To the man who loved shorebirds
You were almost right—but only almost.
“You went around the birds!” you exclaimed as my partner and I passed you on the beach boardwalk. “Way to go!” Your expression looked almost bemused when I smiled back. “No one ever goes around the birds,” you said as much to yourself as to us.
It took me a second to realize what you were even talking about. We had just finished a typical sunset beach run, relishing the feel of packed sand beneath our bare feet and listening to a garish “pump up playlist” that could have been pulled straight from my middle-school iPod. (I was embarrassed to admit the songs did, in fact, pump me up.) As we approached the end of our route we veered around a flock of shorebirds. Seagulls and sandpipers and royal terns congregated near the waves, pecking for the coquina clams I myself love to watch burrow back beneath the mud.
It clicked. We had jogged around the group of birds—not through them. We changed our behavior so they didn’t have to change theirs. And you were excited enough to praise us for it.
Giving wildlife space seemed like the obvious thing to do, but I understand why you finished our brief interaction with the way you did. People willing to cater to nonhuman animals instead of expecting the reverse seem like the minority. After moving into a converted camper van, my partner and I have spent the last 750-something days crisscrossing North America in pursuit of quiet camp spots and interesting restaurants and wild creature sightings. Unfortunately, wild creature sighting often seems to mean wild creature harassment. On a hike in Denali National Park, I watched a woman grab her off-leash dog’s collar mere feet from a moose (nevermind that dogs weren’t allowed on the trail at all, leashed or otherwise.) At a lake in Glacier, I locked eyes with a group of teenagers happily sharing snacks with chipmunks in front of the “please do not feed wildlife” sign. On the same Florida beach where I crossed paths with you, I cried when a tourist snapped a close photo of an injured pelican and then marched on like the bird meant nothing.
(Don’t worry, shorebird-loving stranger: I called Wild Florida Rescue that day. We waited a few dozen yards out until hope arrived, and I helped a volunteer wrangle the juvenile bird into a hard-sided carrier. He made a full recovery at the Florida Wildlife Hospital. The pelican can fly away from nosy tourists now.)
On page 22 of her memoir Fox and I: An Uncommon Friendship, Catherine Raven says “you don’t need much imagination to see that society has bulldozed a gorge between humans and wild, unboxed animals, and it’s far too wide and deep for anyone who isn’t foolhardy to risk the crossing.” The gorge is metaphorical—ascribing human emotions to animals (even mammals closely related to us) is still “dangerous anthropomorphism” in many scientific circles—but we cross it all the time physically. And when brush up against those unboxed creatures in the wild? We expect them to either move out of our way or interact on our terms. “Petting the fluffy cows,” stuffing a squirrel with processed snacks, and peering at a hurt pelican allow us to feel close to nature while maintaining our role as masters somehow outside and above fellow animals. “Our pursuit of the natural life is as vigorous as it is vicarious,” Raven later concludes.
So I see why you felt our behavior was worth comment. And why your final remark felt equal parts disheartened and hopeful.
I hear your voice telling me “way to go!” all the time now: When I put my dog in a down stay so she doesn’t stalk a marsh hare, when I stand perfectly still to avoid startling a cattle egret perched on the nearby street sign, when I give a resting alligator a wide berth. I hear it when I catch myself thinking about doing something you would not have approved: When I’m tempted to offer a peanut to a scrub jay or encourage campground raccoons to make their presence known. (I do not do these things. I want to keep hearing you whisper my praise.)
Your voice is loudest, though, when I spot someone else “going around the birds.” I hope you know it happens more often than I used to think. In those moments—watching strangers respecting wildlife even when it means sacrificing convenience—I’m sometimes compelled to try being for them who you were for me.
“Way to go,” I say.
You told me no one ever goes around the birds. You were almost right—but only almost. Some of us do go around the birds. Some of us go around the deer and the prairie dogs and the seals, too. Some of us go around the cryptobiotic soil and the protected dunes and the fragile new growth. Some of us—like you, face open, binoculars dangling—encourage other people to join in.
Written on January 30th in Cocoa Beach, Florida, as a submission to Off Assignment. This piece was not accepted (here’s to trying again with something else!) but I still wanted to share it.