When I stepped into a small charter boat in bright, crisp sunshine, I really didn't expect that fifteen minutes later I'd be caught in a lashing downpour, and feeling quite lost in the midst of a wall of where-the-hell-did-that-come-from fog. Especially because I really was just out there looking for frigging birds.

 

In Portmagee, Ireland, life hinges on about thirteen small boats, chugging to and from the small dock a few times a day. Those few vessels ferry tourists to the Skellig islands, or up and down the stunning coasts and along the Kerry Cliffs; just as they carry bright-eyed adventure seekers across the water, in return they bring home the lifeblood of the town's economy.

On the edge of the ocean, the weather around the town is as changeable as the sea itself.

As I drove down in the morning, the curves of the highway were spotlit by beams of sunlight piercing the cloud banks. I was alternating between tearing around the long contours of the land gleefully, and panic slowing to a crawl. On and off, heavy rain hissed against the windshield as a fine spray — the kind that you see in movies when someone gets way too overzealous with the hose; the kind that is impossible to see through, even with your wipers on their angriest setting. With the added drama of short barriers (or no barriers) and awfully long drops down jagged cliffs, I was already a bit emotionally exhausted when I got into the town before breakfast.

But, I was there. The sun was shining steadily, and with some serious luck and no small amount of begging, I secured a spot on an already full vessel.

 

The tours to the Skelligs might sound familiar to some of you... in the year since I was there they've been gaining notoriety, as the larger of the two islands is the site of Luke Skywalker's mountain island Jedi hermitage. Yes, I've stood where he stood. (This may only be cool to me, I realize. NERRRRRRRRRD) Yes, it's that incredibly beautiful and bizarre in person. And yes, it is — you guessed it — a story for another day.

Things I learned while on the ocean in Ireland: whatever it is you expect is coming is wrong, now hold on to the boat or you're going in, please and thank you.

 

Instead of the radiant skies and gentle swells that carried us out of the channel, the closer we got to the island, the worse the weather got. By the time we began to see the first glimpse of the shoal and rock face looming up before us out of the fog, we were much closer than I expected. But — wobbly legs and very, very damp clothing aside — to tell you the truth, I'm glad I saw it this way. The impact was breathtaking; slick black rock, revealed achingly slowly from under the curtain of fog as we puttered forwards.

"Don't be gawking up like that."

"Um... why not?"

"They'll shit in your mouth. I've seen it."

"...they?"

Oh. They.

There is no landing on little Skellig. The mottled white and green bluffs ("seaweed and shit, young miss") are sheer, and the entire island is a protected conservatory for the seventy thousand or so Northern Gannets that live there. So, to heighten your viewing pleasure from these photos, please try this mental exercise: imagine me, feet hooked in the small cut outlets along the hull that let the water on the deck run off, leaning over the side as we swung wildly up and down in the waves crashing on the rocks just a few feet from the boat. Now also picture me furiously trying to protect my camera with my body, as large dollops of bird crap thunked wetly onto my back and my head, and everything else in the general vicinity.

So, SO worth it.

 

One thing I simply can't convey here is the incredible scale of these birds. You have to picture six foot wing spans buffeting you as they pass overhead, and slicing past you in a blur as they hit the water almost soundlessly. And the quiet... how could there possibly be seventy thousand of anything surrounding you, and yet not making any noise? I expected a cacophony, and instead heard only the occasional disgruntled squawk from the periphery as someone landed on someone else.

I've never spent any period of my life so covered in shit, so soaked to the bone, or smiling so widely.

bonus watercolour painting of a gannet I did after making it home alive

As we pulled away from the rocks to race the incoming storm back to the mainland, I swear one of those sea lions sat right up to laugh at us. You'll notice I'm closing this piece with a picture of karma slapping that jerk right in the face with a high velocity wave.

All of these photos are my own, taken on my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them.