The Wild Hunt - Feral: Rewilding the Land, the Sea, and Human Life - page 16

wind had stiffened, and now the rain began to spatter. The sea felt like
a half- set jelly.
I paddled west for three hours, straight out to sea. The land became
an olive smear, the seaside town to the south a faint pale line. The
waves were rising and the rain pelted into my face like birdshot. I had
travelled six or seven miles from the shore, further than I had been
before. Yet still I had not found the place.
On the horizon, I saw a flock of dark birds. Convinced that they
had found the fish, I raised my pace to ramming speed. They disap-
peared, then appeared again, whirling a few feet above the waves. As
I came closer I saw that they were shearwaters, about fifty of them,
rising, turning, then landing on the sea again. A knot of birds peeled off
from the flock and circled me. Their black velvet wings almost brushed
the waves. They were so close that I could see the glints in their eyes.
They were not feeding - just looking. The faint sense of loneliness that
had crept up on me as I headed away from land dispersed.
The birds settled on the water again and I stopped a short distance
away. There was no sound except the sloshing of the waves and the
wind, whistling high and very faint, through the shock cords on the
boat. The birds were silent.
Every time I go to sea I seek this place, a place in which I feel a kind
of peace I have never found on land. Others discover it on mountains,
in deserts or by the methodical clearing of their minds through medi-
tation. But my place was here; a here that was always different but
always felt the same; a here that seemed to move further from the
shore with every journey. The salt was encrusted on the back of my
hands, my fingers were scored and shrivelled. The wind ravelled
through my mind, the water rocked me. Nothing existed except the
sea, the birds, the breeze. My mind blew empty.
I put down my paddle and watched the birds. They trod water, pre-
serving the distance between us. Squalls of rain drummed against my
forehead. The waves, higher now, lifted the bows and swung the
kayak round: I had to pick up the paddle and occasionally turn
the boat to face the wind. The drops raised little spines on the face of
the waves. Here was my shrine, the place of safety in which the water
cradled me, in which I freed myself from knowing.