The water was cloudy with silt sediment. As I finned away from the shore, I began to make out shadowy torpedo-shaped forms darting to and fro through the gloom – a shoal of grey mullet. As the fish swam into a shaft of sunlight, their dull, pinstriped grey scales momentarily shimmered like holographic foil.
Visibility improved as I headed into deeper water. At first glance the seabed appeared to be a barren mosaic of slipper limpets and rubble, webbed with red and green algae, but as I floated on the surface I began to pick out the camouflaged fauna below. Shore crabs scuttled for cover as my shadow passed overhead, but a red-eyed velvet swimming crab held its ground, rearing up and waving its formidable claws at me when I duck-dived down for a closer look.
Marine life is drawn to the area partly by the scraps thrown overboard by the inshore fishing fleet, but primarily due to the shelter provided by the remains of the old lifeboat station and the structure of the new lifeboat station pier. The submerged pilings were encrusted with sponges, sea squirts, tube worms, barnacles, mussels and oysters. Tethered fronds of seaweed fluttered like bunting. I spotted a dahlia anemone, its concentric circles of banded tentacles resembling the petals of its namesake flower. The writhing purple-tipped green tentacles of a snakelocks anemone proved that marine life around the coast of the British Isles can be as colourful as that found on tropical reefs.
A long-spined sea scorpion lurking in a crevice swivelled its eyes to assess me. It was a curious-looking fish, with spines protruding backwards from its gill covers, a broad crested head and bony plates embedded into its skin in place of scales. Scorpion fish have the ability to replicate the colour of their environment. The mottled orange coloration of this individual perfectly mimicked the surrounding sponges as it lay in wait to ambush its prey.
