The Sea Inside

by Philip Hoare

  Down there, somewhere, was my house, sheltered by trees and shrubs. To the south lay the sea, a broad strip of blue-green bordered by yellow shingle. As the plane flew over the beach I knew so well, but could hardly recognise from this angle, it turned back from the forest and into the heart of the docks, passing monumental cranes and ocean liners lined up like bath toys, swimming pools shimmering in the sun. Then it flew over the bridge that connects one side of the city to the other, over the school I first attended more than four decades ago.

  The afternoon sun lent it all a glowing sheen, highlighting every reflective surface. Even the scrapyard and its defunct cars reduced to metal screes acquired an allure, shining like piles of iron filings. Seeing all this laid before me, even after only a few days away, made me intensely happy and profoundly sad, its streets and shores so familiar that they seemed extensions of my own body. Finally, descending to the airport, we touched down on southern soil once more.

  This suburban sea is a living thing, ever shifting as it is contained. Everything seems open to the light, some subtle combination that has never been seen before and will never be seen again: the sun forced from under a bank of cloud, a pure white egret like a flapping apparition, a pair of mute swans gliding close to shore. Even on the dreariest days, the most forlorn afternoons, it’s never not beautiful here. The slow surging waves seem to be suppressed by the mist, yet every sense is heightened. I can smell the forest across the water. Sound behaves differently; with no buildings to bounce from, it spreads over the surface and soaks back into the sea.

  Black-headed gulls, barely more than pale smears, splash their heads and wings. Unresolved shapes drift by. Everything coalesces, caught in a dreamy, half-hallucinatory loop. There are shadows under the water as it withdraws over weed and rusty outfall pipes. A distant yacht becomes a silent white smudge. A fall of black crows scatter in the murk. The saturated greens and browns of grass and leaves turn the colour balance awry, in the way that reds and greens take on an eerie vividness before a storm, when the pressure appears to affect the light itself.

  My time is determined by the ebb and flow. At low tide, the beach is an indecent expanse laid bare by retreat, more like farmland than anything of the sea: an inundated field, almost peaty with sediment, as much charcoal as it is sludge.

  Bait-diggers leave little piles by their sides like slumped sandcastles. With their buckets and spades, they might as well be burying as disinterring, these sextons of the shore. Standing over them is an outfall marker in the shape of an X, which has turned to become a cross. In the uncertain light, the mud takes on new colours, from black to taupe and even a kind of rubbed silver.

  As I say, it is never not beautiful here.

  Behind me, bare oaks and beeches lie as cracks against the sky, evoking a peculiarly English landscape. In the late eighteenth century, Turner drew the abbey’s ruins in his sketchbook, tracing out the trees that had grown up around the crumbling gothic arches. In 1816 John Constable stayed at Netley on his honeymoon, and painted its scudding clouds and billowing greenery. Theirs were records of a Romantic setting, an alternative reality of sensation and emotion. Hanging over the shore, the gnarled, enamelled branches are made darker by the reflected light of the sea and the stretch of bright shingle. My shortening eyesight renders it all abstract, blurring the scene like Turner’s evocations of nothingness, with their vague shapes that might be waves or whales or slaves tossed overboard, rising and falling in foam with ‘a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it’, as Ishmael says in Moby-Dick, ‘until you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant’.

  That fixity of sea and sky is a supreme deception. Over it lies what Herman Melville called the ocean’s skin – a permeable membrane, one-sixteenth of a millimetre thick, fertile with particles and micro-organisms and contaminants; a fantastically fragile yet vast division. The horizon is only an invention of our eyes and brains as we seek to make sense of that immensity and locate our selves within it. The sea solicits such illusions. It takes its colour from the clouds, becomes a sky fallen to the earth; it only suggests what it might or might not contain. Little wonder that people once thought the sun sank into the sea, just as the moon rose out of it.

  Not many artists come here now to see the sun set or the moon rise. Netley’s beach is hardly thronged with easels, and Turner and Constable left long before the refinery turned the shore spiky with petro-chemical romance. Perhaps the strangest thing about this massed industry is its absence of sound, at least at this distance, both innocent and ominous at the same time, although occasionally the plant emits a dull indefinable roar, like a giant stirring in its sleep.

  This is a place both dead and alive. Being here, in or by the water, at either end of such a cold, closed-down day makes me physically part of it. A crested grebe pops up, charting the shallows for its prey. It arches its neck to dive again, as I swim towards it. A jumpy, almost nervous plunge, a little leap forward, then it’s gone.

  As with so many things about birds, you have to take a lot on trust; to discern what is real, and what they want you to believe. The pattern of a duck’s feathers, for instance, breaks up the surface, blurring its body between water and sky, an effect that prompted the American artist Abbott Thayer to suggest eye-dazzling camouflage for First World War soldiers and ships, mimicking natural cover in an industrial war. A grebe’s markings, intensely detailed against the grey of the sea, may seem darkly obvious to us, but from below, its white throat and breast renders it invisible, able to deal death with its stiletto bill. Thayer called this disguise ‘counter-shading’; it lends animals from birds to whales a flat deception in the overhead sun, making them seem insubstantial rather than solid things.

  As they emerge from their dives, I realise that there are half a dozen birds patrolling, moving into their winter haunts. From their own level, in the water, I feel accepted, or at least tolerated – any bird will have seen you long before you see it. I’m too far away to see the grebe’s blood-red eyes, although there’s a suggestion, even at this distance, of the outrageous ruffs which once supplied Edwardian society with stolen plumage. But then, grebe parents will pluck out their own feathers to feed their chicks, lining their young stomachs against fish bones.

  The tide ebbs, and the birds assemble, as if someone had laid the table and called them in to dinner. Gulls and geese are already working the shoreline, as are the oystercatchers, in their white winter ‘scarves’. They’re one of my favourite birds: familiar, stalwart, forever looking out to sea.

  Untrue to its name, imported from its American cousin, the Eurasian oystercatcher eats mostly mussels and cockles teased from the shore, using its greatest asset: a bone-strengthened bill, part hammer, part chisel, able to prise open the biggest bivalves. Delicately coloured carrot-red to toucan-yellow – it might be made of porcelain – it is a surprisingly sensitive probe. At its tip are specialised Herbst corpuscles that allow the bird to sense its prey by touch as well as sight; an oystercatcher can forage as well by night as by day. Perpetually prospecting the beach, it stabs and pecks or ‘sows’ and ‘ploughs’, altering its methods to suit its prey. It can even change the shape of its bill – the fastest-growing of any bird – morphing from blunt mussel-blade to fine worm-teaser in a matter of days.

  Living and dying by its wits, the oystercatcher has evolved to take advantage of its environment. It has been present on Southampton Water for centuries, if not millennia: graffiti’d into the sixteenth-century plaster wall of the port’s oldest house is an oystercatcher, a scratchy Tudor cartoon of an animal familiar from the nearby shore. In 1758, Linnaeus classified it as Haematopus ostralegus – blood-footed oyster-picker. In Britain, it was prized as a dish (although its name, ‘sea pie’, actually came from its piebald colour) and reduced to near-extinction in some southern sites. In modern times the birds were seen as threats to cockle beds: from 1956 to 1969, some sixteen thousand w
ere shot in Morecambe Bay alone.

  My oystercatchers, if you’ll forgive the proprietary tone, may feed and roost here, but they nest as far away as Belgium and Norway. They’d do well to steer clear of France, where hunters still shoot two thousand of them every year for recreation, sometimes ten times that many. These monogamous animals have complex social structures and can reach forty years or more, the longest-living wading bird. And they always return here, where they feel most at home. Their peeping calls drift over the water as they fly in low formation, wings emblazoned with white streaks. They settle to forage on the tideline, occasionally breaking into indignant arguments.

  I raise my binoculars. I spy on them, they spy on me, one eye always on the stranger. As I watch, they’re joined by ringed plovers. The skittish newcomers bank in synchronised circles, suddenly swerving as if they’d hit some unseen current, then performing a deft communal turn to land. As they do so a gull takes off clumsily, lurching into their flight path and causing them to scatter. Rapid wings rev into reverse. All of a sudden, they’re on the ground, camouflaged bodies merging into the mud.

  As timid as they are, the plovers are unfazed by the ever-present carrion crows that have established themselves here, a black-flapping backdrop in the car park. Overnight they’ll empty the bins like delinquent dustmen, leaving the tarmac strewn with the guilty evidence of their scavenging. Surveying the drifting fish-and-chip wrappers, they avert their eyes as if to say, ‘It wasn’t us.’ Although my books tell me that they’re solitary animals, they gather here in a great fluid flock of two hundred or more. Perhaps they’re evolving into aquatic birds, just as the gulls have moved inland to rubbish tips and shopping precincts.

  There are other worlds of communication going on here, unknown orchestrations of action. Every so often the crows will rise up in waves, bird-shaped holes in the sky. They’re a lustrous lack of colour, denuded of detail; a fluttering negation, as dark as the night. Ted Hughes, who made a new myth of the crow, saw the bird as suffering everything even as it suffers nothing. Encouraged by its ugly name, we indict its assemblies as ‘murders’; yet crows mark the passing of one of their number in funereal demonstrations, cawing their grief in the way elephants and whales mourn their dead.

  These ignored birds – whose ubiquity only makes them less visible – display the fascinating behaviour of their family. Broad-shouldered males swagger from one leg to another. Using their thick, oiled-ebony beaks, they peck over stones so much more dexterously than a wader or a gull. There’s a determined, discretionary air to their epicene foraging, although actually they’ll eat almost anything. They seem surprised if you stop and look at them, as though no one had bothered to do so before. They stare back briefly, abashed, then turn away, unable to believe that anyone other than their own might find them interesting. Or perhaps there is disdainful pride in that sideways glance, assuming the reverse: that they are the most intelligent of all birds.

  As indeed they are. Raptors may be more majestic, songbirds sing more sweetly, waders are more elegantly poised, but corvids such as crows and ravens exceed them all in matters of the mind.

  You can see it in their body language. They’re full of character, with their grizzled, quizzical stances; individuals, possessed of particular attributes. Their eyes glitter and their heads swivel with curiosity, ever alert to what is going on around them. Bold and twitchy, timid and territorial, their restlessness is a sure sign that something is going on in their heads. Singly or en masse, they react to every sound and movement. They’re always aware of what the others are doing: fighting, preening, competing, conspiring, minding each other’s business to see if it can be outdone. If a fight breaks out between two of them, the others will swoop in from the trees around to see what’s going on, like children in the playground chanting Fight, fight, fight. They’re irredeemably nosy, socially-adjusted birds.

  Crows appear crafty to our eyes, since we seem to find intelligence in any other species than our own suspicious (I write all this down in my policeman’s notebook, as if I were about to arrest one of the avian young offenders). They’re an alternative community over our heads; gypsy birds, a mysterious race with their own hinterland. They live on the periphery in the way that all animals do, existing on the same plane as we do but inhabiting another time and space. They even have their own voices, resembling the patterns of human speech: captive corvids can be taught to speak as well as, if not better than parrots; it is one reason why they were said to be carriers of dead men’s souls. Acting in loose unison, at some unspoken signal they will fly out of the woods and onto the shore, as if they were the spirits of the monks evicted from their dissolved abbey. No one really knows what they do or how they think. Perhaps theirs is just a convenient congregation, only motivated by food and sex. But then, you might say the same about us. As a species, we are unable to resist the temptation to impose our own failings on animals; it’s almost an act of transference, and I’m as guilty as anyone else.

  When the water has fallen back far enough, the crows will swoop on shellfish, rising up to drop them on a stone from a perfectly judged height. All the while they keep one eye on their fellow birds, ever ready to steal from friends or passing squirrels. They’re a disputatious, bullying, larcenous lot, forever finding fault with one another. They’ll tumble two-against-one in aerial combat, before falling to the mud to scrap over a mussel, the soon-to-be-loser on its back, eyes glaring, claws defensive, determined not to let go of its hard-won bivalve. Then, as suddenly as it started, it’s all over. A moment later and the same birds are strutting alongside each other perfectly amicably.

  They may be vermin to most people, but I’ve come to love carrion crows. Sleek and knowing and iridescent, they could be in disguise for all I know, glossy agents sent to spy on us. If I were to die here on the beach, it would be the crows who picked my bones clean.

  Even on this nondescript stretch of water the colonisation continues: the annual invasion arriving over here, and the annual exodus leaving for over there. Around now the dark-bellied brent geese appear from Siberia; one-tenth of the world population winters along this coast. For them, Southampton Water is one big runway. Travelling three thousand miles in six weeks, they’re long-haul flyers, built to purpose with compact bodies, sturdy ringed necks and neat dark heads. I hear their rolling honk as they pick their moment to settle, their voices eliding and trilling like the chorus from a minimalist opera. Even their name sounds northern: ‘brant’ is Norse for burnt. As the tide flows, they will ride the surf like little ships, proud of their survival, joining the herring and black-headed gulls hunkering to the swell; at this time of year, the air is colder than the sea.

  This international, modest gathering of birds – constant and ever-changing, unremarkable and exquisite – are united only in their search for sustenance. I have to remind myself that they’re not here for my entertainment. They choose this part of the shore because it is a fertile patch, fed by a freshwater stream that oozes from the woods, turning brackish in a holding pond before running clear to the sea, and with it the nutrients that feed whatever the birds feed on.

  They’re always waiting for the tide to go out; I’m always waiting for it to come in. Time may move faster for them – a day to them is a month to me; they live ten lives to mine – but they’ve been here for generations. This is their refuge. They feel safe here, despite the bait-diggers who disturb their foraging and the heavy metals and organochlorines that pollute their food and threaten their fertility. They remain loyal to these blackened flats; northern animals, like me; philopatric, home lovers. They were here before Jane Austen came to visit the abbey’s ruins, and before the Romans rowed up the river to establish their own colony.

  We should pay attention to birds, says Caspar Henderson; ‘being mindful of them, is being mindful of life itself’. They have always surrounded us; our movements mirror theirs. For humans, this too is a place of migration and emigration: from the tribes who came here when the sea was still a river
, to the post-war ‘ten-pound Poms’ sailing for Australia – among them my school friends, never to be seen again – to the Filipinos, Poles and Bangladeshis who constitute the city’s latest arrivals.

  What if all the vessels that ever sailed this water rose up from this much-dredged ditch? Celtic coracle, Roman galley, Norse longship, Tudor barge, Victorian merchantman, interwar liner, twenty-first-century ferry, all tumbled together like Paul Nash’s painting of dumped war planes, Totes Meer, Dead Sea. Sometimes the trawlers spit out fragments. I’ve found rusting revolvers brought back by wartime troops and chucked overboard when they were forbidden to import their souvenirs. Two thousand years before, their Celtic counterparts cast offerings to the water gods, and Roman centurions tossed tokens to Ancasta, the river deity who lived in this estuary. It all lies there, entire worlds of marine archaeology awaiting excavation; crockery and weapons and bones piled in a watery midden.

  Out of the calm there’s a sudden surge as if some invisible vessel had passed by, followed by a reluctant riffling, running over stones as waves first set in motion thousands of miles away spend themselves on the shore. The sea plays its own tricks here. For two hours or more, its height and weight is suspended in a delayed action produced by the Atlantic pulse, although I must admit that the logistics of this mechanism somewhat mystify me.

  If I understand it correctly, the tide runs from west to east and back again, courtesy of the pull of the moon, rocking up and down the Channel like a seesaw. Set at its midpoint, Southampton’s tide bounces back up its estuary. But added to this are local complications. The stopper of the Isle of Wight creates further oscillations, as the water enters and leaves from either side. The result is a unique selling point for the port. For centuries this double tide has been a boon to marine traffic, making Southampton ‘a seaport without the sea’s terrors, an ocean approach within the threshold of the land’, according to one nineteenth-century account. Its downside is what it leaves behind, an intractable stretch of mud, scattered with debris.