‘Just like Annie Oakley, except you’ll be sorting out seals. What’s the matter ... don’t you like guns?’ I’m fine with guns. He knows I was raised by folk with an affinity for black powder. ‘Ahh, shit. Don’t tell me. You like seals, don’t you?’ Last night as we hauled, a seal fought us for the net. It ate every fish, working its way from the red buoy at the channel entrance to the boat. The fish it could not tear out, it bit in half, ate their livers and devoured their roe-rich bellies. Finally it arrived at the boat and I peered down into the water to see its phosphorescent gleam undulating around the net. Like a marauding wraith, this seal. In May, I camped on Breaksea Island. Every morning I lay across lichen and stone to watch the seals and sea lions. They rolled in the briny and ambulated into sheltered coves using their flippers as sails. On a high rock the babies gathered in their creche. The seals’ capacity for pleasure was heartening for me, having escaped to the island for some peace and quiet.
