The doomed lobsters at Murtar 

I've never felt easy with lobsters - I'm unnerved by their claws and jointed legs - I'm appalled to think of how they are boiled alive in gleaming pans -

I once read a short story by Samuel Becket called Dante and the Lobster - I shuddered when I read its closing sentence - it's true, I thought - it is not a quick death -

I thought of this story when I saw the lobsters at Murtar - we'd been sailing close hauled all afternoon, the yacht racing over the turquoise sea - the Bora blew from the north west - the yacht was heeled over, its port side rails skimming the waves - torn necklaces of foam stung our faces -

We had to reef the jib - we coiled the ropes around the shining winches - the yacht moved beneath our bare feet like a sleek, nervy, creature -

We moored stern on to the quayside - I picked up the lazy line, using a boat hook to lift up the heavy rope - a line of yachts swung on their warps in the wind, which gusted unpredictably -

We made our way into the waterside restaurant - it was then I saw the tank with the lobsters - their claws were bound up - their antennae flickered - they moved about in their beautiful speckled armour -

I felt pity for these doomed beings - soon a sous chef would fish them out, throw them into scalding, bubbling, water -

We ate upstairs - I looked out of the high opened windows - I was amazed by the beauty of the sunset - I felt calm and happy, my muscles aching, my hair full of salt - but I still remembered the lobsters -