The waves break in the distance against the tips of the rocks. The turbulence caused by their impact catches the eye. The fog is intense, dense. I can barely make out shapes that seem to appear and disappear. At times I think they are an illusion, a deceptive trick of the light. I look again and see something between the spray thrown up by the crashing waves and the mist that stubbornly lingers while the day seems still to be asleep. Men in black going back and forth as if imitating the motion of the sea. What are they doing? They appear to be armed, with spears or swords. For a second they appear to re-enact a scene from the Middle Ages, warriors unsheathing their swords to beat off invaders. I walk closer until I can make out their faces. They are men at work, earning their living, challenging the sea where it is at its most ferocious. They adopt combat positions, as if facing a stronger enemy, a foe who is usually tolerant but sometimes treacherous.

Ducking in and out of cracks in the rock with incredible agility, they seem to mould themselves to the space available. Amid dangling seaweed they merge with their surroundings until it is hard to say where the rock ends and the men begin.

They work at the edge, where land and sea lock arms in struggle, each laying claim to the line that separates them. This is the battlefield of the barnacle-gatherers. Men of the sea that they are, they know it as only such men can. At a glance they can tell when the conditions are right to "work the tide" and when they are not.

Living by the rhythms of the sea and the weather, in tune with the phases of the moon, they are " Sea Warriors".