Sea anemone and sea squirts in the Moray Firth

©George Brown

What is it about that blue, grey or green sheet, sometimes silky-smooth, sometimes crumpled, often stretching to a horizontal line at infinity, that I find so beguiling?

Certainly, growing up in a landlocked part of the outer London sprawl means that it’s not ingrained from youth. Indeed, childhood visits to the seaside were very rare, but even then I remember the thrill of that first glimpse of ‘the blue line’ – goose pimples of excitement. And when finally running down the beach, neither cold water nor salt in the nose killed the fascination.

My next interaction was later in life, getting out on the water through dinghy sailing. Cutting through real waves on a plane in my little12 ft boat produced an adrenalin rush, and the regular capsizing and awareness of one’s vulnerability in this hostile medium engendered a respect for its power and danger.

Long oceanic journeys as a researcher in the Antarctic also made their mark. Ploughing through the southern ocean in small ships for up to three weeks at a time with only the sea and its occasional wildlife for company provided some memorable moments – experiencing the huge swell during storms in the Drake Passage for example, feeling the spray on my face while up on the deck above the bridge as we plunged into the troughs and crashed through each crest; or gliding serenely between huge icebergs, sometimes miles across and dwarfing us below their cliffs or cracking through ice flows, admittedly of modest thickness, in ice-breaker fashion.

This was where the real love affair with the sea began: on an Antarctic Base. Two and a half years living in a wooden hut just a stone’s throw above the high tide mark in a sheltered bay in the South Orkney Islands sealed my attachment. Against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains the sea provided the daily spectacle, demonstrating its moods: from mirror-calm to ruffled annoyance, to raging spume-strewn gale and seasonally through frazil and pancake ice to solid sea-ice (on which we could walk or sledge or make holes and fish through) only for this to be broken up by gales into pack ice. The occasional movement of icebergs in and out of the picture, framed by our hut’s large window, was another demonstration of the forces being witnessed.

And it was during this period that what lived in, or depended on, the sea added another dimension to its fascination for me – the thousands of penguins and other birds, elephant, weddell and other seals and (only too rarely seen) whales, all depending on this watery home for food and movement. Watching the penguins shooting like bullets high out of the water to land on the pack ice before waddling, often miles, back to their nest site of the previous years; seeing leopard seals lurking offshore to hunt these very same penguins – such sights added to the lure of the sea itself.

But all this could be witnessed from the shore or a boat – even more fascinating was the first glimpse of the world that existed under the surface. Diving became a routine programme at the Base and it soon offered an opportunity for novices like me to venture into this watery world as a learner. In those days, an ill-fitting secondhand wet suit was a poor barrier to the cold, even starting with a kettle of hot water poured between skin and rubber. To view the living underwater system close up was a revelation.

Only much later, after having moved to Cromarty, did the opportunity arise to become a qualified diver, by this time living in a house overlooking the Cromarty Firth. With my job also transferring from Antarctic science to conservation in the Highlands, I was in the perfect position to feed my obsession – to look out on the sea over breakfast, to deal with marine and coastal conservation around one of Britain’s most important coastlines, to dinghy sail or occasionally cruise on its surface or to explore its underwater secrets with the Inverness divers.

Memorable wildlife spectacles have been innumerable: our own local dolphins, seals and otters never cease to captivate; the annual pilgrimage of thousands of ducks and geese; wheeling flocks of glittering waders; gannets plunging for food off St Kilda; huge rafts of guillemots on the sea surface near their high rise accommodation; or the huge seabird breeding colonies themselves, all around our coasts.

But equally breathtaking for me have been the close range encounters with animals whilst diving. The variety of form and colour which suddenly springs to life as the torch beam hits them is truly amazing – a complex community of organisms, clinging to rock faces, emerging from sand or shingle or gliding around in the water. There is an immediate wish to share these wonders with others. If only people knew what was down there they’d be more concerned to protect it.

Then there’s the hypnotic music of waves lapping the shore. Whether experienced while going to sleep in a tent or hut abroad, or beachcombing on the Black Isle, it never fails to calm the soul.

Nearly thirty-two years have now passed since arriving in Cromarty and although the sailing and diving have unfortunately ceased, the passion for my daily fix of sea watching is as strong as ever. Having also looked underwater briefly in several other parts of the world, I’m even more conscious that the marine life in the seas around Scotland is almost as interesting. We have a wonderland on our doorstep.

Just as with the situation on land, though, I frequently get depressed at how we humans have ill-treated the sea’s complex web of life. Now that we know so much more about how interdependent all its inhabitants are, and how dependent we are on them, it is so frustrating to see this still being ignored. Restoration of the health of the sea and its potential natural biodiversity would be to everyone’s benefit, but short-term imperatives seem to blind us to what action is required.

My direct involvement with marine conservation is now through voluntary work with the Scottish Wildlife Trust and Moray Firth Partnership, but even when that ceases, I know that my bond with the sea, that beguiling watery world that hides most of its treasures from our daily view, will not diminish.

Changing moods and hidden depths – the lure of the sea
by Peter Tilbrook, 31 years in Cromarty.