The Laugh of the Loon

One of the great joys of paddling around the coast in the middle of winter is the chance of an encounter with a Loon.

Loons (as they are called in the USA, they are known as Divers this side of the pond) are arguably the most attractively marked of all the breeding birds in the UK. They nest in Scotland and other countries further north, and migrate south in the autumn.

Here’s the three species that visit the coast of Devon and Cornwall during the winter:

Red-throated Diver (aka Red-throated Loon). Looe, October 2019

Black-throated Diver (aka Arctic Loon). Roseland April 2018.

Great Northern Diver (aka Common Loon). Mevagissey May 2018

To see one of the Diver species in full breeding plumage is unusual in the south. For most of their stay they are clothed in very much more modest winter garb.

They exploit slightly different niches along the coast. Great Northerns have a taste for crabs and flatfish so favour big open bays. They can dive deeper, further and longer than any other diving bird so although their favourite snacks are on the sea bed they don’t necessarily need to be close to the shore. They are the most numerous of the three species.

Red-throats eat shoaling fish so are quite happy far out to sea. They seem to prefer the north Cornish coast and particularly my local patch between Bude and Hartland Point (which is just over the border in Devon). I have seen them in flocks of over 100.

Black-throats are the most scarce, and favour a couple of bays in South Cornwall, where they hunt for small fish.

I was very pleased to come across my first close-up Great Northern in Mevagissey Bay a couple of weeks ago.

Great Northern Diver, Mevagissey

In fact it was part of a small flock of Great Northerns, which is unusual. At the time I was straining my eyes staring into the far distance to see if I could see any fin or splash appear beneath a circling Gannet which was about a mile away. I was convinced there would be a porpoise below but it was just too far off to see.

My attention was diverted by a soft, repeated call and I saw a dozen Loons sitting on the surface only a hundred yards in front of my nose.

Great Northern Divers, Mevagissey

They appeared to be taking time out… resting and preening and having a quiet chat. Probably all the local birds gathered together for a bit of a social. Listen to that very subdued and personal soft calls:

Divers at Mevagissey

I never carry binoculars on my kayak. I spend enough time staring through the lens of my camera, and that is challenging enough. There is usually far too much movement of the kayak to make observation through binoculars any value.

Even so, using my naked eyeballs, I could see that one of the Divers looked significantly smaller and leaner than the rest, and appeared to be more wary as it loitered at the back of the group. I immediately suspected that this was a rare Black-throated Diver, even though I have ever only seen one around the Cornish coast twice before.

My suspicions were confirmed when I glimpsed its white flank patch, which is diagnostic:

Great Northern Divers and Black-throated Diver (at the back).

The two Diver species provided a guide-book-type contrast-and-compare snapshot when they slipped past each other:

Black- throated (left) and Great Northern Diver

But best of all was the contact calls of the Divers. I have heard this laugh quite frequently, but usually as a single call and usually far away across the water.

I have never heard it repeated at such close range.

It is undoubtedly a call between one member of a family to another, and I think it is a parent to an offspring. I’m not sure what makes me say this because most of the calls of families on migration are the youngsters making demands of their parents. Sandwich Terns are a good example: the juveniles spend the entire time from the UK to the Med squealing at mum and dad.

See what you think in this video. It just sounds like a parent to me…

Laughing Loons

A great encounter with some of my favourite birds.

It’s interesting that my trusty old bird identification book states that these particular birds are ‘silent at sea’. No doubt because when it was written there was nobody paddling around in a kayak watching them, and they were always too far from the shore for their laugh to be heard from a shore-based observer.

To add to the ornithological excitement, a Peregrine was watching the show from a perch on the adjacent cliff.

Peregrine

To round the afternoon off nicely, the porpoise which I was willing my eyes to see at enormous range an hour before, surfaced with a puff close to my kayak. The Gannet was still in attendance, circling overhead.

Mevagissey porpoise

Happy New Year.

Huffing Otter on the Tamar

Tamar Valley

Otter-spotting requires a lot of commitment, but even if you are totally committed you still almost certainly won’t see one.

But a couple of days ago I just had a sort of feeling I would be in luck, as I paddled off up the Tamar just after dawn. I was trying to ignore the last seventeen times I had kayaked up here with the same sort of feeling, and not seen an otter.

The weather was blooming cold and very grey and cheerless, so one thing for certain was that any otters were not going to be disturbed by a flotilla of kayakers. There wasn’t going to be anyone else around at all.

Although I was paddling in the same direction as the incoming tide, the flow of the swollen river was more evident as I neared the tidal limit, and I had to sneak along close to the banks to avoid the 4mph current against me in midstream. 4mph is the same as my fast cruising speed.

As I was hugging the inside of a bend I saw an otter about ten feet ahead swimming away from me close to the shore. I immediately froze and kicked myself (without moving a muscle) for not having my camera on my lap all set up and ready to go.

The otter climbed out onto a tussock, had a good look around and looked straight through me. Although I had a desperate tickle up my left nostril I maintained my immobility and it dived back into the water, swimming away leaving a trail of bubbles. I scrambled my camera out of its dry bag in record time so it was ready for when the otter surfaced.

I was amazed to see the trail of bubbles do a u-turn and head straight back towards me. The otter clambered out onto the same tussock as before and stared directly at me with a lot more intensity than before.

Otter on the Tamar

I was convinced that it would panic and disappear with a splash, but it continued to stare and I maintained my frozen persona.

I was amazed, however, when it swam even further directly towards me and emerged on the next mat of reeds and started to detect my presence. Otters don’t have very sharp eyesight but I was so close I’m not surprized the otter looked a bit puzzled. This was a small otter and so probably a juvenile, and like all aquatic juvenile creatures was uncontrollably inquisitive. Youthful seals and dolphins are the same.

But I wasn’t expecting it to stand up on its haunches to get a better look at me! I was so far zoomed in with my camera the top of its head was off the screen. What a chump (me…not the otter). The only time I have EVER seen a wild otter ‘stand up’, and I bungled the photoshoot.

Otter on haunches

Otter

Anyway, the little otter kept ‘huffing’ its unease as it tried to work out what I was and whether I represented a threat.

Take a listen…

And in case you didn’t hear it clearly, here it is in slomo…

Fantastic, another otter noise to add to the ‘chirping’ cub I heard this time last year.

Despite its huffing unease, the otter then took to the water and swam right past me about a foot from my kayak, and was gone.

Wow. A brief encounter with one of the most enigmatic of the UK’s mammals.

Here’s the full video, warts ‘n all, including shaky camera and out of focus subject. It’s all part and parcel of the unexpectedness when watching, and trying to photograph, an otter. In fact it’s almost as frantic and rushed as the the life the otters lead.

Enjoy it, because it’ll probably be another six months before you see another one.

Tamar Otter

Re-united with Nudger, Cornwall’s Most Engaging Seal

Nudger in 2018 (you will be relieved to know that hat is now gone)

The magic and wonder of the marine life of Cornwall seems to know no limit. Every day brings entertainment and amazement, and it’s even better when witnessed from the seat of a kayak.

OK, winter is a bit more challenging with weather bombs like Arwen and Barra sweeping through, but it’s always worth making the effort to get out during the lulls between the blows.

After my last Dolphin and Tuna trip in Mevagissey Bay on 29 November, I was paddling back to my launch site near Mevagissey, fairly tired and moderately cold, when I met up with an old friend.

As I approached the final headland I heard a loud snort and saw a fairly chunky-looking seal swimming directly towards me. It was throwing up quite a bow-wave and did not ease off the throttle as it drew close.

Had I not had many a seal encounter I might have been a bit disconcerted by the boldness of this seal, who didn’t take it’s foot off the gas till it was a couple of feet from my craft. It gave my paddle a bit of a sniff and a quick playful nip. Loads of personality there. It then stared straight into my eyes and there was a flash of recognition as the penny dropped…this was Nudger! My favourite seal!

Nudger, 2021 version

I was as sure as I could be anyway. The loud snorting, the complete absence of wariness, the look in the eye. He had certainly beefed-up a bit since I last saw him in 2019, when he was a rangy youth. He still appeared to be in glowing health, apart from a minor scratch on the bridge of his nose.

Nudger, 2021 version

I sent my photos to Sue and Kate at Cornwall Seal Group Research Trust (CSGRT) and they replied back, with their usual speed and enthusiasm, that this was indeed Nudger.

His characterful and incredibly appropriate name was given to him by the CSGRT when he was a youngster prior to my first meet up with him near Looe on 23rd July 2018. Twenty miles east of Mevagissey. What a meeting that was…still my most extraordinary seal encounter yet.

Nudger appears, 2018

(ignore the date…wrong)

On that occasion he also approached me with no hesitation, but underwater…and upside down! I immediately got the impression he was absolutely thrilled to see me. So much so he repeatedly rolled himself up in bootlace seaweed. Just for the fun of it. No other explanation.

wrapped up in bootlace weed

This continued for a while before the playful glint in his eye became a gleam of mischief. He quite deliberately and very accurately doused me with a shove of his flipper which sent up a wall of water. Extraordinary.

He wasn’t finished yet. For the finale he clambered onto the front of my moderately tippy kayak and took a look around, seemingly glancing at me for approval.

As far as I was concerned that was it. We were friends for life.

Later in 2018 he introduced himself to my daughter, Peggy, and also to Becky and chums Jeremy and Jane. Smiles, laughs and gasps of amazement all round. Such is the aura and personality of seals. Especially Nudger with the biggest persona of them all.

Nudger meets Peggy

…and Jeremy, Jane, Becky

In 2019, in a similar sort of location in south Cornwall, I was approaching the coast after an offshore venture and heard howls of excitement coming from a couple of kayaks. I had a pretty good idea of who was at the centre of attention even before I saw a seal. Sure enough it was Nudger up to his tricks again.

2019…still up to his youthful tricks

I felt such a connection with this extraordinary animal I ‘adopted’ him via the CSGRT Wild Seal Supporter and Adoption Scheme, and looked forward to our next random rendezvous.

It was a long wait. Two-and-a-half years and approx 5,000 miles of kayaking, making our reunion the other day even more special.

Seals never cease to amaze. They are staggeringly intelligent, and all their senses are acute. If a dog barks on a beach many miles away, they will whip their head round to look. They are the only wild creature I have ever known to glance up at a vapour trail jet five or six miles overhead. Even so, eyesight appears to be optional because it is quite common to see old seals with opaque eyes (from cataracts) which are in the rudest of health, because their other senses are sharp enough to allow them to catch fish.

In the water they tend to be very inquisitive and, like Nudger, can be very bold. Out of the water they feel much more vulnerable and can be very nervous. Sometimes terrified and prone to panic. Once, many years ago, I paddled past a seal haul-out beach at what I thought was a safe distance of many hundreds of yards, and precipitated a mini-stampede as they dashed to the safety of the water. Bad.

I now avoid all the regular seal haunts completely, or bypass them at a distance I know will not disturb the seals. If I see a random resting seal, I swerve offshore to make sure I pass without making it take to the water.

Disturbance to resting seals is completely unacceptable but an increasing problem, originally from kayaks with their ‘go-anywhere’ ability, but now from the vast number of stand-up paddleboards (SUPs) which are even more mobile than kayaks.

This problem is being addressed by CSGRT and Cornwall Marine and Coastal Group. Good Job.

Being approached by a seal in the water is a different matter, as long as it is completely ‘on their terms’. I stop paddling and keep very still and quiet, apart from fingering the shutter of my camera, obviously!

Certainly nothing beats being approached, and closely scrutinised by the seal with the most charisma in Cornwall, Nudger.

Take a look at these two images. The first taken in 2018, the second a couple of weeks ago. He is showing the whites of his eyes in exactly the same cheeky manner, just bursting with personality. I’ve never seen that before in any other seal.

I wonder when we will meet again. Soon, hopefully.

Loads of Dolphins and Tuna in Mevagissey Bay

Mevagissey

Mevagissey Bay is my latest favourite place. Although technically I’m talking about the southern fringe of the bay heading down to Dodman Point. This is where the slack current further into the bay starts to get moving. Moving water means more fish.

It has been absolutely bursting with marine life over the last week. There was a calm day either side of Storm Arwen which allowed a bit more offshore exploration, following the big Tuna sightings I reported in my last blog.

On the first day I saw a moderately large ‘work-up’ (a circling and diving flock) of Gannets ahead as I passed the Gwineas (aka Gwinges) cardinal buoy. I could see large creatures splashing about beneath the flock from far off, but before I got anywhere close I was ‘mugged’ by a pod of about thirty Common Dolphins. It seemed to consist entirely of juveniles which, needless to say, could not resist a major and prolonged interaction with me and my little craft.

I could see a few adults, with larger fins, standing off supervising the performance of the youngsters from afar. No doubt tut-tutting.

That’s Gorran Haven straight ahead, by the way.

A really great start to a grey day at the end of November. Not really what I was expecting.

And the action didn’t stop there. Quite the opposite in fact. For the next four hours not a second went past when I couldn’t hear a splash of a dolphin or a Tuna breaching. OK it was very still so I could hear the violent raking swoosh of a tuna from half-a-mile away, but it was still remarkable.

Most of the Tuna, however were feeding in a very restrained manner more like a dolphin. In fact in this video you have to look twice to see which is Tuna and which is dolphin. (hint: the first to appear is a dolphin, the rest are modest-sized Tuna).

There was a supporting audio cast of mewing gulls (including Kittiwakes), cackling auks (I passed many Razorbills and Guillemots sitting on the surface), and the squeak of Gannet’s wings as they swept over my head. Occasionally the Gannets would cackle with excitement the moment they closed their wings to dive onto a fish.

Gannets

For about three miles of paddling down to level with the tip of Dodman Point there were Dolphins and Tuna scattered about all over the place, all feeding in a very relaxed manner. About a hundred of each, I estimated. Plus a single Porpoise, recognisable by its characteristic puff of breath and small triangular fin.

On the way back in I ran into another more compact pod of dolphins, which like the first immediately took up the roll of escorts. You will see one has a white tip to its fin, plus a white patch on its side.

Back along the shore were some nuggets of bird life. The local Oystercatchers…

Oystercatcher

and a couple of my favourite little coastal birds just outside the harbour at Mevagissey. Purple Sandpipers, winter visitors from the far north. They were fast asleep.

Purple Sandpiper

Day two, when the wind had dropped after the storm, followed a similar theme although numbers were less. A mere twenty-five dolphins, six Tuna, one Porpoise.

Here’s another headcam video, because if you’re on the same wavelength as me, you can’t have too many dolphins.