Finally, I am home.

The words bubble up in my mind and though the voice is my own, the thought doesn’t seem like mine. It feels like it belongs to someone else.

Unnerved, I turn my back on the island and head towards Tom, who’s bent over with one hand covering his mouth and the other gripping the rail.

‘We’re almost there now.’

He looks up and his face is deathly white, the tips of his ears bright pink. Relief flashes into his eyes and then the boat hits another wave and he buries his head in his hands. I sit and touch his shoulder. A few days ago, the thought of stroking his back would have filled me with awkwardness, but he looks so poorly and I owe him so much. It’s not just that he’s driven me all this way, or that I feel guilty he’s only here because of me. Tom is the first person I’ve opened up to in a long time, and it’s nice to have someone who feels like a friend.

An outcrop of granite lies ahead of us, its surface covered with waving seaweed. Looking closer, I realise the rippling movement is actually blubber – dozens of seals are slapping their weighty bellies against the rocks and nudging each other. I notice several pups amongst the hefty adults, their pale fur easy to spot against the mass of mottled browns and black. The animals seem untroubled by our presence, but as we get closer the sound of the boat’s engine makes some of the adults grunt and lumber away, their large bodies moving with surprising agility as they slip into the water.

There are more creatures than I first thought: maybe even a hundred of them basking on rocks and dipping playfully in and out of the waves. Round wet heads pop up from beneath the surface all around us, their sleek faces watching me with curious, soft black eyes. I’ve never been this close to seals before, or seen so many in one place.

After a few minutes, the engine lowers a gear and the boat heads into the bay. I notice a grey shape on the beach, smoother and softer looking than the rocks that surround it. Beneath the foam and seaweed is a pup. I watch, concerned that it’s so far from the rest of the group, when the surf flips it over. Its body is cut open, revealing a gaping red hole, its black eyes staring lifelessly. I turn away and remind myself that death is a part of nature, but it’s always worse when a baby dies. I guess the desire to protect the young is hardwired into everyone whether you have children or not – or at least it’s supposed to be.

The boat slows, bumping gently along a line of black tyres attached to the harbour wall, before coming to a stop. I squeeze Tom’s arm. ‘You can come out now. We’re here.’ He takes a while to respond and I’m relieved when he straightens up and looks around.