I never bore of watching the sea.  From the top of the stone front steps of the Old School––or ‘Blue Bung’ as it is affectionately known––on Lundy, I have a wide vista of water outstretched before me; the coasts of Wales and North Devon low smudges on a distant horizon.

In the lee of the island, the Bristol Channel lies pacifically unruffled by even the smallest ripple; today, an iron-clad grey beneath thick white clouds above.

Of course, it is not the sea alone that I am watching.  Privately, I hope that any moment that serene surface will suddenly be shattered by a free-leaping harbour porpoise, or pierced by the black fin of a cruising basking shark.

And, here, the wind and waters conspire to deceive me; endlessly combining to create a wave, which looks like a lurking leviathan, or a patch of ripples, which appear as a dark sub-aquatic object swimming away from the shore.

But, I am also aware, that whilst scanning for signs of marine life, my perception of scale is hopelessly adrift.  In a view that spans for several miles in width, and many more in depth, I am anticipating my leaping porpoise or gliding shark’s fin to occupy a significant prominence; expect it to stand out large and clear in visual proportion to the size of the keenness of my observation.

The reality is that if ever I am fortunate enough that either a porpoise or shark should rise within my field of vision, it would be a tiny speck measured against the vastness of the surroundings.  I must refocus my eyes to look closer; train my brain to think smaller.

I make a conscious effort to observe the water nearer to the shore where I stand more chance of making a sighting, but my imagination continually draws my eyes back towards the horizon, ever hopeful of spotting sea monsters.

© E. C. Glendenny

E. C. Glendenny often finds herself all at sea.

E. C. Glendenny is the author of Resting Easy: Selected Travel Writing available from Amazon.