By Sara Kirschenbaum
I spot the bird on Pebble Beach. I’m scanning the beautiful rounded rocks of my favorite beach. The tide is coming in and splashing the dusty finish of these giant smooth rocks, turning the light grays into color: dark green, yellow stripes, pink speckles, a sash of quartz white. I am on a two-week solitary retreat to work on my writing and stop worrying. About my grown children who have moved to bad neighborhoods in faraway cities, and about my father’s ongoing, seven year, battle against heart failure. About him recently becoming a hospice patient.
Each day I set out with a large cup of coffee to climb another section of rocky coast around Monhegan Island, Maine, my favorite place on the whole blue green earth. And today, I spot him. A seagull with a traumatically injured wing. Not survivable, I think to myself.
He has a creamy white head with a shy brown eye. The mottled brown coloring starts at his neck and gradually darkens toward his all brown tail. His wing looks ripped out of its socket and dangles loose, a few inches below his shoulder. His head is pulled in close to his body. He looks vulnerable, confused, stoic. When I pass him, he jumps to a new rock to maintain distance. His wing drags.
Further on, I run into two birders on the path and ask them if they saw the injured seagull and if they know of a veterinarian on the island. “We saw him. There’s nothing that can be done for him. Hopefully an eagle will get him and put him out of his misery.”
Two days later I’m back to Pebble Beach to collect rocks. I’ve successfully put the injured seagull out of my mind.
Until, unbelievably, I see him, still alive. “Hello there fella. You’re still here!” I decide to come back soon with something to eat. I murmur to him, “I’ll be back.”
It is October and the island is shutting down its tourist amenities for the season. The one vacationing veterinarian has gone home. Only 55 people live here year-round. Their one store is closing because it’s lost its lease; the owner wants to turn it into an art gallery by next summer. The island community is scrambling to open a new, cooperative, grocery. But I came prepared, with two blue IKEA bags filled to capacity with groceries from Trader Joe’s.
The next morning I put a half-frozen single portion of Trader Joe’s Broccoli and Cheese Quiche in my pocket and head straight to Pebble Beach. When I emerge from the forest path, I can’t see him. I pace back and forth on the trail that circles the island. And find him, alive, 50 yards north of where he was. “Hey!” I chortle, so happy to see him. I run toward him almost expecting him to be glad to see me. But he runs away to the next rock, dragging his wing. I pull the limp freezer-burned quiche out of its wrapper and toss him a piece. It falls between rocks, out of his reach. The next lands near him and he hops toward it. He stares at it, turning his head to look more closely. Then he opens his beak and grabs it, raising his head and gulping it down his gullet in jerks and swallows. I throw the rest of the quiche in chunks, with most of it falling between rocks. He maneuvers to get what he can. I feel rewarded, deliciously so.
On the way back to my cabin I gain determination to do something for this poor dear seagull who has been out there in the weather and eagle territory for at least four days. But what can be done?
Google leads me to wildlife sanctuaries. The closest one is an hour ferry ride and 60 more miles away. Avian Haven in Freedom, Maine, takes my call without laughing at me. They are caring and methodical, asking me to describe the bird and the injury. I tell them I’ll go back the next day and take a picture and text it to them, if he’s still alive.
The next morning I set out in bright autumn sun with another quiche. This time I find him right away and he starts running toward me! I throw the pieces of quiche and he gobbles them hungrily. I snap a photo. How is it I am a recognizable figure to this wild bird?
Avian Haven texts back after they get the photo. They say he looks like a male juvenile Great Black Backed Gull, the largest gull species in the world. They can’t determine the extent of his injuries from the photo. But…if I can catch him and put him on the ferry, they might be able to get a volunteer to meet him at the mainland and drive him the hour and a half to Avian Haven where they will take care of him and see if he can be helped.
The whole point of my trip is to be alone and write. But one week in, I’m feeling lonely. A pesky fly is my only companion. Next door to my cabin is a rental home. A large extended family is staying there and having nightly dinner parties. They know a local lobsterwoman, Lisa Brackett, and have suppers of her freshly caught lobsters downed with lots of white wine and guitar playing. I feel pitiful in my silent cabin and daily Cambozola sandwiches. Like scrooge peering into the parties of Christmas past, I approach the door and knock.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m staying next door. Sorry to bother you. But I’m trying to save this seagull that’s injured. And I think I can catch him and put him in a box but I can’t figure out how I will put the top on the box.”
By the time I finish my sentence, they are all pointing to the tall patriarch sitting at the head of the table with a large glass of wine in his hand. “He…He can do it…He’s your man,” they say.
He may be my man but he is reluctant and practical. “There are so many things wrong with your plan. It can’t be saved. And there are laws. It is not legal to capture a wild bird…”
“I talked to Avian Haven. They said I could do it. They get seagulls all the time. They said to put him on the ferry.” “The ferry?!” Mr. Patriarch says. “I doubt it will be legal to put it on the ferry. You’ll have to talk with the captain. I could catch the bird. I run a company that sponsors 187 bird watching trips in North and South America. Picking up a bird is nothing. But I’ll only do it if the Captain agrees.”
When I’m on Mohegan, I try not to bring any attention to my subpar tourist status, but trying to save this seagull is getting conspicuous. I call the captain of the Laura B. ferry. He says he’ll transport the seagull. No charge. He’s shipped a lot of odd stuff in his day. Although never a seagull. I look in people’s backyards for a box to put the bird in, and find a banana box someone is willing to give me.
The next morning Patriarch and I head out in the sideways morning light with my last Broccoli Cheese Quiche and one of my parents’ towels. When we get to Pebble Beach, the seagull is nowhere to be seen. Christ! I feel so foolish. Mr. Practical starts to walk away. I climb north on the rocky shore and find my fella standing on a rock. I call out and retrieve my doubter.
I throw the towel. He grabs the bird. Holding him, he says, “He’s so light. Very undernourished.” We get him in the box and I carry this feather-light load to the dock, grinning to myself. I quietly put him by the outgoing luggage. I offer him the rest of the quiche through the handle hole in the banana box. My bird gobbles it with gusto. I whisper, “Goodbye little guy. At least someone cared.”
That night Monhegan Brewing is having an end-of the-season party. I’m standing around a bonfire shyly chatting with lobsterwoman Lisa Brackett. I confess to her, “I’m a nutcase: I put an injured seagull on the Laura B. today.”
She says, “Oh I know. Everyone on the island’s talking about it.”
I admit, “He probably won’t make it, but I had to do something. He was out there for at least five days.”
“I can’t tell you how many injured seagulls I’ve seen, but it was a nice thing to do.
“My dad just went on hospice so I guess I have two in hospice.”
You’re not a nutcase. In my mind, if it feels right to you, it’s worth it.”
Later that night I get a call from Avian Haven. They have received the gull. He has a necrotic compound fracture of the elbow. “Did you smell the necrosis?” They can’t save the bird. They are not allowed to amputate: federal regulations. But he’s resting now. They are going to feed him trout for dinner. Let him sleep the night, safe. Tomorrow they’ll release him to his final flight.