He walked slowly towards the bow and curled up out of sight in the sun.

Those who were feeling strong enough had a celebratory breakfast in the saloon. They ate piles of scrambled eggs, drank milky coffee, and listened to Rob Earl and Roger Pym argue the finer points of Wilson’s petrel field identification. Someone opened a bottle of whisky.

Then everyone wandered back onto deck. George was enjoying himself more than he had done for years. The sun was high above the horizon and warmer. The cloud had disappeared and the wind had dropped. There was a smell of salt and fish, wet rope, and diesel. The Jessie Ellen was moving in a large circle around the long-liners. They saw more petrels and two great shearwaters skimming and turning over the waves. In all his years of seawatching he had known nothing like it. He was relaxed and exhilarated. The sunlight had tightened the skin on his face, so he felt younger. The deck where he sat was comfortably warm. The others were sitting at the stern watching the rubby dubby bag, but he wanted to be alone and sat where Greg Franks had been, his back against the saloon, his legs straight ahead of him. Rob had once described seawatching as a cross between meditation and therapy. George thought about it and laughed. It had been right to come.

He focused his binoculars at random farther away from the boat towards the horizon and saw a bird which he knew immediately he had never seen before. It was a petrel, dark-rumped. At first he thought it might be Leach’s, but the tail was the wrong shape. As it turned and wheeled against the reflected sunlight, there was a flash of white on the wings.

He did not want to make a fool of himself. The light and the lack of sleep might be deceiving. It was hard to use a telescope on the moving boat, but he set it up and looked at the bird again through it. He forced himself to concentrate. Perhaps Rob Earl sensed his sudden tension, because he stood up and moved along the deck rail towards George.

“What have you got?” he asked softly.

“I haven’t a clue,” George said. “ Really. A dark-rumped petrel. Not Leach’s. Not big enough. There’s a white flash on the wing. And huge feet. Enormous red-webbed feet.”

Rob set up his own telescope and looked with a passionate concentration, then swore under his breath.

“It’s a long way off now,” he said. “ But you’re right about the feet. They’re bloody enormous. Even from here.”