The Kingfisher Theory - Part 2

In my mind the phrase “coral reef” will be forever linked to a Frenchman, seemingly made from leather, pushing the Zodiacs away from The Calypso. Small knitted woollen hats. An undersea world that was very, very far away, full of lithe divers, which, it now seems to me now, must have had been both exotic and faintly erotic. Even in the dull tones of black and white TV, you could tell that the living reefs were alive with colour. Yet the only coral I knew was cold and grey, turned to lifeless stone at the same times as the world swamps laid down and turn to coal. Sleeping the long sleep of a carbon sink. Waiting. The coral, weathered from cliff faces on the Mendips, found its way into my pockets and was eventually lost during teenage room cleanings – times when you throw away childhood treasure despite adulthood looking distant and difficult.

When I read that there was coral reef that you could walk out to at the end of Horseshoe Bay I have to say that my interest levels went up a notch or three. So at low tide I set off to find the reef, wondering if there would be any lithe Frenchmen there, or nut-brown marine biologists. When I got there it looked nothing like what I expected. It was largely grey brown, as if I was still seeing it on a black and white television, or a poorly tuned colour one. It seemed, well, dusty and uncleaned. It looked like it could do with a good spring clean. I was not really disappointed, but I was surprised. I slowed down to look and realised I had been tricked by the scale of things. There was abundant life, but much of it was small, hidden. Tiny specks of fish darted in the pools and crabs rushed to find shelter. Shrimps, transparent as living glass, worked their way from sand patch to sand patch, legs flashing in all directions. A blur of activity around an invisible core. A larger crab, hand sized, raised its claws in threat, or anger, or both. Dome shaped corals, with a surface that glistened like honeycomb pushed above the surface.

Herons and Egrets stalked through the shallow water, necks held as springs and eyes focussed on the flashes and movement of the water. If I came too close they eyed me with obvious wintry discontent, head held high, neck straightened. One step more from me and they took flight with two or three lazy flaps and glided to another part of the reef. The egrets took flight quicker, but landed sooner. Easier to spook, quicker to recover. I watched them catch tiny sparklings of fish which were swallowed, flip flap, with barely a pause. The slightly larger ones were first turned around head first to better slide down the curved, slender neck, then swallowed in a fluid gulp. As I would come to learn they were far better at fishing than I was. The more I looked the more I saw. The colours were not great, but the place was. Bursting.

I notice a circle, a hole in the ground, with coral scraps built up around it. A fish? A crab? Who knows, but it was not there by chance and it was not designed either. Complexity and order without design. Purpose, yes. But how that purpose is defined depends on what you select, on what you see being passed on. Small movements in the watery hole made me stop and wait. And wait. And whatever it was, waited as well, and outlasted me. I don’t suppose you live long if you are small, probably tasty and imprudent with your appearances. I moved on and left the hole and its dweller to its own devices. The exposed coral sand and mud hissed and pooped with the busy sounds of life. From hidden places the rocks themselves seem to spit in disgust at my human intrusion. But it’s just the sea-squirts those ancient, stiffened ancestors, squeezing short spurts of water into the air. I feel that it’s no way to great family, no matter how distant.