The only sound are gentle drops, running off my orange paddle, hitting the salty waters of Loch Eishort—a North Atlantic bay in the Inner Hebrides. I sit motionless in my kayak watching the sea haar silently flowing over the hills, sinking into the ocean. As above so below mesmerised when the horizon disappears entirely I hang suspended, floating amongst the clouds. The stories of Avalon appearing out of the mist suddenly make sense. I think; turning around to face coral island—too small to be a mythical land, and yet …

Naddy watch! An urgent shout runs across the water in hurried strides. Two o’clock from me. There is something huge! It’s moving fast.

I suddenly feel vulnerable in my small kayak suspended between the vastness of water and sky. And then I see them—large disturbances in the water. Distances are difficult to judge, I will look it up later and estimate about one mile and a half East of us. As if a huge fish is being chased by an unknown creature, trying to escape with zig zag movements. For a fraction of a second I see something poking out of the water, too large to be a seal head, no dolphin fins, no fins at all. Whatever it is, incredible speed carries it across the bay, going inland. Something is hunting, we agree, and stay well away. Do Kelpies live in saltwater?

Let’s continue across the bay and visit Allt na Peighinn waterfall, we agree. Although curiosity pulls me towards the unknown creature. Not that I could keep up that speed in my steady fat fishing kayak. Disconcerted my eyes keep tracing the inlay for whoever caused the commotion but tranquillity has returned, my nerves settle, and soon enough my attention is forced on territorial terns. Yes, we are wearing base caps, and no we are not persons of interest for the feisty flyers. They are having beef with local gulls and are cheered on by oyster catchers. I am picking up speed, lest the inhabitants of Eilean Gaineamhach Boreraig turn their attention to me.

Finally, the waterfall is moving closer. I check the time it took us to get across the bay. We pull ashore for a snack break, and decide to follow the coastline before crossing over again. J is slightly behind me scouting for fishing spots. When I notice movement ahead. Is this a seal? No too small. It’s an otter! I quietly squeal.

The creature pauses its movement and I viscerally feel attention wash over me. No way did she hear my squeal? She is still too far away to see clearly. But. I know. I just know she is coming towards me. Pause. She lifts her head out of the water, another surge of attention. And off she goes smooth movements snake towards my kayak. Pause. Again. Pop up head. Again. Attention again. And off she goes, again. Tiny bow waves purposefully wash in my direction. I can literally feel J holding his breath just as I do. I don’t dare turning around to check in with him. In mutual agreement we stopped speech, movement, even breath. The water is holding us in place. The kayaks have stopped drifting. And suddenly she is so close I can make out the powerful body slinking elegantly through the water. Pause. Head out of water, curious eyes lock with mine. She dives forward. Yet a bit closer, right in front of me, her eyes lock with mine again. I gasp. Hello, I say. Thank you for visiting with us. She nods, and looks on. Then her tiny ears fold over, and I can see her nostrils close. She dives once more and pops up again, next to me, the other side of the kayak now, eyes lock once more. I can feel hot tears running down my cheeks. An eternal moment.