The Gathering on the Skerries

The boat out to the skerries takes less time than deciding to go. The rocks barely clear the water, dark and slick and streaming, and on them the grey seals lay in the shapes heavy animals make when they are done swimming. They were not doing anything. That is what a haul-out is. In another week or two the first pups of the season would arrive, and the rocks would sound completely different.

Polly picked a bull near the edge who seemed willing. "How many are there in your family?" she asked, which is a question that means something in a guesthouse and nothing at all out here. He thought about it in the way of an animal doing arithmetic he has never needed. Everyone on this rock, he offered eventually, and everyone on the next one.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Almost certainly, he said. He had no way of knowing which ones. Orkney produces something like twenty-two thousand grey seal pups a year, more than one in ten of every grey seal alive. A seal born on these rocks may spend the year anywhere from Shetland to the Irish coast and turn up again, without ceremony, on the stone it was born on.

Polly tested a phrase out loud. "I want to spend time with my family today." It sounded strange on a rock where nobody leaves and nobody arrives on purpose. So she tried another. "Even though we live far apart, we always keep in touch with each other." The bull considered that one longer. That is nearer, he said, if you allow that keeping in touch can mean coming back to the same rock in the same month and saying nothing at all.