. Their combined noise, alarms and a thousand sharp beaks are the defence against one egg being taken. This seems very socialist to me. All working together for the common good of their species. They even have a one-child policy, only laying one egg each season.

In general the natural world is socialist to me. Different species have a range of survival strategies but the overall result is always that the individual comes second to the good of the species. Darwinist theory supports this; an individual that dies due to ill health, migratory mistakes or inability to feed will not breed and will not pass on its genes to the next generation. Therefore only the strong survive and the species benefits. Survival of the fittest.

The only species that seems to operate outside this rule is humankind. Our moral conscience, perhaps the most distinguishing feature of our species, has seemingly set us on a different course from the rest of the animal kingdom. However I strongly believe that humans should never take too much of an anthropocentric view of the world. We are nothing without the environment that created us. We as much part of it as a bumblebee, whale or guillemot. It is not there for us to use and abuse as we see fit. Don’t know what I’m on about ?(I don’t blame you, I’m not sure I do either), then come and visit Skomer and see some of the species that call this island home. If learning about their incredible life cycles doesn’t put you in your place on this planet, then there’s no hope for you.

An early start and a late finish

It's only April but the days are getting longer. The sun sets around eight thirty in the evening and rises just after six in the morning. The sun's warmth still struggles to overcome the sea borne winds but find a stone sheltered cleft in the islands rocks and the heat is there to feel.

Southerly winds have brought visitors. Migrant birds are using the island as a stepping stone on the ancient routes they follow. Urged and pushed by the need to move, places such as Skomer must be a welcome sight.

I got up early one morning with a visiting friend and film maker to capture the sunrise. A North wind stole the warmth of the coffee we carried up to the rocks. The camera's time-lapse function has stopped working so we took shifts pressing the button every five seconds. We offered up our fingers to the penetrating cold time and time again in the hope of a golden moment. Several times we questioned what we were doing. But in the end?

See for yourself...

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.