By seven the pier already had a quiet class. Puffins stood in a polite row while one glint at a time settled on the tip of a beak. The keeper handed out shell mirrors and asked nobody to hurry the color next door.
We asked at the kiosk by the gangway. "I thought they were just catching the sun," said a man with a paper bag of rolls. "Then a puffin nodded to the lighthouse, and the orange stripe waited until the yellow one had finished bowing."
The pier keeper left a note on the railing: guests may watch, but please do not clap until tea. By noon the water already knew one polite way to shine.