A greasy ball of fluff from seal pups.

Found

By Lucy Sienkowska

I recently visited the Norfolk coast and was taken by a friend to an isolated stretch of beach where seals give birth every winter. Rural England is not the most exotic setting, but I was struck by how desolate the landscape felt and how bizarre it was to come across such seemingly alien creatures.

We were walking along the wide beach, faces raw against the wind, encountering fewer and fewer people until we were the only ones left, venturing deeper into the cold, bright wilderness. Then the first blubbery body appeared. Bloated and torpid against the shoreline, the seal turned its giant head to look at us with shining black eyes. More of the languorous aliens emerged the farther we walked, and more blank, sad eyes followed us, viscous with snot.

We reached the dunes where the newest pups had been born, deserted in the long grass by indifferent mothers. I knelt by one little guy. He snorted and farted, lolloping across the sand and shedding his white coat to reveal oily black skin beneath. I stuffed a soft fistful of the discarded tufts in my pocket.

I’ve kept the white fur in a box on my desk ever since. It smells awful, but I like to look at it occasionally and think about the creepy, otherworldly creature it once belonged to.