[Edit - the words...] Crept away from Abercwimcum under the cover of darkness, rendezvoused in Isca at midnight and rolled onto Smeatons Pier about three and a half hours later. By five o'clock we were chugging away from St. Ives and out into the lumpy unknown. Drizzle and murk took over as darkness left off, limiting the visibility as we pitched and rolled, wind-against-tide, out to sea. Seven or so miles offshore chumming began and we drifted with the slick like a lonely turd on the swell; Stormies soon appeared, skimming and jinking over the greasy-grey but, as nice as they are, quite a wait ensued for anything of greater note. Luckily, to while away the time, I entertained the other members of the party by going green for a few minutes and threatening to show everyone my breakfast. Then, all need for amusement, and any thought of upchuckery, evaporated as a Wilson's made a couple of passes and I bagged the worst photo of a seabird in the history of history; a second Wilson's briefly trailed the boat on the way back in but, basically, it was all over bar the shouting, a few Manxies and a balloon knot of a drive back.
St. Ives pre-dawn, yes, that is your county recorder centre stage, at this point, still in his trousers. 
Storm Petrel slipping past and off into the soft. 
Mally, how can you not love that face (breath like a pinniped popping a fluffy mind).
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