Guest: Brighton Beach, North Vancouver

Brighton Beach, tucked discreetly along the rugged western shore of Indian Arm in North Vancouver (Canada), is a boat-access-only enclave that feels worlds removed from the nearby city. This Brighton Beach bears no connection to the old Brighton Hotel or the Hastings Townsite that gave rise to Vancouver’s New Brighton Park. Instead, it is a small, secluded stretch of waterfront lots where dense forest tumbles down to rocky shores, and the only way home is by skiff or water taxi. Here, the community of roughly two dozen properties thrives on the very isolation that would deter most - a haven for those drawn to tranquillity, self-reliance, and the daily rhythms of tide and weather.

Residents who live haul groceries and supplies by boat, navigate steep woodland paths to reach their cabins, and rely on solar panels, rain barrels, and wood stoves. Real estate listings lean into this rugged romance, appealing to artists and adventurous spirits who crave an off-grid life with views of shimmering waters and distant snow-dusted peaks. One cottage, with its modest footprint and sweeping decks, was recently described as perfect for ‘a creative who needs a quiet retreat,’ the sort of place where inspiration might arrive with the morning mist.

Yet the tranquillity here is punctuated by episodes that underscore both the vulnerability and the tenacity of this community. In July 2016, Brighton Beach faced a dramatic trial when a fire broke out, consuming a cottage and a neighbouring home under construction. Firefighters had to be ferried in aboard a Vancouver fire boat, pumping ocean water at astonishing rates while a helicopter hovered overhead, dropping water to stop the flames from reaching the slopes of Mount Seymour. By some miracle and much effort, the fire was contained before it could leap into the forested backbone of the North Shore (see Castanet).

Quirky tales also ripple through Brighton Beach’s recent history. Paddleboarders and kayakers have recounted close encounters with seals and otters, but in 2023, local waters played host to a far grander visitor. A lone orca, soon affectionately nicknamed ‘Indy,’ spent time exploring the entrance to nearby Howe Sound and Indian Arm, thrilling residents who watched from weathered docks and bobbing dinghies. One paddleboarder even found himself eye-to-eye with the orca. (See North Shore News.)

Today, Brighton Beach continues to embody a certain coastal eccentricity. It is a place where stories are exchanged over driftwood railings, where grocery trips are dictated by the tide, and where the vastness of nature presses close on all sides. Unlike its namesake to the south - born of colonial nostalgia for British seaside resorts - this Brighton Beach writes its own narrative, one shaped by cedar, salt air, and the enduring allure of a life perched at the edge of wilderness.

Cosmo Sarson, wasn’t it?

[Scene: Brighton Palace Pier. Two seagulls, Eric (taller, dafter) and Ernie (shorter, primmer), are sitting comfortably on large deckchairs near the funfair. With apologies again to Morecambe and Wise. See also Bring me . . . a sausage roll!]

Eric: You ever notice how humans scream before the rollercoaster even drops?

Ernie: [Laughs] Pre-emptive panic. Like you when someone sneezes near a pasty.

Eric: Hey - better startled than snatched. I’ve seen what toddlers do to feathers.

Ernie: [Laughing again] True. One of them tried to share their sausage roll with me once. By throwing it at me.

Eric: Ah, the Brighton welcome.

Ernie: Still, better than the ghost train. That thing rattles like a pigeon in a crisp tin.

Eric: And yet, it’s us who got painted, Ernie. Deckchairs, dignity… and just a hint of smug.

Ernie: Cosmo Sarson, wasn’t it?

Eric: Yep. Bold colours, big brushstrokes - a proper seaside tribute. They call it Laughing Seagulls.

Ernie: Well, we are hilarious. Especially you during bin collection.

Eric: It’s performance art. I’ve told you.

Ernie: Cosmo got the vibe, though. Two old birds watching the world flap by. Captured our best side - both of them.

Eric: He said it was about friendship, joy, resilience.

Ernie: And snacks, surely? 

Eric: Snacks are implied.

Ernie: You know, I’ve never actually sat in a deckchair before.

Eric: You are now. In glorious, fifteen-foot seaside Technicolor.

Ernie: Not bad for a couple of ferals, eh?

Eric: Not bad at all. Now - watch that one on the helter-skelter. He’s gonna lose his hat and his lunch.

[Both laugh]

Yellow horned-poppy

Found on the beach: the yellow horned-poppy (Glaucium flavum), a distinctive coastal plant, easily recognised by its vivid yellow flowers and long, curved seed pods. Native to the shores of Europe, North Africa, and western Asia, it thrives in some of the most inhospitable environments nature provides. Found on shingle beaches, sand dunes, and windswept cliffs, it is adapted to survive where few other species can. Its blue-green, deeply lobed leaves are coated with a waxy layer that helps reduce moisture loss and protect against salt spray, allowing the plant to withstand intense sun, saline winds, and poor, shifting soils.

Flowering from June to September, the yellow horned-poppy produces four-petalled blooms that stand out brightly against its muted foliage. These are followed by the plant’s most unusual feature: long, slender seed pods that resemble horns and can reach up to 30 centimetres in length. When mature, these pods split open forcefully, scattering seeds across the surrounding ground - an effective strategy for colonising mobile shingle and sand.

First formally described in the 18th century, the plant’s Latin name reflects its characteristics: Glaucium refers to its glaucous, or bluish-green, leaves, while flavum simply means yellow. Though less celebrated than the red field poppy, the yellow horned-poppy has appeared in folklore and poetry, often associated with themes of resilience and solitude. In some coastal traditions, picking the plant was considered unlucky and thought to bring storms or bad fortune to sailors.

Despite being toxic in all parts, the plant has a long history of medicinal and practical use. It contains the alkaloid glaucine, responsible for the yellow latex it exudes when cut. This compound, while potentially harmful, has been used as a non-opioid cough suppressant and bronchodilator, particularly in Eastern Europe, where glaucine salts were once prescribed for respiratory conditions. In English folk medicine, the root was sometimes used in poultices to treat bruises and pains. Historically, oil pressed from its seeds served as an ingredient in soap-making and as lamp fuel, although these uses have declined in modern times.

The yellow horned-poppy remains almost entirely coastal in its distribution, rarely found inland except as a garden escape or in areas where ancient shorelines once lay. Its ability to tolerate drought, salt, and wind makes it valuable in stabilising loose beach sediments and supporting fragile coastal ecosystems. The plant’s yellow sap can stain skin and was occasionally used as a dye. Gardeners sometimes cultivate it for its unusual appearance and resilience, particularly in gravel or seaside-themed gardens. It is unpalatable to deer, largely pest-free, and its bright blooms are attractive to bees. However, due to its toxicity, it should be handled with care, especially in gardens frequented by children or pets. Further information is available from The Wildlife Trusts and Wikipedia.

It is worth noting that as part of the council’s Black Rock Rejuvenation Project, the yellow horned-poppy is among 1,000 young plants now settling into specially designed shingle beds at the eastern end of Brighton Beach. These yellow horned-poppies were propagated by horticulturalists at Kew’s renowned Millennium Seed Bank at Wakehurst, using cuttings collected from existing beach populations by the Black Rock Project Team in collaboration with Kew experts. After being carefully nurtured and grown from both cuttings and seed, the yellow horned-poppies have been replanted in innovative ‘wave’ design beds that help shield them from the challenging coastal environment. See also Vegetated shingle.

Bring me . . . a sausage roll

[Scene: Brighton Beach. Two seagulls, Eric (taller, dafter) and Ernie (shorter, primmer), are perched near the ruins of the West Pier. With apologies to Morecambe and Wise.]

Eric: [pacing like a detective] I smell something, Ern. It’s in the air. The scent of danger. The perfume of peril. The unmistakable aroma . . . of pastry.

Ernie: Oh no. Not again. Last time you followed your beak, we ended up dive-bombing a hen party from Essex. I still have glitter in places no bird should sparkle.

Eric: I’ve refined my technique! Watch closely - I’ve developed a glide approach known only to the gulls of Monte Carlo.

Ernie: Monte Carlo? You’ve never even made it past Worthing.

Eric: I’ve got continental instincts, Ern. I’m like the James Bond of birds.

Ernie: You look more like the pigeon off the end of the pier.

Eric: That's rich, coming from a gull who’s scared of crisp packets.

Ernie: They rustle, Eric. They rustle menacingly.

[A tourist drops a sausage roll on the promenade. Both freeze.]

Eric: Did you see that?

Ernie: I’m not blind. Unlike your landing skills.

Eric: Right! Formation Gull Delta. You go left, I go elegant.

Ernie: Eric, no. We agreed - no more ‘interpretive flying’.

Eric: It’s not interpretive! It’s graceful. Like a feathered Bolshoi.

[Eric attempts a flamboyant leap off the wall, flaps wildly, and crashes into a deckchair.]

Ernie: Very Bolshoi, that. Nearly took out a pensioner.

Eric: It's all part of the act, Ern. People come to Brighton for entertainment.

Ernie: They don’t come for you flattening their nans!

[They both spot a child waving the sausage roll like a beacon.]

Eric: Right. This is it. All or nothing. If we time it just right . . .

Ernie: Eric?

Eric: Yes, Ern?

Ernie: The kid’s eaten it.

[Both birds stare mournfully at the now-empty wrapper.]

Eric: I blame the economy.

Ernie: I blame you.

[Cue them waddling off into the sunset, wings round each other, humming ‘Bring Me Sunshine . . .’]

The scuttle and the shuffle

LOBSTER: [snapping claws, looking out to sea]

Ah, the tang of salt in the air! The world is a buffet, and yet-so many pebbles, so little seaweed.

GORILLA: [rumbling voice, scratching belly]

You complain of pebbles? Try finding a banana among these stones. My kingdom for a palm tree.

LOBSTER: [clicking claws, sidling closer]

You land-dwellers never appreciate the subtlety of the tide. Each wave brings a new adventure! Or at least a lost chip wrapper.

GORILLA: [laughs, deep and rolling]

Adventure? I see only humans, ice cream, and the occasional stray dog. Where’s the thrill in that?

LOBSTER: [raising one claw, grandly]

Have you ever danced sideways under the moonlight, dodging buckets and spades? The thrill is in the scuttle, my friend.

GORILLA: [leans forward, curious]

Teach me your dance, Lobster. My feet are made for pounding, not prancing.

LOBSTER: 

With pleasure! But beware, the sideways shuffle is not for the faint of heart - or the heavy of foot.

GORILLA: [grins, attempts a sideways shuffle, pebbles flying]

How’s this for a gorilla groove?

LOBSTER: [applauds with claws]

Magnificent! You move like a tidal wave - unstoppable, slightly alarming.

GORILLA: 

And you, Lobster, are as nimble as a pebble in a storm. Perhaps we are both out of place here, yet perfectly at home.

LOBSTER: 

On Brighton Beach, everyone is a little out of place. That’s the magic.

GORILLA: [leans back, content]

Let’s watch the tide together. Maybe it will bring bananas. Or seaweed. Or something entirely unexpected.

LOBSTER:

Whatever comes, we’ll face it - with a scuttle and a shuffle.

Dusty miller - friend or foe?

Found on Brighton Beach: silver ragwort (Jacobaea maritima), sometimes known as Dusty Miller, but is it friend or foe? This is a bushy, evergreen subshrub (a type of plant that combines features of both herbaceous and woody plants) recognised for its striking silvery-white foliage. The leaves are finely divided, deeply lobed, and covered with dense, felt-like, woolly hairs, which give the plant its characteristic silvery or grey-white appearance. The shrub is remarkably tolerant of salt spray, strong winds, and poor soils, making it well adapted for shingle beach environments.

Typically grown as an annual or biennial, Jacobaea maritima can sometimes behave as a short-lived perennial in milder climates. It begins from seed, germinating in well-drained soil, and quickly establishes its signature silvery foliage. In its first year, the plant focuses on vegetative growth, creating a dense, bushy form. The following year, it sends up tall flower stalks adorned with bright yellow, daisy-like flowers, blooming from summer to autumn. After flowering, it produces seeds, completing its life cycle.

The distinctive white, felt-like, tomentose (densely hairy) leaves give the plant a silvery, dusty appearance, evoking an image of a person covered in dust - hence the name ‘Dusty Miller’. Historically, it has been used in traditional medicine for its anti-inflammatory properties, though modern use is limited.

On Brighton Beach, silver ragwort thrives along the vegetated shingle habitat - a rare and internationally important ecosystem composed of pebbles and stones with pockets of sand and soil. It is often found alongside other hardy coastal species such as sea kale, yellow horned-poppy, and sea thrift, all of which are similarly adapted to the harsh, nutrient-poor conditions of shingle beaches. 

The Brighton & Hove Local Biodiversity Action Plan, adopted in 2012, briefly mentions silver ragwort as a ’non-native plant species of concern along the Volks Railway’, where ‘garden escapes now form a significant component of the flora’. And while there have also been concerns that in some areas, around the Black Rock site and along the Volks Railway, for example, about it being invasive, it is also recognised that silver ragwort can help stabilise shingle and offer ground cover.

It is worth noting that in the early 2000s, the species was reclassified from Senecio cineraria to Jacobaea maritima because of advancements in molecular phylogenetics and a better understanding of the plant’s genetic relationships.

The Turquoise Basket Star

In the twilight world between Brighton’s pebbles and the sea, where the water folds its breath in whispers, there lived a creature of delicate chaos - Gorgonocephalus turquoise. The Turquoise Basket Star.  [With thanks to ChatGPT, and apologies to Jacques Cousteau.]

On our recent trip to Britain’s south coast, we first encountered her beneath the soft veil of the outgoing tide, tangled like a myth among the roots of drifting weed and net remnants. To the untrained eye, she looked no different from debris, a tangle of line left by careless hands. But ah, when she moved. . . 

In the quiet nights, she would unfurl her arms like the lace of a deep-sea dancer, catching plankton on the wing, filtering the moonlight for flavour. Each limb, a miracle of evolution, split and split again - five arms becoming fifty, weaving an invisible net of hunger and grace.

By day, she curled into herself, hiding among rocks and kelp along the Marina sea wall, a recluse of the reef. The turquoise hue was not a warning, not a cry for attention, but the hue of calm itself - like ancient glacial melt or the eyes of a dreaming dolphin. In that colour lived serenity, and in her slow movements, patience.

She did not swim. She did not chase. She waited. The current was her companion. The tide, her twin.

But life near the shore is not so simple. Ropes come drifting in with their own stories. Some are pulled by boats. Some are abandoned by men who no longer remember the creatures they might ensnare. One day, the rope came for her. It embraced her not as a fellow tendril, but as a noose.

She did not struggle. She only curled tighter, as if tucking herself into a last sleep.

And there she remains now, on the low tide sands of Brighton Beach. Not gone, not forgotten. Her arms, still flung wide, hold a memory of the sea. A tale of gentleness. Of hunger fed only on light.

She reminds us that in the tangled ruins of our world, there still lies beauty. And in every knot of line, there may once have been a life as delicate as breath itself.

The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever. Adieu!

 

Well, it is a hard life!

Brighton Beach is not a place to go crabbing, generally there’s no rocks or rock pools, moreover any kind of fishing from the pier has been forbidden for decades. Nevertheless, of course, there’s crabs out there, in the sea, lurking. Here’s the evidence of one that got into trouble, lost a claw. Oh dear! 

Given the size and shape of the claw, ChatGPT tells me, it could have belonged to a Velvet Swimming Crab (Necora puber) or to an Edible Crab (Cancer pagurus). However, the former has blue-tinged claws with pronounced ‘hair’ on the body and claws; and the latter has thick, heavier pincers with black tips. 

No, this claw most likely came from a European Green Crab (Carcinus maenas). Although native to Europe it is one of the world’s most invasive marine species, having spread to North America, Australia, South Africa, and beyond, where it outcompetes native species and devastates shellfish stocks.

European Green Crabs (Wikipedia image here) are ubiquitous across Europe’s rocky shores, estuaries, harbours, and tidal pools, burying themselves in sand or sheltering under rocks at low tide. They eat molluscs, worms, algae, detritus, and sometimes smaller crabs. They’re also aggressive and territorial, especially during mating season. Moulting is common as they grow, so they shed claws and exoskeleton fragments often wash ashore.

Despite the name, European Green Crabs are not always green, rather they come in a range of colours, olive green, brown, even reddish. Claws tend to be mottled with a granular texture and sometimes tinged with blue or green hues. They are uneven in size with the larger ones used for crushing prey, and smaller ones for more dexterous handling. The inner edges are serrated and used for gripping prey.

The photographed claw (on a piece of nearby driftwood) probably came from a crab about the size of a human hand. It was most likely lost in one of four ways: fighting other crabs (they are very territorial creatures ), autotomy (self-amputation), predation (by birds or larger fish), or moulting mishaps (claws getting stuck between rocks). Well, it is a hard life!

Guest: Brighton Beach, Possession Bay, South Georgia

Brighton Beach, the fourth of this column’s guest beaches, is an outlier in every sense. It is situated along the north coast of South Georgia, a remote island in the southern Atlantic Ocean some 900 miles east of the Falkland Islands. Discovered by Europeans in 1675, the island had no indigenous population due to its harsh climate and remoteness. Captain James Cook in HMS Resolution made the first landing, survey and mapping of the island, and on 17 January 1775, he claimed it as a British possession, naming it Isle of Georgia after King George III.

Throughout its history, South Georgia has served as a whaling and seal hunting base, with intermittent population scattered in several whaling bases, the most important historically being Grytviken. The main settlement and the capital today is King Edward Point near Grytviken, a British Antarctic Survey research station, with a population of about 20 people.

However, I doubt they head to Brighton Beach at the weekend! This lies between Zero and Adventure Points in Possession Bay, on the north coast of South Georgia. The name first appeared on a chart showing the results of a survey by Discovery Investigations personnel in 1926-30 - the Discovery Investigations were a series of scientific cruises and shore-based investigations into the biology of whales in the Southern Ocean, funded by the British Colonial Office and organised by the Discovery Committee in London.

South Georgia is renowned for its rugged landscapes and abundant wildlife, including vast colonies of penguins and seals, making it a significant location for ecological studies and wildlife observation. Indeed, Brighton Beach was so named to reflect the abundance of fauna, as also found on our own Brighton Beach (when the sun shines!). Access to Brighton Beach and other areas on the island is regulated to preserve its delicate environment: the Government of South Georgia & the South Sandwich Islands has designated specific visitor sites (with some locations closed due to environmental concerns). ​The outline map here shows the government’s designated visitor points, each one with a code number. The code for Brighton Beach (POS01) can be found in the partial data box, and with that it’s possible to identify where the beach is located on Google’s satellite map - should you wish to visit.

Bark Europa, a tall ship adventure vessel out of Holland, has visited Brighton Beach at least twice. The expedition leader Jordi Plana Morales wrote an entry in his logbook for 4 March 2019 with this title: Possession Bay - Prince Olav Harbour and holding anchor on a blustery afternoon at Brighton Beach. His record of the trip is detailed (and is illustrated with a photograph, as above). Here’s an extract from the log.

‘Winds varying from 20 to 45 kn and snowfall made for a quiet few hours indoors, while the Europa hold her ground at anchor in front of the so-called Brighton beach. To arrive here we had to sail over a shallow reef that crosses the whole bay, that nevertheless helps dumping down the swell that enters Possession Bay. From time to time a clear area between the low clouds let us have a glimpse of the beach and the surrounding glaciers.’

Return of the Brighton Whale

Yesterday was April Fool’s Day, so today is the day for exposes! I asked ChatGPT if there had been any historical April 1st pranks connected to Brighton Beach. Oh yes, it replied, and gave me five such news stories, as follows.

‘The Return of the Brighton Whale (2012) - A prank article suggested that a ‘rare and enormous’ whale had washed up on Brighton Beach. The story referenced the famous 1891 case when a real whale did wash ashore. Many people allegedly went looking for it before realising it was a hoax.’

‘The Brighton Floating Pier Hoax (Early 2000s?) - A local newspaper once published a story claiming that a floating, mobile version of Brighton Pier was under construction and would be towed to different parts of the UK coast depending on the season. Many readers were taken in by the idea, imagining the pier drifting up to Blackpool in the summer!’

‘Brighton’s Underground Beach (2016) - A satirical Brighton-based website claimed that archaeologists had discovered an entire ‘hidden Victorian beach’ beneath the modern seafront, supposedly preserved under the shifting shingle. The story included doctored photos of a secret tunnel leading to a pristine, sand-filled cavern.’

‘Seagull Relocation Programme (2018) - Local media joked that Brighton & Hove City Council had devised a plan to capture and relocate the town’s infamous aggressive seagulls to a remote island. The ‘news’ claimed that trained falconers would lure the birds with chips before transporting them away.’

‘The Ban on Striped Deck Chairs (2021) - In this gag it was suggested that Brighton Council had banned traditional striped deck chairs in favour of modern ‘monochrome loungers’ to make the beach look more sophisticated.’

I then asked - as any self-respecting journalist might do - for sources for each of these stories. 

‘You're absolutely right to call that out,’ ChatGPT wrote back. ‘I should have been clearer - those were plausible April Fools’ jokes based on Brighton’s quirky character, but I didn’t pull them from actual historical records.’

Shocked and deflated, I asked ChatGPT where and how it had come up with its ideas. This is what it told me:

‘The Floating Pier was inspired by Brighton’s history of structural oddities like the West Pier ruins and the Palace Pier’s ever-changing attractions. The Brighton Whale was loosely based on the real 1891 whale stranding, which seemed like perfect hoax material. The Underground Beach was a play on Brighton’s extensive underground tunnels and the urban legend that hidden Victorian structures still exist beneath the seafront. The Seagull Relocation Programme is a nod to the ongoing battle between locals and the notoriously aggressive Brighton seagulls. The Striped Deck Chair Ban idea came from real debates about modernising Brighton’s seafront, plus the city council’s occasional controversial aesthetic decisions.’

Crow’s toes gripped the wet pebbles

Crow on the Beach

Hearing shingle explode, seeing it skip,

Crow sucked his tongue.

Seeing sea-grey mash a mountain of itself

Crow tightened his goose-pimples.

Feeling spray from the sea’s root nothinged on his crest

Crow’s toes gripped the wet pebbles.

When the smell of the whale’s den, the gulfing of the crab’s last prayer,

Gimletted in his nostril

He grasped he was on earth.

He knew he grasped

Something fleeting

Of the sea’s ogreish outcry and convulsion.

He knew he was the wrong listener unwanted

To understand or help -

His utmost gaping of his brain in his tiny skull

Was just enough to wonder, about the sea,

What could be hurting so much?

This is Ted Hughes, one of the most influential British poets of the 20th century, known for his stark, elemental imagery and exploration of nature, violence, and myth. Born in Yorkshire, England, he became Poet Laureate in 1984 and was widely recognized for collections like The Hawk in the Rain and Birthday Letters. His work often delved into the primal forces of life, influenced by folklore, shamanism, and a deep reverence for the natural world.

Although there is no specific connection between Hughes and Brighton, this photograph of a crow on the Brighton pebbles seemed to lead me directly to Hughes’s poems. Crow on the Beach, as above, comes from Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow, published by Faber & Faber in 1970 (which can be freely borrowed online at Internet Archive). 

The collection is considered a pivotal work in Hughes’s career, marking a shift towards a darker, more fragmented style. It was originally conceived as part of a collaboration with the American artist Leonard Baskin and reflects Hughes’s personal grief following the death of his wife, Sylvia Plath. Crow is said to present a chaotic, amoral trickster figure that challenges religious and existential narratives, embodying survival, destruction, and rebirth. See the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography for a more detailed analysis of the work. Meanwhile, here is another poem from the collection.

Crow and the Sea

He tried ignoring the sea

But it was bigger than death, just as it was bigger than life.

He tried talking to the sea

But his brain shuttered and his eyes winced from it as from open flame.

He tried sympathy for the sea

But it shouldered him off - as a dead thing shoulders you off.

He tried hating the sea

But instantly felt like a scrutty dry rabbit-dropping on the windy cliff.

He tried just being in the same world as the sea

But his lungs were not deep enough

And his cheery blood banged off it

Like a water-drop off a hot stove.

Finally

He turned his back and he marched away from the sea

As a crucified man cannot move.

The Blue Seafrog

Maggie had been told - firmly, repeatedly - that there was no such thing as a seafrog. But here it was, on Brighton Beach.

It lay among the bladderwrack, a queer, knotted thing, its four long legs stretched as if it had been caught mid-leap and petrified. The tide had left it stranded among the glistening pebbles, tangled in seaweed that clung to it like old lace. She knelt down, brushing wet strands of kelp aside.

‘A seafrog,’ she whispered.

Behind her, Alfie was balancing a stick on his nose, utterly uninterested. ‘If it's a frog, it’ll be dead,’ he remarked, letting the stick fall and rolling his eyes skyward as if this conversation were a terrible burden.

 

[With a nod to ChatGPT, and apologies to Edith Nesbit (Five Children and It). See also The Red Spider and The Green Gecko.]

Maggie ignored him. She had read enough to know that creatures of the sea were never quite as they seemed. What if it was sleeping? What if, with just the right words, it might wake?

She prodded it. The blue skin was coarse like rope. There was a knot at its middle, a sort of cruel binding, as if some careless fisherman had captured it and then forgotten it here.

Alfie sighed. ‘It's a bit of old cord, Maggie.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘It’s got fraying at the ends!’

Maggie looked closer. The fraying did look suspiciously like threadbare rope rather than amphibian limbs. But something in the air - something in the hush of the retreating tide - made her doubt Alfie’s certainty.

‘You never believe in anything,’ she said crossly.

‘And you believe in everything,’ he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets and scuffing his boot against the pebbles.

Maggie picked up the thing - dead frog or sea-rope or something else entirely - and carried it with great care toward the sandy pools under the pier by each of its support columns. The water was still, the sort of glassy stillness that made you feel as if something beneath was watching. She laid the thing down in the shallow water, and waited. Alfie joined her.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, quite suddenly, Alfie shouted.

‘Maggie!’

They both jumped back. The thing in the water was moving. No - not moving. Unraveling. The knotted shape loosened, the ends wriggling like living limbs, stretching as if waking from a long, enchanted sleep. The pool darkened around it, the water began to swirl as though something larger was rising from the depths.

Alfie grabbed her hand. ‘Come away!’

But Maggie stayed, her breath caught in her throat. The thing - once cord, once lifeless - slipped silently beneath the surface and was gone.

Only the faintest ripple remained.

Alfie stared.

‘I told you,’ Maggie said softly.

For once, Alfie had nothing to say.

The tide crept in. The sea took its secrets. And the blue seafrog - if that’s what it had been - remained as much of a mystery to Maggie as it had ever been.

The Flintback Drifter

All in one day, amazing, walking along the Brighton pebbles, I found four different varieties of the Flintback Drifter. Unusual to see at the best of times, but four was like winning the lottery. There must have been a storm in the Channel, or some such peculiar weather system to have caused such a windfall of marine rarities.

The Flintback Drifter is a little-understood marine species that perfectly mimics flint stones, lying motionless among the pebbles of tidal zones. It is believed to be an evolutionary marvel, capable of remaining more or less inert for decades before gradually shifting into a more animate state. For those new to the species, here is a fact file.

Scientific Classification
Kingdom: Animalia
Phylum: Chordata (disputed)
Class: Lithopoda (proposed)
Order: Cryptosiluriformes
Family: Silicamariidae
Genus: Silicamaris

Species (numbered as in photos)
1) Silicamaris dormiens (Dormant Flintback Drifter)
2) Silicamaris lithomimus (Stone-Mimic Flintback Drifter)
3) Silicamaris vivens (Living Flintback Drifter)
4) Silicamaris mutabilis (Transitional Flintback Drifter)

Size: 20–50 cm (depending on life stage).
Color: Varies from deep grey to mottled black and white, mimicking natural flint and beach pebbles.
Texture: Hard, rock-like exoskin with occasional glossy fractures resembling chipped stone.
Body Structure: Appears almost featureless at rest but reveals faint ridges, a ventral mouth slit, and sensory pits when active.
Habitat & Distribution: Found exclusively along shingle beaches, particularly in Sussex, UK. Prefers intertidal zones, where it can remain still among pebbles, rarely moving except at night or during storms. Some reports suggest it may also drift along deeper seabeds, using its flint-like exterior to deter predators.
Feeding: Although widely thought to be pebble-eaters, they are slow-moving filter feeders, absorbing nutrients through microscopic pores when submerged. Some speculate it may consume small marine organisms using a concealed underbelly mouth.
Movement: Almost imperceptible. Shifts position by subtle expansions and contractions of its dense, flint-like tissue.
Defense Mechanism: Extreme camouflage. When disturbed, it remains motionless, indistinguishable from real stones.
Life Cycle & Evolution: Begins as Silicamaris dormiens, indistinguishable from a common flint stone. Over time, it may transition into Silicamaris lithomimus, showing faint organic features. Eventually, it develops primitive limb-like ridges and becomes either Silicamaris mutabilis or Silicamaris vivens (though marine biologists dispute whether these are two distinct species). Flintback Drifters may live for hundreds of years, growing at a nearly imperceptible rate, though much about these creatures remains unknown.