Have you ever seen a cormorant fishing

Oh, yes, and each time it feels like witnessing a piece of ancient, unadorned magic. The first time, though, is etched in my memory with the clarity of a charcoal sketch on a grey morning.

I was by the edge of a large, still lake, the air crisp with the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke. The surface of the water was a perfect, glassy mirror, only occasionally shivered by a breeze or the gentle rise of a fish. Then I saw it: a sleek, dark silhouette, riding low in the water like a half-submerged log. It was a cormorant, its long, sinuous neck often held at an inquisitive angle, head cocked. Its plumage, when the light caught it just so, was an iridescent, oily black, almost purple, giving it a perpetually wet, reptilian sheen.

For a long moment, it seemed utterly still, a living shadow on the water. Then, with a suddenness that made me gasp, it vanished. No splash, no fuss – just a ripple where it had been, as if the water had simply swallowed it whole. The surface closed over its point of entry, leaving behind an almost imperceptible swirl.

I found myself holding my breath, my eyes glued to the spot. Where would it re-emerge? How long could it stay down? The silence of the lake was profound, broken only by the distant call of a coot. Time stretched, a suspenseful pause in the natural world.

And then, as abruptly as it disappeared, it erupted. A small explosion of water, and there it was, sleek and triumphant, its beak firmly clamped around a wriggling, silver fish. The fish thrashed wildly, catching the pale morning light in protest, but the cormorant held it fast. There was a swift, almost imperceptible adjustment, a toss of the head, and then, with a gulp that seemed impossibly large, the fish was gone. Swallowed whole, head-first, in a single, powerful motion.

It sat there for another moment, utterly still, a droplet of water clinging to its beak, before diving again. The entire sequence was repeated, each time with the same prehistoric efficiency, the same effortless grace. It wasn’t just fishing; it was a living torpedo, a master of its fluid domain, an ancient ritual played out with breathtaking precision.

Watching it, I felt a strange mix of awe and a primal respect. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation, just the pure, unadulterated instinct of a hunter. It left me with a vivid understanding of why, for centuries, people around the world have partnered with these birds, harnessing their incredible skill. It was a stark, beautiful reminder of the wildness that still thrives beneath the calm surface of our world, and the sheer, focused power of nature.