A PERSONAL PRELUDE
It is a happy fact that people following many different callings will aver
that they have the best job in the world. A high- altitude mountaineer
surely realises how intensely precious is life, his life which hangs by a
centimetre thickness of rope as the sun rises over eastern peaks. An art
historian can visit the National Galleries in London or Washington and
thrill equally at how the fierce, even angry daubing of bright paint yields
a Van Gogh masterpiece. But let me throw into the debate another, per-
haps unexpected occupation, the seabird biologist. What could be more
exciting than visiting stupendously dramatic far- flung islands, encoun-
tering exquisite creatures, and trying to answer questions about their
daily lives.
In brief support of my case, I proffer some personal highlights from
the past 40 years. Friends and colleagues in the same trade could easily
offer matching stories, occasionally blemished by tragedy stemming from
the ever- present menaces of immense cliffs and unforgiving waters.
My first serious encounter with the milling throngs of a seabird col-
ony occurred in that interval between school and university. For six
weeks I served as seabird assistant on Fair Isle in the far north of the
United Kingdom. There were birds to be ringed. First catch your bird.
As we entered a stinking cave at the base of Fair Isle’s immense cliffs,
a European Shag left its nest in the inner darkness and flew towards
daylight. When it passed my companion, he extended a strong arm and
caught the Shag by its long extended neck. History does not record