A Frenzied Flurry
It was a cold but sunny October afternoon in Cape May, New Jersey. Because it was off-season, most businesses and restaurants were closed and almost no one was walking through the downtown area; the beach looked all but deserted, and the few people walking on it appeared to be fighting against a fairly strong breeze. But I’ve always been drawn to the water, especially the ocean, so I decided to brave the cold and take advantage of a rare chance to walk on the beach.
I waddled awkwardly over the first hundred feet or so of the beach, my sneakers sinking into the fine, whitish sand and then kicking some of it up each time I lifted a foot for the next step. I don’t enjoy walking on this part of the beach, even when barefooted in the summer. My favorite part is near the water, where the sand is brown and wet and hardened from the constant pounding of waves. I call it “surf sand,” and I love to walk on it, moving parallel to the line of waves, watching the little air bubbles pop to the surface, looking at footprints, and discovering various treasures that were washed to shore. I pulled my hood up to block the wind and strolled slowly along the waterline, picking up small seashells and watching the waves crash and then recede. This has always had a calming, soothing effect on me. I can spend hours on end just watching waves roll onto a beach and sunlight sparkle on the water, and be perfectly content.
After a few minutes, I noticed a fairly large flock of birds sitting on the wet surf-sand a bit ahead of my path. Thinking they were seagulls, I decided to get some pictures, so I started walked very slowly toward them, hoping to avoid spooking them. They were all sitting very still, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. It seemed that they, like me, were hypnotized by the motion and sound of the waves.
I walked closer and closer, taking some photographs as I neared them. Most of the birds still didn’t move, even when I got within a few yards of them. A few turned their heads slowly and looked at me, but seemed nonplussed. As I drew nearer, I realized that they didn’t look or act like seagulls. I had no idea what they were—they looked like a hybrid of a toucan, a gull, and a penguin, with duck-like legs and webbed feet.
I texted a friend who has gone on birdwatching excursions at Cape May, and I included a picture taken on my phone. She texted back that she thought they were called oystercatchers; to be sure, I googled it. (Yes, while standing there on the beach, I just HAD to know what they were. I mean, these days we hold in our hands the ability to research anything at all, regardless of where we are, and get an immediate answer. How cool is that?) In less than 30 seconds, I was able to confirm from my query’s image results that the birds were, indeed, oystercatchers. (And for grammarians: “oystercatchers” is, indeed, all one word.) I thought it odd that I had never seen them before in Ocean City or Rehoboth, or any other Mid-Atlantic beach I’d visited over the years. Excited about this new discovery, I decided to chance walking even closer to them to get some better photographs.
Slowly, I moved in their direction, taking pictures as I walked. A few of them noticed this and moved slightly, by about a foot. Still, they weren’t spooked. I figured they might have grown accustomed to humans, and as long as I didn’t make any sudden moves, I might be able to get pretty close. And I did, moving to about 3 feet from the far edge of the group and then slowly crouching down to be closer to the sand in order to get a better look.
They were somewhat odd-looking birds, with long, colorful, pointed bills—the better to crack open an oyster, I suppose. Their top feathers looked shiny and sleek, but the coloring was different among some: most had very dark, almost coal-black, feathers on their heads, backs, and wings, while a smaller set had a more muted color—more like a dark gray, although some were more brownish, and speckled with white. All of them had white, fluffy belly feathers. I don’t know if the coloring differences were because of gender (in most bird species, males have brighter colors than females) or because of age (younger birds’ colors are usually more muted; they “grow into” their colors).
They stood at attention, most of them facing directly at the line of breaking waves. Some of them were standing one-legged, like pelicans, with the other leg tucked up inside their feathers. For several minutes, as they stood and stared, watching the waves come in and the foamy undertow slide back out, I stood and stared, too, watching them watch the waves.
At some point, I noticed another distinct difference between the two subgroups: the darker-colored ones seemed to have no eyes! This was a bit creepy, and I thought it certainly couldn’t be true. Were their eyes just closed? Were the darker birds sleeping while the other ones kept watch?
It wasn’t until later, when I transferred my pictures to a computer and was able to zoom in, that I located the eyes on the darker birds: pitch black and fairly high on their heads, they were camouflaged very efficiently. As a believer in nature’s “smart design,” I know there is some purpose behind this, and I wonder what it is: Protection? Advantage while hunting oysters?
While I was crouched on the sand trying to figure out the puzzle of the eyes, some of the birds near the middle of the flock suddenly began to squawk—a piercing cry that startled me—and then started to run toward me. Others soon followed suit, and what had been a silent, serene, communing-with-nature moment suddenly felt like a scene straight out of Hitchcock’s “The Birds.” Were they going to attack me? What spooked them? What should I do?
My instinctive response, of course, was to stay put and take pictures. So I did, although I was prepared to duck and cover, or run for my life, if either became necessary. I held the camera at arm’s length, my thumb on the shutter button, and just let it snap away. I didn’t look to see what I was capturing, as I wanted to keep my eyes on the birds, especially since it was obvious that the entire flock was on the move, headed in my direction. I was a bit nervous, to be honest, because as much as I love nature, I’m also aware that wild animals are just that—wild; even birds can attack and cause injury. But what happened next was wonderful, and maybe even just a little bit magical.
Turns out, the birds were getting a running start for takeoff. As groups of about five to ten reached a certain spot in front of me, they spread their wings, leaned forward and upward, tucked their feet, and took flight.
There was a certain timing, a choreography, to their movements. I found myself surrounded by a swirl of colors: black white, gray, brown, orange. I could feel the breezes created by their flapping and the tiny grains of sand that had been kicked up into the air and were now falling on and around me. I heard the birds’ squawks close to my ears. Sights, sounds, touch, the smell and the taste of the surf and the salty air… it was as if I was in the middle of a cyclone of the senses, and I loved it. I started to laugh, and my laughter mingled with the cries of the birds.
The “funnel of feathers” didn’t last very long: within just 10 to 15 seconds, all of the oystercatchers had run past me, lifted off, made a U-turn, then flown off over the ocean. I watched them fly away, noticing that the squawking of their frenzied takeoff had been replaced by total silence as they glided through the air, on the way to their next location. Maybe they were looking for a better spot to watch the sunset, or scouting for food, or moving to a spot where no humans would encroach upon their meditations.
I gathered my things and went back to the hotel to look at the pictures. Many of them were blurry, but a few were in focus. And then I saw one that I thought perfectly captured the experience—it shows movement, color, depth. It isn’t a perfectly focused or centered photo, but that’s part of its appeal. It looks more like a painting to me than a photograph, and I like it very much. I also like that it was an “accidental picture,” having been totally and pleasantly surprised to swipe through my takes and see this:
Accidental Memories
Some of my favorite moments in life were “accidents,” too. They weren’t planned events, but rather occurred as unexpected, brief moments of joy, happiness, pride, contentment. Most are stored in my mind as vivid, multi-sensory pictures, meaning that recalling those pictures doesn’t just remind me what the moment looked like—I also relive the other senses associated with the memory. The smell of my grandfather’s pipe. The sound of my son laughing for the very first time. The feel of crisp, cold air in my lungs while sledding down a hill covered with the perfect snow: packed and crusted over, for maximum speed.
Much of life tends to swirl around us, a cyclone of tasks and deadlines and responsibilities and events and “stuff” that fill up our hours…which become days, which turn into weeks, months, years… and when that frenzy finally subsides and we have time to reflect, it can be shocking to realize that we have no recollection of big chunks of our lives; sometimes an entire decade can fly by without leaving indelible prints in our memory banks.
It took me a long time, but I finally realized in recent years that we don’t tend to remember our lives, or tell our stories, in terms of months or years. What we tend to remember are specific moments and how we felt during those moments.
That’s why I have taken to wishing people “many joy-filled moments” in Christmas cards or birthday greetings. And as my own 2015 resolution, I am trying to keep track of my own “moment memories.” Each night, before going to bed, I look back on the day and identify, relive, and recount in a journal one particular “happy little moment” from that day. By focusing on those moments, and committing them to paper and memory, it’s easier to let go of the frustrations, hardships, disappointment, pain, or other more negative moments that might have otherwise have laid claim to that day.
Had I turned and walked away when that flock started to move, I would have missed a memorable experience. But I didn’t. I stayed, to watch the moment play out.
And that is what, as Robert Frost told us, made all the difference.
-30-
Next time, on “Living in the Moment”
As good friends know, I have a pretty strong fear of flying. And yet I’ve always been fascinated by flight. In my next post, I’ll share some stories on how I’ve managed to experience flight without setting foot on a plane.
Bonus feature: J. Livingston, I Presume?
You might have noticed a single seagull hanging out with the oystercatcher flock. In this picture, he is at the top, standing taller than the rest, and lighter in color.
Here’s a closer photo of him, taken a little bit later from a different angle and zoomed in. He’s on the bottom left.
A little while later, he watches the oystercatchers fly away, then stands looking after them for a few moments….
…before strolling off in the other direction.
2015 Calendar Notes
I chose the “frenzied flock” photo for January because, even though it was taken on a beach in early autumn, I think the photo’s colors are winter-like. While trying to come up with a caption for it (within the very limited space allowed by the template), I realized that one combination of words was almost a haiku. So I worked with it a bit to give it an actual 5–7–5 haiku cadence:
Surrounded by a
sudden, frenzied flock,
I laugh with delight.
This gave me the idea of trying to write all the captions using some form of poetry. A few others are also haiku, and I also used internal rhyme, onomatopeia (still one of my favorite words), and one homage to a very famous poem. Which of my friends will discover it, I wonder?
