“On coming suddenly to the brow of the precipice, it was a grand spectacle to see between twenty and thirty of these great birds start heavily from their resting-place, and wheel away in majestic circles.”

The wind cut sharp against my face as I crept along the basalt edge near Santa Cruz, the air thick with the scent of dung long piled upon the rocks. Suddenly, the silence broke; dozens of heavy forms surged upward from the cliff’s lip, turning slowly in wide, silent arcs against the grey sky.