Laughter drifted up to my "penthouse" loft as people left the village pub, telling me that it was 2 a.m.  "Laughter like music" -- one of those phrases that is labelled trite because it's been heard more than once; but Highland voices truly are like music.

Thoughts of the day I'd spent on the sea loch caressed me.  As always, the rock islands had been covered with seals.  I imagined they'd been waiting for my return, and smiled.  Calum spun his enchanting tales, and told a new one about a famous opera singer who'd heard that seals come to song and tried it on one of his trips.  "And no' a one came to the boat," said Calum, and we all laughed.  But when we took our usual drift break near the heronry island, I longed to try it.  I was never completely happy when the seals weren't in sight, and I thought it would be wonderful to bring them to me at will.  But -- too shy.  I was sure I'd fail, and I didn't want to be a joke told on future seal trips.

I tried watching the telly but there was nothing bearable on -- not an unusual occurrence in the Highlands.  I finally decided to take a walk.

A great joy, this, to walk in the night.  I never felt as safe anywhere on the planet as I did here.  The worst danger would be encountering an overly friendly stray from the village's herd of Highland Cattle.  And I was so besotted with the wonderful red "coos" that I wouldn't mind at all to encounter one at any time, even the dead of night.

But I was to find no companions, and sat quite alone on the harbour wall.

The moonlight defined the wee island that sat in the center of the harbour, its trees bent with the force of the west wind scraping across the Isle of Skye.  Peace soaked deeply into me, and great happiness.  I wanted to become one of the ancient rocks along the shore, to have been a resident for millennia, and planning to stay for many more.

So what would I sing to the seals, I wondered.  The Scottish songs I knew were mostly political, and all of them too rollicking for the magic of the night.  Songs of my own homeland came to me.  Songs of the sea.  I began to sing "Sweet Singing Bamboo", softly at first.  It was a perfect song -- hypnotic, lilting, calling.  As I forgot about feeling silly, my voice bloomed and I sang clear and full into the night, lost in the enjoyment of place and moment.

"Plopkt!"

I squeaked and shot to my feet, seeing a shadow in the shallows below my wall.

Och!  It was a seal.

She vanished before I'd gotten a grip, so I immediately resumed my song.  With another plopping sound, her face reappeared, slightly closer. I struggled not to break the song as I so slowly lay on my stomach, stretching out to look into her soulful and engaging eyes.  Then "plopkt" again -- another seal's head broke the water, just a yard away.  I was shaking with delight, but was careful to keep singing clear and true.

What did they think, I wondered, of this song of bamboo and trade winds, these creatures of the far north.  Did they understand that it was about the wind and water?  Or did they just enjoy to hear a voice?

I sang and sang until I could sing no more.  They stayed with me, watching me solemnly.  When I could sing no longer I also realized I was finally sleepy. I blew them kisses and they sank below the black water.