Laying on my back on the rock and trying to slobber this stuff onto the connector, the wind catches it and blows rubbery strings onto my hands and the tower. Not a neat task. About that odd coloration seen on the ride in. It is shells. Hundreds of thousands of small shells litter this rock, settling everywhere you look and into every nook and cranny not reached by the cleansing motion of the sea.
Birds nest directly upon the stone, there being neither soil nor trees down here.
They bring their catches up onto the rock and the shells remain. Collecting here for uncounted thousands of years, you cannot take a step that is not upon shells. The location is not hospitable for the likes of us, but is surely beautiful. I step away from my work several times to look and take a few photos, but mainly just to look. The steely grey black of the sea and the white peaks beyond, hundreds of sea birds floating the wind overhead, screeching in protest at our intrusions.