Open Writing

I have been fascinated by birds since I was a small child. It was one of the few enthusiasms my father and I shared. Our house was situated close to woods that encompassed a sizable bird sanctuary. The sanctuary contributed to both the number and variety of species we were treated to. Our daily population included Robins, Wrens, Blackbirds, Thrushes, Tom Tits, Magpies, Jays, Crows, Swallows, Swifts, Starlings, Woodpeckers and a variety of Finches, not to mention the ubiquitous Sparrows.

On special occasions we’d be visited by some of the rarer species that had ventured out of the sanctuary, or had been blown into our garden by gales. These might include the startlingly bright pink Bullfinches, or Blue Tits. Each spring it was always a family contest to hear the first Cuckoo; such a heartwarming sound after a long, hard winter.

As well as being a delight to our eyes and ears, some of the birds provided us with information about the weather. If the Swallows were flying low it was a sign of impending bad weather because the insects they were feeding on were to be found at lower altitudes due to falling barometric pressure. If the Blackbirds and Thrushes were making a hearty meal of the Mountain Ash berries it predicted a hard winter ahead. At least these were our theories, but of course we never kept records to verify our predictions.

Most of the bird watching I did as a youngster involved the species I have mentioned, which usually were only observable for a few moments. They swooped out of the woods, fed for a brief time then flew back into the bushes and trees. So it was not until I went to live in more open areas that I could watch birds in flight for extended periods. This is particularly true of the vantage point from my boat. My floating observation platform provides an ideal spot to see not just birds on the wing, but also waders and other tidewater birds.

I’m far from being a systematic bird watcher, but latterly I have become fascinated by their flight, probably because there are seagulls in abundance where my boat is tied up. It’s hard to have a favorite bird species; they are all wonderful, but I think seagulls take some beating. They’re always immaculate, and dressed to perfection. Nothing seems to faze them. In July of 1996 I sat out tropical storm Bertha on my boat with winds of 50 to 60 miles an hour. The seagulls went about their business as though it was just another day at the office.

They are superb fliers, and it’s hard to imagine that they’re intellectually incapable of enjoying it. While some of their flight patterns plainly are utilitarian maneuvers to obtain food, most of their aerobatics defy such a mundane explanation. I’m not alone in my fascination either; the Wright Brothers derived their theories of flight from watching seagulls at Kitty Hawke in North Carolina, where they tested their early planes. The author, Richard Bach, created the theme of his book “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” around the title character’s striving for perfect flight, and it would appear that most of Jonathan’s successors are still in pursuit of it.

In amongst the swirling Seagulls I see another of my favorites, the Osprey, one of the Fish Hawks. Osprey flight, in contrast to the Seagull’s, is not intended to be stylish or for fun. It has more to do with the focused purposefulness of catching as many fish in a day as can be eaten. The Hawks glide without a flap of their wings until they spot a fish, hover briefly while they calibrate their sights, then plunge like a stone from treetop height to seize the luckless fish in their talons, miraculously rising from the waters with their prey to fly back to the nest. When they have a couple of chicks to feed, that performance is repeated time after time throughout the day.

Each of the past several summers I have been privileged to watch and listen to each stage of the young Ospreys’ development, from the early days of screaming pathetically for food, to finally leaving the nest. There’s a rooftop nearby where the chicks take their first flying lessons. Watching their antics is not unlike watching a child’s first dive into a pool - repeated, hesitant false starts, with finally an eyes-closed leap into the abyss.

Like the child floundering about in the water, amazed at having survived the plunge, the chick seems not to know what to do in mid-air, until finally, instinct kicks in and it starts to flap its wings. But this is no polished performance; it’s more comparable to the drunken stagger of an infant’s early attempts to walk. As each day passes, the adult birds show increasing reluctance to provide the chicks with food, finally refusing completely. After plaintive cries of protest, the almost fully grown birds get down to business, hunting on their own.

Their flying still has room for improvement, but in another couple weeks the amateurish flapping is gone, to be replaced by a more exhibitionist performance of the “look at me” variety. The adults and their offspring will be gone soon, as will I, each of us off to our winter quarters. But we’ll both be back. The chicks will eventually repeat the cycle as parents, and I’ll be waiting, and watching.

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