Limpets by Kate Whittington
All photography by Duncan Petrie
Walking along the jagged moonrocks at low tide we spot another jellyfish. The symmetrical brown lines spanning across its bell in V-shapes are reminiscent of a compass. This one is motionless except for the gentle breath of the tide lapping in and out of the small pool. Glossy jelly knocking against pumice rock.
“It’s dead, mummy, how did it die?” you wail. Your younger sister at the ready with her stick to poke at it, just to be sure.
The rockpools are like small universes, filled with otherworldly colours: olivine craters, violet underwater lichen, blood-clot anemones and strands of pink silk floating ethereally.
The jelly is clouding and hardening. We add it to our tally: three dead compass jellyfish, a shrimp, and a crab’s claw.
Grandma is visiting and teaching you and your sister how to ‘rockpool properly’. A skill I’ve never managed to impart, preferring the rewards of the beach treasure-hunt. Sea-glass, cowrie shells and intriguing stones are all prizes to keep. If nothing else, I can rest easy knowing I raised two expert sea-glass hunters. You can spot a spec of blue glass on a grey beach in no time. In our five years of calling Cornwall home, we’ve filled two large jars with our sea-glass hauls. Mostly shades of green, brown, and white, but some rarer specimens too. As well as the extremely coveted blue, we’ve also found a rare bright orange piece, lime, yellow, and some beautiful shades of pink and aqua. No red or lavender yet though – these are now our holy grail.
I glance back at you far behind, patiently checking every pool along the way. Buckets sloshing and nets entangled. A perfect childhood in a snapshot. I feel a pang of guilt. Are we really considering leaving? Cornwall wasn’t meant to be a permanent move, just another adventure. Nevertheless, we found ourselves settled, nestled in the relaxed warmth. Lazy summers a haze of beach days. You two happy with the endless sand and water to play in.
And yet in the winter, when the salty winds whip around us at 40mph, my head feels unsettled and I long for a valley. Soft winds buffered by the hills and trees. Soft water in the lakes and streams. Soft moss. Soft mist that lingers in-between mountains. Soft air. There is a part of me still there. I am reunited with her whenever we visit, and miss her when we leave again. Home.
Your Father and I grew up surrounded by mountains. Eighteen years there, eighteen years away. We unfurled South for new adventures, not knowing the roots we carelessly left behind would survive this long without us, and still call us back. Our sails are now ready to furl. Like the limpet returning to its home scar. These circular scars on the rocks are worn down by the edges of the limpet’s shell. They venture out to feed and then follow their trail back, returning home before the ebbing tide, docking into their imprint. And as they grow bigger their shells grow to match the exact contour of their rock.
Is this how you will feel about the sea, always drawn back? Longing for the stretch of the horizon, the salt splash of a howling storm. When you reach the edge of the land and see the expanse of blue will you feel welcomed home as I do when I reach a tarn surrounded by peaks, or will your time here have been too fleeting for your roots to have anchored?
I sit and watch another jelly-fish move rhythmically with the gentle waves in a pool, her tentacles dancing. It’s hard to tell if she is dead or alive. Then I see her swim, pulsing majestically. Nowhere to go, she rests still again. I call you all to come over. You and your sister run nimbly over the sharp rocks in your ill-fitting rock-pooling shoes. No fear, and buoyed by the thrill of the next find. Grandma is slower to follow, seeming to struggle on the endless shards of rock. A pang of something heavy hits me. Neither joy nor sadness, but a heady mix of the two. Time running out. Time repeating itself. Three generations. I am the mother now. There’s no time to think though, already I’m jolted back.
“Is this one dead Mummy? It’s not moving”
“Just wait” I say, “be quiet and watch”
We all wait, holding our breath, teetering on the edge of the pool, and then she glides. You both squeal with delight.
“I’ve never seen a real LIVE one before”
“I know, this is our FIRST time! So far I’ve only seen dead ones” you say excitedly to one another.
When the tide flows, she’ll be freed from her pool and able to join the vast Atlantic again. We climb over the last of the rocks and reach the sandy beach. It’s time to head home. Hands are slipped into mine that will always fit, even as they grow, like limpet shells.
Words by Kate Whittington
Photography by Duncan Petrie
Edited by Tillie Holmes