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.

Cuttlefish and their bones

Walk along Brighton’s pebbles and you’ll soon find yourself kicking out at brilliant-white oval-shaped objects that seem to be littering the beach. If you pick one up, it feels unnaturally lightweight. These are cuttlebones, as everyone knows, the internal shells of cuttlefish. They are not the most useful or interesting of beach finds, though they can be ground into powder for polishing, and jewellers have made moulds for casting metals. Today, most commonly, they serve as dietary supplements for pet birds. However, A.Z.L, my 13-year old son, likes turning them into art! This is his Cuttlebone Helter Skelter. Other artists like to carve them into shapes and scenes.

Each spring and summer, common cuttlefish (Sepia officinalis) migrate to shallow waters to breed, leaving behind thousands of eggs hidden among rocks and seaweed. Shortly after spawning, the adults die, and their remains drift with the tides. Their soft bodies decompose quickly, but the cuttlebones - made of lightweight, porous calcium carbonate - float on the water’s surface before washing ashore.

The prevailing southwesterly winds push them toward shore, where they land on Brighton’s pebbles rather than sinking into sand. Unlike driftwood, which might get swept back out to sea, cuttlebones tend to linger, their ghostly forms drying in the sun. Sometimes, you’ll find them with strange marks - tiny holes left by hungry seagulls pecking at the last traces of flesh.

Cuttlefish are fascinating creatures, according to Wikipedia, sometimes called the ‘chameleons of the sea’ due to their incredible ability to change colour and texture in moments. They use this skill to mesmerise prey, communicate with each other, or simply disappear into their surroundings. Though they have eight arms like an octopus, they also have two longer tentacles that strike out to snatch fish, crabs, or shrimp. Despite their intelligence and complex behaviour, their lifespans are surprisingly short - most live only a year or two before nature takes its course - adding another cuttlebone to the Brighton shoreline.

Over time, these bones have found strange uses beyond the sea. For centuries, people have ground them into powder as a polishing agent, while jewellers have used them to make moulds for casting metals. Artists have used them to carve objects of beauty - see Stephen Hughes’ work in South Africa’s Highway Mail. Today, most commonly, they serve as dietary supplements for pet birds, providing much-needed calcium for beak and bone health. 

Cuttlefish, of course, also have ink stores used to deter predators, but they also have long served man for different purposes, as a dye (to make non-iridescent reds, blues, and greens) and for food (to darken and flavour rice and pasta).

Brighton Beach Cowboy

The tide had pulled back, leaving a scatter of pebbles and seaweed tangled like a woman’s uncombed hair. Jeb Coulter stood at the water’s edge, boot heels digging into the wet sand, staring down at the thing half-buried beneath the wrack. It was a revolver, or at least the ghost of one, its shape worn smooth by salt and time. He bent down and picked it up, turning it in his hand. The weight was gone, its cylinder fused, the barrel plastic. Still, the sight of it sent a shiver down his spine.

It had been years since Jeb last held a gun. Years since the night he rode out of Abilene with his brother’s blood on his hands and a Cherokee war party at his heels. He had made it to the coast, crossed the ocean to escape his past, and found a different kind of frontier along these windswept shores. But some things, it seemed, could never be outrun.

He turned at the sound of footsteps crunching over stone. A man in a long coat approached, the collar pulled up high against the wind. Jeb recognised the stride before he saw the face.

‘Figured you might turn up sooner or later,’ Jeb muttered, slipping the ruined gun into his coat pocket.

The man stopped a few paces away, close enough for Jeb to see the jagged scar along his cheek. ‘You know why I’m here.’

Jeb nodded. He had known for a long time that his past would come calling. He had betrayed the Comanche chief who took him in as a boy, abandoned his tribe when the Army came, and left his own blood to die on the plains. The man standing before him was proof that debts were never truly settled.

‘I ain’t the same man I was back then,’ Jeb said. ‘And that thing ain’t a gun anymore.’

The man smiled grimly. ‘Don’t matter. You know what’s gotta be done.’

Jeb sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked past the man, out to where the waves rolled against the shore, dark and endless. He could run again. Try to disappear into the mist. Or he could face what was coming, the way a man ought to.

His hand fingered the ghostly revolver in his pocket. Useless. Just like trying to change the past.

The wind howled, carrying the cries of gulls and ghosts alike. Jeb squared his shoulders.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s finish this.’

With thanks to ChatGPT, and apologies to Elmer Kelton.

White arrows dropping from the sky

Found this morning on the pebbles in Hove - one bedraggled, dead northern gannet. Where did it come from, and how did it meet its final fate? One photographer has described these birds diving as ‘white arrows dropping from the sky’.  Unfortunately, not this one any longer,`

Northern gannets (Morus bassanus) are large, striking seabirds - with white body and black wingtips - which live in huge colonies on rocky cliffs and islands. Typically, they remain most of the year between late February and early October when they set out on a long journey to winter on the west coast of Africa. 

The northern gannets breed in their colonies between April and June, building nests from seaweed and other debris. The female lays a single egg, and both parents take turns incubating the egg for about 44 days. Once hatched, the chick is fed regurgitated fish by its parents; it fledges at around 10-12 weeks old. However, young gannets do not reach sexual maturity until reaching 4 or 5 when they join the breeding colonies and begin the cycle again. Average lifespan is 17 years, and their wingspan can reach 1.8 metres. They feed by circling high above the waves, before folding their wings back and make spectacular dives into the water headfirst to catch fish. They have special adaptations, such as air sacs in their chest and strong skulls, to withstand high impacts. 

The most significant colonies of northern gannets are located in Scotland. Bass Rock is the world’s largest: it had over 75,000 pairs (i.e. 150,000 individuals) as of about ten years ago. However, it was badly hit by Avian Flu, and the population was thought to have dropped 30% in 2023. Other larges colonies (over 10,000) also exist at St Kilda and Sula Sgeir (Outer Hebrides), and Ailsa Craig (Firth of Clyde). Elsewhere in the British Isles colonies are sited at Bempton Cliffs on the Yorkshire coast, Grassholm in Wales, and Little Skellig in Ireland (the latter with over 30,000 breeding pairs). 

Northern gannets are currently classified as ‘Least Concern’ by the International Union for Conservation of Nature, though they do face threats from climate change, pollution, and entanglement in fishing gear. Possible causes for the death of the gannet in these photos are: natural causes, i.e. old age, disease, or injury; exhaustion after severe winter storms; food shortages; pollution, which can weaken birds and make them more susceptible to disease; Avian Flu. More information can be found at Wikipedia and the Scottish Seabird Centre.

Richard Creagh’s website includes some spectacular photographs of northern gannets, as well as his own testimony of observing them (from 2017): ‘Gannets are the largest Irish seabird, with a wingspan just short of two metres. They are beautiful birds to watch, and what really sets them apart for me is their stunning dives. Ever since I first noticed them that afternoon in West Cork I’ve been drawn to those white arrows dropping from the sky in pursuit of fish. Diving from as high as forty metres gannets hit can hit the water at 60mph.’

Interestingly, there’s a comment on the same website from Stephen O’Melia who recalls watching northern gannets while swimming just along the coast from Brighton at Worthing: ‘It was around 3.00pm, about 90 minutes after high tide when a gannet approached a couple of women floating in the sea. It made an attempt to attack them but was eventually driven off by a third swimmer. But it circled round and attacked again. It later approached two other swimmers before flying off. This took place about 30 to 50 feet from the shore. I have never seen a gannet in Worthing before, and none of the other swimmers had either. No one was hurt but it was the persistency in the bird's approach which was surprising. We wondered whether it was unwell.’

Underwater fairy lights?

Found on Brighton Beach: a golden spray of tinsel? gossamer seaweed? washed up underwater fairy lights? botanical jewellery? 

None of the above. This is actually the fine, branched stems of a species of marine hydroid called Amphisbetia operculata. Hydroids are part of a larger group of animals called Hydrozoa (within the phylum Cnidaria which also includes jellyfish and corals).

Hydroids exist in a colonial polyp form. Colonies can be a few centimeters in length, but individual polyps are much smaller. Unlike many hydrozoans that alternate between polyp and medusa stages, Amphisbetia operculata does not have a medusa stage. Instead, it reproduces by releasing planula larvae, which swim for a short time before settling and growing into new colonies.

Like other hydrozoans, it is a filter feeder, relying on cnidocytes (stinging cells) for prey capture. Though they can be found in freshwater, they mostly live in shallow sea waters, attached to rocks, shells, seaweed, or other underwater surfaces. See more about Amphisbetia operculata at Aphotomarine.

Cool facts. While Amphisbetia operculata might be considered a rather lovely but otherwise benign and uninteresting sea creature, some species of hydroids have a little more pizazz about them. For example, Turritopsis dohrnii is sometimes called the ‘immortal jellyfish’. It has the unique ability to reverse its aging process - instead of dying, it can revert to an earlier life stage and start over, meaning it could, in theory, live forever under the right conditions. 

Certain hydroids, like those in the genus Aglaophenia, can grow on discarded fishing nets, ropes, or other debris, creating ghostly underwater structures that float in the currents.

And, finally, there are some hydroids that form colonies in which different polyps specialise in different tasks (some feed, some reproduce, and some defend the colony with stinging tentacles) - making for a superorganism!

The Green Gecko

The alien, who had chosen to disguise itself as a small green gecko, was experiencing some serious second thoughts. It had picked the shape after extensive research into Earth life forms (which largely consisted of an out-of-date wildlife documentary narrated by a man who sounded like he personally disapproved of evolution). The gecko, it had concluded, was small, unassuming, and possessed the ability to stick to surfaces. What it had failed to account for, however, was Brighton Beach. 

[With a nod to ChatGPT, and apologies to Terry (Pratchett). See also The Red Spider.]

Instead of warm, welcoming jungle, the alien had landed amongst an inhospitable terrain of sharp pebbles, aggressive seaweed, and something that looked suspiciously like an old shoelace with ideas above its station. Worse, a blustery wind kept trying to dislodge it, sending it skittering across the stones like a very confused lizard-based pinball.

Its mission was simple: assess Earth for potential invasion. But already, the gecko-alien suspected it would have to file a very different report than planned. The locals - seagulls, mostly - were vicious, psychotic creatures with a talent for aerial bombardment. The sea was clearly attempting to eat the land, and what little it had not consumed was covered in bizarrely shaped pebbles that, if you squinted just right, looked disturbingly like screaming faces. The crowning glory of the place, however, was the Great Knotted Thing.

The gecko-alien eyed it warily.

A mass of black seaweed, dried kelp, and an alarming amount of turquoise string had somehow assembled itself into a tangled, eldritch horror nestled between the stones. A strand of something - possibly rope, possibly something worse - twitched ominously in the wind. The alien extended a cautious claw to poke it and immediately regretted the decision as a strand of the Thing looped itself around its leg with unnatural enthusiasm.

There was a long pause.

The gecko wiggled.

The Thing tightened its grip.

On its home planet of Glorp Minor, where everything was logically structured and neatly categorised (right down to the appropriate screaming frequencies for different bureaucratic mishaps), this kind of unexpected development was unheard of. Here, however, the world seemed to be held together by inexplicable chaos and questionable knots. It was terrifying. And, in a small and entirely unwelcome way, a little thrilling.

The gecko-alien redoubled its efforts. It had faced the horrors of intergalactic space travel. It had spent three days trapped in a malfunctioning disguise generator and lived to tell the tale (although it now had a deep and lingering fear of being turned into a sentient teapot). It was not about to be bested by some uppity string.

After several frantic minutes, during which it somehow ended up even more entangled than before, the alien made a decision. It took a deep breath, deactivated the disguise, and stood up in its full tentacled, many-eyed glory. The Thing twitched once in defiance before wisely deciding to let go.

The alien sighed, turned on its communicator, and made its report.

‘Mission assessment: negative. This planet is a health hazard. Also, the local flora appears to be sapient, aggressive, and organised. Recommend immediate evacuation and strong intergalactic warning signs.’

With that, it activated its emergency teleport, leaving behind nothing but an untied knot, a very confused seagull, and a Brighton Beach that was none the wiser about its close brush with conquest.

A catshark that is a dogfish

Found on Brighton Beach: a small-spotted catshark (Scyliorhinus canicula) often called a dogfish. No, it’s not sunbathing, it’s dead, probably having been scavenged (yet not consumed). Sunlight does, though,  cast a warm glow on the fish and its pebble resting place.

The slender, elongated body has a pale, creamy underside and is covered in small, dark spots. Its gills can be seen through the open mouth, and its pectoral and dorsal fins are clearly visible. The tail appears slightly curled.

The small-spotted catshark is a small shark, so named due to the dark spots and blotches covering its skin. Individuals typically grow to around 60-70 cm in length, though some can reach up to one metre. Like all sharks they have very rough skin, covered in hard ‘dermal denticles’ - which literally means ‘tiny skin teeth’. If rubbed the wrong way, the fish feel very coarse like sandpaper but this provides them with an effective chain-mail like protection. 

Catsharks are predators and feed on crabs, molluscs and other small fish. When threatened, they curl up into a donut shape - probably to look bigger and harder to eat! They are highly common around the UK, harmless to humans, and live in sandy, gravelly, or muddy seabeds. As with all sharks and rays, their egg cases are known as mermaid’s purses; these have tendrils that anchor them to seaweed or rocks until they hatch.

What about this odd confusion of names? Wikipedia gives several other names for the small-spotted catshark: sandy dogfish, lesser-spotted dogfish, rough-hound and morgay (in Scotland and Cornwall). In the early days of animal classification, naturalists like Linnaeus initially grouped most sharks under the Squalus genus (Latin for shark). Over time, scientists refined their classification, moving this particular species into the Scyliorhinus (catshark) genus in the early 1900s. However, fishermen have traditionally used the term ‘dogfish’ for any common or abundant small sharks, regardless of their actual scientific classification. 

So, if you like, you can be both a dog(fish) person AND a cat(shark) person at the same time - though not a catfish, which is something entirely different!

The Red Spider

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a pebble-strewn beach, particularly one as lively as Brighton’s, must conceal treasures of singular peculiarity. It was on a brisk and clear morning, with the waves curling gently against the shore, that Miss Cordelia Calder - an accomplished young lady of both artistic disposition and sensible manners - happened upon an object so extraordinary as to defy reason.

There, amidst the dulcet tones of the sea and the chatter of Brighton’s fashionable promenaders, lay a red spider, crafted not of flesh and limb, but of knotted cord. Its crude appearance might, to an untrained eye, have been dismissed as flotsam, but to Miss Calder, it bespoke a story yet untold. With a sense of gentle curiosity, she stooped to retrieve the curious artefact, feeling a slight but distinct chill as her fingers closed around its threads.

It was not long before she perceived that the beach itself seemed altered. The ordinary murmur of the waves grew distant, replaced by an eerie stillness. The pebbles at her feet glimmered faintly, and the horizon shimmered as though the veil of reality had been lifted. Miss Calder, though accustomed to the occasional oddities of seaside leisure, could not but feel a tremor of unease. Yet her natural composure prevailed, and she continued to examine the spider with interest.

Presently, she was startled by the appearance of a figure - an elderly gentleman of dignified yet sea-weathered countenance, his coat stitched with patches that seemed to glisten like the scales of a fish. He regarded Miss Calder with an air of benevolent authority.

‘Madam,’ he began, in a voice that seemed to echo with the cadence of the tide, ‘you have stumbled upon the Red Spider, a keeper of dreams and a weaver of destiny. It is no small thing to hold, for its threads bind those who encounter it to the whims of the sea.’

Miss Calder, though perplexed, replied with characteristic civility. ‘Indeed, sir, I find myself most intrigued by your account. Yet I am at a loss to comprehend how so small and unassuming an object could wield such extraordinary influence.’

The gentleman inclined his head. ‘It is the nature of the sea, Miss Calder, to conceal its grandeur in humble forms. The Spider has lain here for many an age, awaiting one with the vision to perceive its worth. It offers a choice: to remain in your present life, unaltered, or to embrace its power and embark upon a journey of imagination and consequence, one that will forever alter the course of your days.’

Miss Calder, though possessing a practical mind, was not insensible to the allure of adventure. She considered the gentleman’s words with due deliberation, her artist’s soul stirred by the prospect of a destiny intertwined with the fantastical. At length, she spoke.

‘Sir, I am grateful for your counsel, and I confess my heart is moved by the promise of such a journey. Yet I would not take this path without the means to share its wonders with others, for it is my belief that art and imagination must be devoted to the enrichment of society.’

The gentleman’s weathered features softened into a smile. ‘Your wish is wise, and it shall be granted. Take the Spider and, with it, the gift to weave the dreams of the sea into your art. Use it well, and the world shall be all the richer for your vision.’

With a bow, the gentleman vanished, leaving Miss Calder alone once more on the beach. The Red Spider lay in her hand, its cords warm now, as if infused with life. Though she returned to her lodgings that day with no outward sign of adventure, her subsequent works - a series of paintings and tales suffused with the ethereal beauty of the sea - captivated all who beheld them, securing her place among the foremost artists and authors of her time.

And the Red Spider? It remained with her, a silent guardian of a dream once dreamed and a secret now held.

With a nod to ChatGPT, and apologies to Jane.

Odd one out

One of these photographs is not of Brighton Beach pebbles. But which is the odd one out, and why? 

Thanks to Gary ©gwpriester Eyetricks for one of these.

The carnivorous whelk

Herewith, as promised a couple of days ago and with little adornment, is the life cycle of the common whelk (Buccinum undatum).

Whelks reproduce annually, with spawning occurring between October and May. The process begins when water temperatures drop below 12°C. Females attract males by releasing pheromones, and fertilisation occurs internally. After mating, females move to hard substrates like rocks, shells, or stones to lay their eggs. The eggs are deposited in small, spherical protective capsules, which are stuck together in a sponge-like mass. Each capsule can contain up to 2,700 eggs, and a single female may produce 80-150 capsules.

The embryos develop within the egg capsules for 2-5 months. During this time, many of the eggs serve as food for the developing embryos, with only about 1% successfully developing into juveniles. After 4-5 months, fully formed juvenile whelks hatch from the capsules in winter. Newly hatched whelks measure about 3 mm in shell length. They then grow slowly, reaching 10-15 mm after one year and 21-26 mm at two years. They typically reach sexual maturity between 4.7 and 7.5 years of age, at a shell height of 45-70 mm.

Adult whelks are carnivorous predators and active scavengers. They use chemosensors to detect food in the water, extending a tube called a siphon to funnel water into their sensory organs. Their diet includes polychaete worms, small bivalve molluscs, and carrion. Common whelks typically live for about 10 years.

Unless, of course, they are caught for eating by carnivorous humans.

Brighton & Newhaven Fish Sales operate several boats that catch whelk (among other fish). The Evie Mae, an under-10m multipurpose catamaran, engages in whelk fishing during the warm summer months. One of its fishermen, Kier Foster, was quoted recently as saying: ‘There’s not much of a market here for these [local catches]. It’s best to cook the whelks, slice them up and send them to China where they go for £30 a kilo.” 

Nevertheless, you can buy fresh whelks on Brighton’s pebbles in the summer thanks to Frazer Leigh Smith’s Brighton Shellfish & Oyster Bar where they are served with vinegar and pepper. Delicious - if you like the sort of thing!

Of cockles clams and scallops

There seem to be an unusually large number of shells (the exoskeletons of animals) on the beach this winter. I may be wrong but I don’t recall shells vying with pebbles for dominance in so many areas along the tide line - perhaps this is because of a preponderance of winter storms and rough seas.

Here’s a photo from today with some or all of the following: 

Common whelk (Buccinum undatum) - spiral shells

Mussels (Mytilus edulis) - darker, elongated shells

Cockles (Cerastoderma edule) - rounded shells with ridges

Venus shells - smoother, rounded shells

Barnacles or limpets - possibly some of the encrusted or broken parts

The largest shells that I’ve ever found on Brighton Beach are scallops, beautiful fan-shaped objects. There aren’t many, though, because most of them, the ones I’ve seen and collected over the years, have been found much closer to Shoreham, immediately east of the River Adur (near the fab cafe, Carats).

Fun fact from BBC Science Focus. The very largest shells are of giant clams, Tridacna gigas. They can grow to well over a metre across and tip the scales at 200kg. Like all shell-making molluscs, they sculpt their protective homes from calcium carbonate and gradually expand them throughout their lives. They inhabit coral reefs and can live for at least a century. Here’s one on sale for around £3,000 (by UK Architectural Heritage).

Coming soon - life cycle of the common whelk!

Modern art sublime

Today, I found this abandoned bike on Brighton Beach, beneath the pier, unwanted, unloved. Nevertheless, ChatGPT, with a little persuasion and guidance, has found it to have not only an existential soul but all the trappings of ‘modern art sublime’.

Ode to a Brighton Bike

Upon the pebbled Brighton shore,

A bike lies wrecked, it rides no more.

Its wheels once spun with daring flair,

Now caged behind a steely stare.

Rust blooms orange on its frame,

A monument to love’s disdain.

Who left it here, mid salty spray,

To languish, rot, and fade away?

A boot still clings - its sole protest,

Against this life of cruel neglect.

Once partners speeding down the lane,

Now stranded, stuck in seaside shame.

A basket, bent, with secrets kept,

Might whisper tales of rides adept.

Of groceries, or lovers’ trysts,

Now home to sand and seaweed mist.

Oh Brighton Beach, you fickle host,

To broken dreams and driftwood ghosts.

This bike, once proud, now takes its place,

Among the ruins time will erase.

So passersby, do pause and glance,

At this sad bike’s ironic stance.

A relic bound in seaside grime - 

Brighton's answer to modern art sublime.