Polly Evans finds there's a wealth of wildlife around the Isle of Man, as she goes sea kayaking to find basking sharks
"You’re not going out in this, are you?” the café owner asked as he served us. There was something about his frightened eyes that suggested he was speaking to a pair of lunatics about to breathe their last gasps of salty Manx air.
Keirron Tastagh grinned and nodded, and I winced in anxious agreement. Keirron is the owner of Adventurous Experiences, an Isle of Man-based company specialising in sea kayaking; I’d come to paddle among the basking sharks that frequent the island’s southern and western coasts each spring and summer.
The basking shark is the second-largest fish in the world (behind the whale shark), and can grow to over 10m long. Manx kayakers regularly paddle alongside these giants of the ocean; sometimes they even see them surface alongside their boats.
Outside the window of the café, the wind blew strong and the waters of the Calf Sound rushed in swirling tidal races. Foaming white waves crashed over the rocks of Kitterland, a rocky islet off the southern tip of Man. Below the tumbling white, on the ocean floor, lay strewn the shipwrecks of centuries.
Keirron and I finished our fortifying hunks of carrot cake, drained our cups of hot tea and then, when we could procrastinate no more, headed outside. In the car park we dressed in robust waterproofs and life jackets.
“You’re not going out in this, are you?” asked yet more sensible folk with umbrellas and nice, weatherproof cars into which to retreat.
“These people are making me nervous,” I squeaked. I am, after all, only a novice kayaker.
“These people know the currents round here,” Keirron replied blithely. “They know that these waters can sink a ship, let alone a little kayak.”
We rocked across the currents of the Sound unscathed and then, as we paddled along the sheltered coast of the Calf of Man, a separate, 2 sq km island now designated as a bird sanctuary, the gale dropped off.
We made our way down a tiny inlet, over dazzlingly clear waters that shifted between tones of turquoise. We pulled up on a stony beach, then walked for an hour across the Calf, scanning the water for sharks. A hen harrier skirted over the heath where brown, multi-hornejavascript:void(0);d Manx Loaghtan sheep grazed. But, out on the ocean, we saw none of the huge marine creatures for which we were searching.
“The problem is that basking sharks come to the surface when the weather’s warm and the water’s calm,” Keirron explained. “They follow the plankton.” As if to make the point, a gust of perishing wind whipped around us.
We gave up. Keirron was keen to avoid trouble with the tides, so we had a schedule to keep. Back on the water we saw a gannet, then groups of oystercatchers. The gargling call of guillemots was punctuated by the piercing shrieks of gulls. A handful of razorbills perched on a jagged cliff while a pair of puffins, not usually spotted this side of the island, flapped frantically overhead.
I’d never really spared much thought for this tiny island. It’s a Crown dependency, though it’s neither a part of the UK nor a member of the EU; it has its own currency and its own laws. I’d heard of the perilous TT motorbike races. I knew that the island had inspired Thomas the Tank Engine’s home of the Island of Sodor. But I’d always thought the Isle of Man would be faintly damp and dull. I’d never realised that, even on a cool and gusty day, this odd little island would dazzle.
As we struck out across the currents once more, we gathered a new following. Now ten or 20 Atlantic seals frolicked in our wake. Some were silky pearl-grey, some almost black, shining like wet coal; others were spotted like misshapen Dalmatians. Their heads broke the surface like a gathering of whiskery grey periscopes, their black baubles of eyes fixed upon us. Then they flipped and twirled with extraordinary elegance into the dark turquoise depths. They’d vanish for a moment, then I’d hear a sharp exhalation – sometimes the most delicate of sneezes, sometimes a raucous snorting like an old man blowing his nose.
There were no basking sharks to be seen that day, but we’d braved the weather and we’d tried our best. And now, as a dozen of these sleek, graceful seals escorted my boat through the treacherous currents towards home, I wasn’t so sure that I minded.
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