There are as many seagulls in the sky as there are fish in the sea. Unconsciously we watch them soar and swoop, paying little mind whatever. They're just there, dirty little birds; wild, unkempt things in the wind-- that are of no concern.

The Seagull

 

Copyright 1983 truth-or-consequences
Non-Fiction

The seagull is a hardy little guy that's as common as a tree or a rain cloud. On the sea, we see him in all his moods, on his good days and his bad, when he's helpful, mischievous, playful or irritating. And we see him in all his predicaments.

Many years ago, as a commercial fisherman, I had innumerable experiences with seagulls. Once, while laying out our longline gear, a poor bird dove at the bait on our hooks, and became caught as the heavy lines and weights sank into the depths. Of course we went to considerable lengths to immediately get the gear stopped, bring the boat clear around, and pull him back up before it was too late. But it was almost always too late.

On this occasion I did get a hold of the bird, still alive, and tried to free him of the hook that held him--but he believed he was fighting me for his life, and he nearly flailed himself to death trying to escape his would-be savior. I tried to resuscitate him-- even by "mouth to beak". But let's just say that results were unsatisfactory.

Of all the birds whose lives we enhanced or extended over the years by supplying them fish scraps, we only lost a few.

I fancied to have become friends with them when the fishing day was over and, steaming back to port, I'd stroll out along the taff rail, and over the course of twenty miles, toss them a hundred pounds of unused bait that might have spoiled before the next trip out. They got to know me, and would come closer and closer, hovering like a hummingbird until I could feed them right from my open hand. Oh, they stole a few choice morsels off the bait table they shouldn't have, but it was all part of the game. I never begrudged them their own survival.

We saw the oddities too: In twenty years at sea I've seen a hundred, one-legged seagulls, and through a thousand speculations, never surmised how they came to be handicapped thus-- until one day, thirty miles out, I happened on a scene that takes twenty years at sea to see. There was a small disturbance ahead on the glassy swells. Curious, I dogged the power and went out on the foredeck. There, in the clear water right below the gently heaving bow, lay a small, dead, bloated black cod. Directly beneath it wallowed a four foot shark.

And paddling bravely right along side, one determined seagull. The shark took 'hold of that poor little fish and waggled as hard as he could, trying to pull the prize down into the depths, where he could devour the fish in peace. But the cod floated like a cork, and the shark couldn't get him under. After a minute, the shark would tire and turn away, seemingly trying to figure out some better plan of getting that fish; but then it was the seagull's turn. He'd take firm hold of the codfish and flap his wings like there was no tomorrow. But the fish was far too heavy to carry aloft. And by the time the seagull tired, the shark was rested and back with some fresh idea.

Laying on the deck with my head over the rail, I watched this tug-o-war for twenty minutes straight, until I was becoming somewhat bored with the whole escapade-- and just as I turned to walk away, there was a most horrible screech and squabble from the bird. I jerked my head back to see the seagull flopping in a frenzy of foam and splashing. For an instant he managed to pull himself six inches out of the water-- and there was that nasty little shark, jaws clenched tightly around the poor bird's foot!

The battle lasted less than a minute, while I bellowed orders at the crew and ran frantically about the ship trying to find some kind of device with which to help the unfortunate bird. But when I returned to the bow with a rifle, the shark was gone, and the seagull was just getting airborne, albeit a trifle lighter in the air, minus that foot.

Over the years I developed an admiring respect for these tough little birds. We always want to make friends with wild things. They seldom want to make friends with us. But on one occasion, my wish seemed to come true.

We'd laid our gear, two miles of shark line-- and come to think, maybe the seagulls silently cheered us on in that important work! The crew and I sat idly about the decks waiting for the gear to catch as many sharks as it could. And suddenly, out of nowhere, a lone seagull plopped matter of factly onto the bait deck.

He walked smartly up to a tasty chunk of bait and swallowed it down. Looking confidently around, he spied another, and gobbled it up in like fashion. We sat astonished for a moment, for the bird was no more than two feet away from us. But after he'd made short work of a goodly bit of expensive bait, I took a short gaff hook and rapped it loudly on the deck next to him. He turned, looked me in the eye, turned back and commenced to cleaning up that table. I nudged him with the stick then; he pecked it indignantly, and returned to his meal.

I pushed him away; he came back. I yelled; he cocked his head and made a sound. I walked right up to him then, and he came straight over and brushed his head against my legs like a cat! There was no fear in him at all.

By this time the crew had all come up on deck to witness the spectacle first hand.

Someone bent down and picked the bird up like a pet duck. It cradled itself in the man's arms, nibbled him affectionately, and cooed. We were ecstatic.

Over the next hours the seagull-- we called him Jonathan Livingston-- made himself quite at home. He followed the crew around like a dog-- into the wheelhouse, up and down the decks, through the galley-- my God how he loved the galley-- and he seemed to be genuinely perturbed when he was locked out of the head! He sat at the table as the crew ate their lunch-- or rather, as HE ate their lunch. The amount of food-- the sheer MASS that bird consumed, defied the laws of physics, yet he always came back for more.

We took turns petting him, and straightening his feathers. He enjoyed being groomed. We tried to do it like another seagull might.

After lunch, he went for a swim, then a bit of a flight-- but that was too much work packing who knows how many bologna sandwiches around in his tiny bird stomach. He gave that up for a snooze in the sun.

Once or twice more he flew away, always to return in a minute or so. The crew took to placing dishes of fresh water all around the decks-- (so Jonathan wouldn't have to walk far in case he got thirsty).

We offered him milk and kool-aid and orange juice-- several brands, mind you--also wine, beer, V-8, clam nectar--- he tasted this, tested that, never really committing himself to one product or another. No dirty bird was ever so spoiled.

The whole of the ship's stores was jerked out of their lockers, and strewn all over the place, all in the name of "Jonathan Bird". There were trails of bread and fish and chunks and tidbits of other unknown foodstuffs leading to every bunk and cabin-- it seems EVERYONE wanted the bird to sleep with HIM.

Pillows were brought out on deck and fluffed just so....

The ship's cat was unceremoniously kicked out of his warm, snug box under the stove, and that too was offered to our new friend as a permanent home. The cat just glared from behind a locker, thinking murderous thoughts, and smacking his lips. The seagull paid him no due at all.

The men clucked and chirped, and made incessantly all manner of stupid noises, trying to appease or comfort or entertain that bird. He seemed pleased at the effort, but seldom amused.

Once or twice Jonathan became so curious and friendly that he got underfoot and was stepped on. But whoever the culprit, he was so apologetic that the bird never held a grudge, and half a minute later, was back under foot again.

We were pleased, and mystified, and joyed, and, perhaps, even a little thankful to the powers that be, for letting us share even a short time with this odd little friend. We knew he couldn't stay, hoped that he would, told ourselves he might, and wondered aloud.

Just before midnight the gear was hauled in. The crew was exhausted from doing double duty, performing their jobs and playing with that ridiculous bird. They all retired to some comfortable place for the long trip back to port.

I took the wheel, Jonathan content beside me next to the binnacle, warmed from the tiny oil lamp that burned inside it, peering out into the night as if to watch our course and keep us from harm. And for the first time that day I began to regard the little creature seriously. Where had he come from? Why had he chosen our ship of all the ships on the ocean? Would he ever leave? And how could he be such an odd little fellow.....

Around three hundred hours, somewhere just off Freshwater Bay, Jonathan got up, jumped lightly down to the deck, stretched leisurely, and strolled casually out onto the deck, for a breath of fresh air, I presumed. The decks were wet with a bit of blowing spray. Preoccupied, I watched him go, then returned to my thoughts.

And somewhere in the night, to our enduring distress, Jonathan slipped away, and never returned.

 

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