The white 'Rose of Aran' is ploughing a sparkling wake under a patch of sunlight moving swiftly across the distant slope of the 'Slieve Elva'. I'm leaning comfy in my rock recline near the slipway of Inisheer. A few crows are checking the cracks for edible wash-ups.
A mum is taking pics of her few-years old, 'Wait until the wave comes in!' Peace and quiet are my armchair now that I'm finally catching my breath after spending it in six days of exhilarating free-diving.
At first Dusty seemed reluctant to appear before the spectacular underwater camera of Pascal, the 'Mona Lisa' diver with the 360º vision and a smile somewhere between the company's icon and the sweet of Dusty's complexion.
Photo: Stéphane Granzotto
But then Her Silvership appeared from out of the blue, almost panicking me as no camera seemed near to capture her elegant orbit. But once tête-à-tête, from the corner of my eye, I saw a climb of bubbles rise and I knew, we got it!
From then on I relaxed and magically Dusty kept on coming. I'm sure she must have sensed my initial tension. Dolphins have an emotional intelligence that is honed in 50 million years of close congregation. And Dusty has tied her hard wire into human interest. This works both ways. Nothing is more genuine than the trust of an animal. My very first meeting with a dolphin established that. It came towards me, 28 years ago, to the rim of a basin in the Dolfinarium Harderwijk, Holland, and opened its mouth. I put my hand on its tongue and stroked it: I trust you not to close those razor sharp toothed jaws. And it didn't. It returned the trust I gave it with a cheerful chirp.
Photo: Stéphane Granzotto
And now I threw my joy into the brine. When she wasn't around I'd pump up my lungs and swayed wing in ground close along the sandy calms amidst the wilding weeds. A flounder, artfully disguised, a crab, high on stilts, running with the speed of a tarantula,
Photo: Stéphane Granzotto
a fierce coloured lobster, launching itself in a fast arch for cover underneath a rock, its sledgehammer claws trailing in streamline.
A shadow in the distance growing into shape, Dusty, inquisitive as always and me, twisting strands of lace weed into a tight bundle, bending with the tide.
Photo: Stéphane Granzotto
And so had she her fun. Reviewing the footage I saw she had been behind me more than half of the time. And then, deliberately, in full view of the huge dome of Pascal's camera, she came and stopped 5 centimeters in front of me. I stuck out my hand and she wound herself around it for a loving cuddle, a tickle at the folds of her chin, a finger wriggle in her slippery armpit and then belly up for a full rub of the white of her chest to her heart's content.
Photo: Stéphane Granzotto
This feast for the eye of the millions who can watch it in two months time on the French and possibly also on the German Arte television, was supplemented with several aerial views. A six-propellered drone was hovering above us, revealing Dusty's approaches, her lingerings around me and her exits to the deep when she went to powder her nose. What greater completion could one wish for.
Photo: Stéphane Granzotto
The light is fading, the work is done. I'm suddenly very tired and drift into languor. The tide is getting up close and personal. I heard the new baby potatoes are a sensation and with all the salt that ate my skin I might even chance a pint. A casual chat hither and thither on the front bench of the hotel and then to cast my self into the arms of gravity.