Close encounters in Cornwall

We had given ourselves just four paddling days to find what we had come for, but in the end it would be they who would choose to find us....

The subject had been mulled over for some time and finally after considering our options we decided to go for it, agreeing that Cornwall would provide us with the best chance of success.

We based ourselves on the North coast, just outside Tintagel, figuring that the high cliffs would give us the panorama that we would need to spot them from the land.

So far we were in luck, following the normal contradictory forecasting it seemed that high pressure was really building and on our arrival we rushed to the cliffs to begin our search in earnest, but the sea had other ideas; With the haze, the chop and the white caps we were doing well if we could spot a small fishing boat, let alone something that was just 3' in height. As the sun began to set over a turbulent Atlantic we realised that we were going to have to revert to plan 'B'; so we went to the pub.

We planned to paddle the next day but we needed a clue as to where we should start, we chatted with locals, fishermen and even the lifeguards but comments such as "I've lived here for forty years and not seen even a glimpse of one" began to remind us that this really was going to be like searching for a very small pointy thing in a massive pile of dry grass.

The tides allowed for a later start and we used the early morning to scour the internet for any reports of our quarry but it was to no avail. Our remaining option was to shuffle the numerous laminated maps that we had prepared in advance and it was chance that declared our first paddle be from Trevone Bay, an idyllic beach located around the headland to the SW of Padstow Bay.

We headed out from the protected bay and as we rounded the headland we found what seemed to be another world, almost a land that time forgot, unseen by the gadding crowds. Bright white Gannets wheeled overhead before folding back their wings and plummeting headlong into the sea all around us. Razorbills criss crossing our path (at speed!), skimming the surface, somehow avoiding the breaking swell (and us) as rafts of Guillemots bobbed in the mayhem of the clapotis that rebounded from the cliffs. Scores of Kittewakes and Fulmars provided a spectacular aerial display as they soared on the updraughts, the latter occasionally choosing to settle on the sea close by, unphased by the swell that seemed to us to be as big as houses. All this accompanied by an incessant roar as the Atlantic met with cliff face and outcrops of shattered rock, the only sound to compete being the screaming of hundreds of sea birds. We continued to handrail the coast but saw no sign of the creature that we had come to see.

The next day we decided on a different plan, conceived in the pub the night before, we headed south to Mounts Bay where under the shadow (wind, that is) of St. Michaels Mount we met with some Dutch paddlers who had just paddled around Lands End from Sennen Cove and who gave us our first tip off; they had seen one as they left Sennen Cove this morning!

By the time we had reached Sennen Cove it was blowing a 'hoolie' and the only chance of launching was with the Penzance all weather Lifeboat! So we gave it a miss. Instead we headed for the cliffs but again were thwarted by the might of the Atlantic as it frothed and boiled below us, we stood in awe at the view; The sun dropping into an angry sea, the spectacular disused brick engine houses in the foreground clinging to the battered edges of the near vertical coast, a sight that adorns many a Cornish postcard and a reminder of a bygone era.

We would later realise that our trip to Sennen Cove had not been in vain as it was there that we had chatted with a walker who returned to this area at least twice a year for the last thirty years and who knew the coast as well as any local. We followed his 'hunch' and returned to the south coast the next day, this time to the breath takingly beautiful bay at Porthcurno, a few miles to the west of Mounts Bay. Our commitment to the cause could not be questioned as we struggled with our boats down several hundred yards of sandy path before reaching the winding steps that lead down to the deep sand at the top of a long and very inclined beach. Following a portage that had covered the best part of a mile we reached the gentle surf and were grateful for the cooling breeze, the sea and sand were the colour of those that adourn the expensive travel brochures.... we were 'gob smacked'.

Beauty yeilded to drama as we made our way out into the bay and rounded the obligatory headland where the sight (and sounds) of the Minac theatre perched high on the cliff above provided the most surreal of backdrops. The northerly wind strengthend as we left the shelter of the land and it licked its way around and over the headland although the sea was the calmest we had seen so far, just confused wavelets breaking against the rocks, so we chose to paddle close in.

Barbara was the first to see it, on her third attempt she managed to attract my attention, "it's behind you!" she shouted. I turned around and looked at her in bemusement, the look on her face worried me and I quickly looked across my other shoulder....

A shiver rushed down my spine at the sight of the three foot dorsal fin glistening in the sunlight, about 15 feet off my stern... it was closing fast, it's wake frothing and streaking in the wind... whatever it was, it meant business! Distracted by more movement about 15 feet to the rear of the fin, my eyes were compelled to follow the line of the massive glistening, grey streamlined body that had now broken the surface.... a second fin! This time it was thrashing side to side, again plumes of froth streaked in the wind, I closed my eyes and braced myself for the impact.

A second or two passed and I turned to look across my shoulder, the sea had returned to normal and 25 feet of shark had disappeared into the darkness below.... For now.