Free Lunch on the High Seas

by Dominic Chadbon, 8 July 2008

Africa doesn't really end at windswept Cape Point; the Cape Peninsula's craggy finger merely points south to where, 40km offshore, the continental shelf suddenly lurches downwards into the black abyss of seriously deep water creating an upswelling of nutrient-rich water and lucrative fishing grounds.

And it's in these choppy, grey waters that the hunters of the open sea prowl: fishing trawlers, tuna boats and, literally above all, the aerial masters - birds of the open ocean ranging from the truly enormous albatrosses to yobbish, chunky skuas and dainty, surface-pattering storm-petrels.

I had set out from Simons Town harbour - close to Cape Town - at dawn. A lazy sunrise had turned the dark night water into a glossy canvas of colour and form. The air was still and the harbour sounds were muted - the soft clank of cables on masts, a half-hearted snatch of song, a sleepy engine bubbling into life.

Around me were fellow-minded people - different ages and nationalities but united in a common desire: to see the ocean's feathered treasure chest of pelagic birds, ocean wanderers that are almost impossible to see unless such a trip is undertaken - an adventure far out to sea, way beyond sight of land and into the water world.

"It's a great day,” grinned the captain as we slid up the face of yet another grey wall of water, "you only get about 10 of these days a year.” What the other days were like I tried not to imagine as I desperately clung onto railings, ladders and fellow birdwatchers in my attempt to keep myself and my breakfast onboard.

It's only when you hit the open sea in a smallish boat that you realise why we have things called harbours. The sea beyond the harbour walls never stops moving: up, down, left, right (sorry, port and starboard, or whatever it is) leaving landlubbers like me hopelessly disorientated, green-faced, and wondering whether this was such a good idea.

Still, there's plenty of fresh air - and before you know it the last crumbling sandstone cliffs of Africa slide past and the common birds of the coast - gulls, cormorants and terns - vanish as we slip quietly into the vastness of the southern ocean.

Abandoning my notebook with the words 'riding the swell' trailing off, I looked around - slabs of hissing water were rolling in from every horizon and wheeling in the sky were the first pelagics - White-chinned Petrels and Sooty Shearwaters - big muscular-looking birds slaloming through the air, their eyes scanning the water.

Our guides called out the names of others: "Nine o'clock - Shy Albatross!” or "Cory's Shearwater - dead ahead!” The excitement was contagious and I helpfully pointed out possible rarities which invariably turned out to be floating seaweed or the flash of a seal's fin. But the guides were distracted, peering at the horizon, murmuring to each other, bending over the boat's radio - what were they after?

"Got it!” cried Ross, our trip leader and certified pelagic nut (he also has a Phd in Albatross conservation), pointing at a smudge just within sight, "now we'll see something.” And see something we did. Our guides had found the one thing that makes or breaks a pelagic trip: a hulking, smelly, bulldog-ugly fishing trawler - and the world of seabirds opened up for us - big time.

"You don't always need a trawler,” explained Dalton, our other guide, "because the birds are in and around the continental shelf zone anyway, but it sure helps concentrate them.”

No kidding. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of individual birds from a dozen species. Why? They were living proof that there is such a thing as a free lunch: the trawler's cast offs - fish heads, scraps and offal - lay spinning around on the water and it was a free for all.

Four species of albatross paddled in the water or drifted serenely past us while Sub-Antarctic Skuas - the jackals of the ocean - skulked on the periphery, hoping to make an easy meal even easier by chasing and harrying another bird with a beak full of food until the wretched thing gives up its meal.

It's a big boys' world out there - the wings of the albatrosses were longer than I am tall and we didn't even see the Terminators of the pelagics, the colossal Wandering or Royal Albatrosses with wing spans of well over three metres. Yet in amongst the bruisers were smaller birds - the exquisitely patterned Pintado Petrel, the dove-like Antarctic Prion and the robin-sized Wilson's Storm Petrel - all skidding around the squabbling masses, picking up flecks.

The experience is like no other birdwatching adventure, hovering uneasily between the dull throb of nausea and adrenaline-pumping excitement of new birds. The boat is so close to the birds that binoculars are almost redundant, particularly as you have to keep a hand on a railing the whole time - and my bird book lay untouched at the bottom of my bag: our guides were well ahead of the game and proved knowledgeable, articulate and enthusiastic.

Suddenly, true to form, the ocean changed. The glinting, sun-dappled waves turned dull and mean as a cold front bore down on us from the west. "Time to go!” smiled Ross, and it was without too much demur that we headed back a couple of hours early.

The journey back seemed twice as long as the one out to sea. We smacked into big, heavy waves, sending stinging spray high into the air. There was an urgency to get back now; we stopped only briefly to look at a whale that was casually ploughing past us. No more banter, the scudding, dark clouds were piling up, and continued to until the beautiful sight of land shimmered into view.

Back into the calm waters of the coast, we glided over kelp forests in water so clear I could see the ripples in the sand below, and nearing the harbour the colossal granite boulders were covered in basking seals and coastal birds (one rock sported four species of cormorant).

Finally, as we chugged gently into port, a last sign from the sea: an enormous sun fish was wallowing in the soft waters, raising an imperious fin as if to welcome us home - or was it to say farewell from one of the planet's last untamed worlds - the deep ocean, world of the pelagics.

Article © Copyright 2008 Go2Africa.

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