‘Where the Seals Sing’ by Susan Richardson
Susan Richardson is World Animal Day’s writer-in-residence.
For previous World Animal Days, she has written poems on such subjects as animal experimentation and the catastrophic consequences of marine debris to help raise awareness of animal welfare issues on this global day of action.
This year, she is introducing us to her new book, Where the Seals Sing, a work of creative nonfiction, published in the UK by William Collins in July and due to be released this month in North America and Australia.
Blending nature writing and memoir and focusing on Susan’s passion and concern for a remarkable marine mammal, the Atlantic grey seal, it also epitomises this year’s World Animal Day theme of ‘a shared planet’.
The bull seal is sleeping, body submerged, with just his face and the concertina skin of his neck exposed above the sea’s surface. Every so often, his respiratory rhythm changes, nostrils flaring with a series of inhalations, then closing as he settles into another few minutes of held breath.
It’s a breathing pattern consistent with slow-wave sleep, the deepest and most restorative stage. Usually, I’d relish the chance to watch a top predator at his most unguarded, but that’s not the case today. The fact that I don’t need binoculars to be aware of his most intimate breathing variations means we’re too close. Much too close.
Having been captivated by grey seals since my childhood, I’ve embarked on a round-Britain coastal journey, visiting remote coves and islands, as well as rescue centres and sanctuaries, hoping not only to trace the rhythm of seals’ lives but also to become better acquainted with the human-induced threats to which they’re exposed. Today, not long after the start of my travels, I’ve joined this half-day, seal-spotting boat trip and we’re now positioned at the base of a low cliff where a young seal with dark, expressive eyes has just surfaced to the left of the bull. This immediately triggers a rush to the side of the boat and a chorus of ‘Aws’ from my fellow passengers.
Instead of moving on to see if more seals can be found elsewhere, the decision is taken to milk this sighting for all it’s worth and our boat cruises back and forth, back and forth, so that people sitting on both sides have maximum viewing opportunity. And each time the boat turns, we close in on both bull and juvenile a little more.
I’m aware that the local marine code recommends keeping at least fifty metres away from seals but this boat operator is wilfully neglecting to follow it. The bull, still deeply asleep, must surely be at risk of injury while the young seal, boxed in against the cliff, executes a panicky dive and hurtles away.
As my round-Britain journey unfolds, I discover that harassment as a result of inappropriately-conducted wildlife tourism is far from the only threat which grey seals are facing. Low-flying drones and jet skis, for example, also persistently disturb haul-outs, causing physiological disruption and, ultimately, a reduction in breeding success. Climate change is another serious peril – already resulting in storm surges that can devastate breeding beaches and lead to variations in the distribution of prey, it’s additionally likely to give rise to a slew of new viruses and bacteria. Like other marine mammals, grey seals become fatally entangled in ocean debris such as lost or abandoned fishing gear too.
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Their blubber is also known to contain toxic pollutants which pass into the milk on which they feed their pups – even though bans started to be introduced in the USA and Europe from the 1970s, contaminants that were present in plastics, paints and packaging still linger in the marine environment. |
As I gain a greater appreciation of the impact of these, and other, stresses over the course of my grey seal pilgrimage, I question how we may more sensitively co-exist with this species. To what extent might we be willing to change our behaviour and inhabit our shared planet in a more responsible way?
In addition to my physical journey around Britain’s coast, Where the Seals Sing includes a parallel emotional journey, as my father, who shares, and has always nurtured, my love for animals, receives a diagnosis of vascular dementia. Spending time in the company of seals repeatedly soothes and fortifies me as I struggle both to support him through, and reconcile myself to, his loss of memory and diminishing cognition.
At one point, after he endures an unexpectedly difficult and lengthy hospital stay, I return to the stretch of coast that’s closest to my home in West Wales. To begin with, it feels odd to be out on the cliffs again – my feet falter as they’re temporarily more attuned to hospital wards and corridors than rocks and tufts of grass. Seized by the need to pause for a while, I strike off the main path, make my way to the tip of a low promontory and try to take some deep, easeful breaths there.
A speckled-breasted rock pipit hops from crag to crag.
Shrill trill of an oystercatcher.
A weave of seaweed unravels on the surface of the water, disturbed by the emergence of a seal. She’s a young female and she’s spotted me, lifts herself a little further out of the water, craning her neck for a better view. The sea’s still enough for me to see her wafting her front flippers from side to side as she maintains her upright position. She’s scenting me too – the parallel slits of her nostrils are flaring but though I likewise sniff the air, my far less sophisticated sense of smell relays no information. I have to rely on my sense of sight instead, taking in her prolific whiskers and matching eyebrows, and reading the dark grey blotches of her neck fur like a Rorschach test.
This time, there’s no startled expression. No need for her to dive and swim away. Instead, having met each other’s gaze, we seem to be seeking to maintain it.
Gratefully, I let myself be seen and scented, wondering which of us will be the first to look away.
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