George woke when it was still quite dark and Molly was still asleep. The cabin door was open, and Rob was calling him.

“I’m going on deck,” Rob said softly. “Are you coming?”

“What’s the time?”

“Early. It’s not properly dawn yet, but I want everything ready before they all get up.”

On deck there was still a fresh wind which blew gusts of spray.

“Where exactly are we?” George asked.

Rob Earl was in the stern of the boat squatting over a bucket of herring, chopping it roughly on a board. He looked up.

“I hope you’re not asking me to give away the secrets of the Wilson’s Triangle,” he said with mock horror. “Every birdwatching club in Britain would start chartering boats to take them. Then how would my company make any profit?”

“I’m hardly likely to set up in competition.”

“We’ve followed the long-liners,” Rob said. “They’re fishing boats from Spain and northern France which use lines, not trawls. The men gut the fish on the spot, and that attracts the birds. The Jessie Ellen has sophisticated radar, so we can follow the other boats. We must be about sixty miles southwest of the Bishop Rock.”

The sky was beginning to lighten. George could make out the details of the Jessie Ellen and the shapes of the European long-liners in the distance.

Rob turned back to the herring and began to throw it into a wide-meshed canvas bag which already contained pieces of polystyrene float.

“What are you doing?”

“This is the rubby dubby bag,” Rob said. “ It’s brilliant for attracting great shearwater. The bag’s dragged along behind the boat and brings the birds in.”

He fastened the bag to a fine rope and let it out behind the boat.

By now it was quite light. Louis Rosco came from the saloon, nodded briefly to them, and went into the wheel-house. Fat Freddy brought them mugs of tea. George could see the fishing boats quite clearly. One of the deckhands on the nearest raised his hand and waved to them. George had the light-headed, empty feeling that comes in the early morning after too little sleep.

I’m like an addict needing a fix, he thought. I won’t feel whole and normal until I see a new bird.

Rob said he would go below to wake the others, and soon after, Greg Franks walked unsteadily onto deck. He sat down, his back firmly against the wall of the saloon, the telescope on a tripod between his knees. As he set up the telescope, his hands were shaking, and his face had no colour at all.

“What’s the matter?” Rob asked, not really concerned, teasing, knowing the answer already.

“Seasick,” said Franks, as if the effort of speech itself provoked nausea.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable lying down?” George asked.