Arise
A lone cormorant greets the first golden light outside Waenhuiskrans cave
There are few places along the South African coast that offer a stage quite like the Waenhuiskrans cave at low tide. Tucked beneath ancient limestone cliffs and hidden from the elements for most of the day, the cave opens westward, framing the ocean in a dark, natural arch. At sunrise in midwinter, with the tide withdrawn just enough to allow entry, the cave becomes a perfect silhouette through which the day quietly arrives. It was here, in the stillness before the sea reclaimed the rocks, that a lone cormorant stood at the edge of light, its wings outstretched, timeless.
The bird had claimed its perch on a jagged rock just beyond the cave’s mouth, facing the open ocean. From deeper within the cave, the figure was small but striking—perfectly centred, holding the posture so typical of cormorants: wings spread wide to dry, head tilted slightly, body poised as if greeting the morning. A sharp golden beam from the low sun sliced across the rock, illuminating its form with almost theatrical precision.
There’s something gently ceremonial about this daily ritual of seabirds. While gulls and terns might wheel and cry above the surf, the cormorant operates in quieter patterns. It dives deep, swims strong, and when it returns, it doesn’t flap or fuss. It climbs onto a rock, shakes itself once, and spreads its wings—slowly, deliberately. There’s no rush. Just the sun, the wind, and the rhythm of drying feathers before the next plunge into the cold.
Reaching the cave at just the right moment took a little planning, and a little help. The visit had been arranged by Rodger, the GM at the Arniston Spa Hotel, who insisted the tide and weather that morning would line up perfectly. He was right. At first light, Robbie, the hotel’s operations manager, kindly drove me to a nearby access point. From there, we picked our way across the rocks and clambered down through a back entrance - a narrow, crouched crawl that suddenly opened into the cave’s massive inner chamber. It was a quiet, slightly surreal arrival. The sea was still low, the air cool, and the cave bathed in shadow, save for that bright wedge of dawn beyond the mouth.
Locals in Arniston know the cave well, though few visit it during the early morning tide. It’s mostly a spot explored during calm afternoons or shown to guests when the sea is behaving. At high tide, it’s entirely inaccessible, cut off by surging waves and slippery boulders. But at low tide, especially in the dry, brittle cold of midwinter, it opens up like a secret place. The floor is slick and uneven, the air smells strongly of salt and stone, and every sound—the waves, the footfalls, the breathing—echoes across the chamber.
To photograph from within the cave requires a bit of patience and preparation. The tide must be right, the light cooperative, and the conditions safe. But on this morning, the weather held, for a moment, at least. Before the clouds came rolling in, carried by yet another Cape cold front, the light was soft and precise. That short pause in the weather gave the scene a rare clarity: no mist, no haze, just the clean orange hue of first light and the stillness of the ocean holding its breath before turning.
The timing was everything. Within minutes, the tide would begin to shift. Already, small foamy surges lapped the edges of the cave’s floor, creeping into pools that had moments earlier been dry. The cormorant, unmoved, stood as if stitched into the moment, unconcerned by the coming waves or the changing light. Its pose, both primitive and perfect, seemed unchanged by time. It could have been yesterday. It could have been a hundred years ago.
Cormorants are frequent residents of this coastline. Known locally as duikers or skubbejaners, they’re efficient fishers and surprisingly strong swimmers, diving as deep as 30 metres in search of prey. What makes them distinct is that unlike many other seabirds, cormorants lack the waterproofing oils that help shed water from feathers. It’s why you’ll often see them on rocks, wings wide, drying themselves out before they fly again. It’s not a flaw in their design—it’s a feature, and a ritual of recovery. In doing so, they also become one of the most recognisable shapes along the coast.
From the vantage point far back in the cave, framed in shadow, the scene was almost painterly. The rock, the sea, the bird, the light, it all aligned. There was no noise but the slow crash of water and the occasional drip from the limestone ceiling. The cave, normally a place of echo and movement, became something else entirely: a kind of camera obscura, amplifying the moment rather than distracting from it.
That’s the rhythm of Arniston. Moments like this one aren’t arranged or manufactured, they’re simply found. The coast doesn’t make a fuss about its beauty. It doesn’t frame itself for a photograph. But now and then, it offers a brief composition: a bird in the right place, the light falling just so, the cave forming a perfect mouth through which the morning can speak.
By the time the clouds rolled in and the wind returned, the cormorant had flown. The rock was bare again, the light dulled, and the cave slowly disappeared into shadow and tide. But that brief encounter remained—a small performance played for no audience except the sea, a helpful guide, and one visitor standing quietly in the dark, watching it unfold.
About The Arniston Stories
The Arniston Stories is a photographic series capturing the quiet resilience, heritage, and rhythms of life in the coastal village of Arniston (Waenhuiskrans), South Africa. Through a collection of fine art images and accompanying narratives, the series offers a window into the textures, histories, and natural beauty of this unique place—told one story, one photograph at a time.
