Some believed the whole island was haunted, stem to stern, from the top of Lighthouse Hill to the bottom of Shubrick Point. One little lighthouse keeper’s house was nothing compared to the constant ripping of flesh from bone just off the shore. It was a violent place. There was that female skeleton found inside Great Murre Cave, resting as though she’d stopped for a nap a hundred or a thousand years ago. The naturalists tell me this on my third day, matter-of-factly, while we’re anchored fifty feet off the cave, waiting for a white shark to come back to finish its freshly-killed sea lion.