People sat up from skin-baking or shade-seeking, children on flabby lilos stopped squall-splashing: not a pointy snorkeller, but a diver-bird. 'Duck!' someone called, as he dipped and disappeared underwater, emerging liquid minutes later as no human could. 'Guillemot' I said assured, chuckling. Grey-black, shiny as wet seaweed his head intent for rush of a shoal, no periscope or radar could equal that vision: beak needling fish leading a feathery thread up and down. I tried to swim out, follow him, make clicking noises to draw his attention: he ignored my performance. Returning home, in reference books, I realised 'guillemot' was just as absurd. He was elusive here as he'd been in the bay, no silhouette fitting. Yet I knew he'd keep re-surfacing further and further away, stitching more firmly because I couldn't find a name. by Mike Jenkins from This House, My Ghetto
Additional information: Here are some fun facts about the guillemot.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 