February 28, 2021

Birds of the sea. They are everywhere— above the water, on the water, under the water, near the water. Just outside our door and out on the bay.

Some days lone herons let out haunting croaks that rattle across the bay at night, echoing loudly over the green waters and reaching clear to our house, tucked in the trees out of view. Flocks of geese pass over our house on the way to the bay sometimes, their boisterous calls distinct and persistent, sounding their direction, their right to fly south or north or whichever direction they must go. On special days, when the world is quiet, and they fly low I can hear the flutter of their wings like the hush hush of a mother to her sleepy child.

There are many other birds here too. Crows pop in and about freely, wise to the ways of humans and always eager to find tasty morsels on the beach, in the road—cracker crumbs left by little humans with chubby fingers. Kingfishers live around the bay, masterful divers, they spear the water with their bodies like arrows expertly catching fish. Smaller birds live along the spit, yelling wildly should any creature come too close to their beach nests. And Cormorants, large black diving birds stop by too sometimes, to perch atop the pilings to dry their wide wings after their cold water dives.

At night, barred owls will sometimes hoot right outside our windows, followed by replies coming from neighbors trees and rooftops. If I’m in bed and awake, I will leap up to slide open the window and tune in to the owl radio hour. It’s magical every time. The stories always heart warming.

On the bay there are also ducks, of course. Little duos and trios, near shore, always bobbing with seemingly perfect ease upon the waves, taking turns diving and keeping watch for each other or so it seems. Large flocks of ducks congregate out farther in the channel some days, their numbers so large they appear like dark clouds fallen from the sky. Visiting birds from far off places arrive in winter, reminding us of the rhythms of the seasons, the eternal churn of change.

And then there are the eagles and songbirds. Several resident eagles live on the bay, king of all the birds, they perch high up at the tops of huge cedar and fir trees, commanding the sky and water and all of life that carries on below. Their unmistakable cries never fail to reach my ears and turn my head skywards, my eyes hoping to catch a glimpse of their magnificence. And far below, tucked in the shadows of these towering trees, hidden from the eagles’ gaze, among thousands of bushes and small trees and leafy hideouts sing the songbirds, fluttering and sorting their lives, and their twiggy nests, hatching eggs and blessing us with music.

On this last day of February, I started the day with a walk to the beach with my dog. Songbirds fluttered in the bushes along the road, the spring light glowing through the morning like a song. At the landing, we found seagulls. Dozens of them.

I felt like an intruder as we stood still while these commonly seen sea birds soared and fluttered around us in every direction, tumbling like pages of discarded homework upon the light breeze. The beach feast must have been tremendous, as every bird in view seemed to take a turn plucking clams from the low tide, then flying quickly upward and around in great circles to pick the right spot to drop their catch, letting the rocks do the hard work for them—unlocking breakfast.

As we stood there watching, I realized that I have never paused that long to watch seagulls. Really study them for any length of time. Ever. Something about the spring glow, the softness in the air and the energy around us, and the striking number of gulls stopped me in my tracks. Seagull after seagull flew by along the water or just over our heads, their beaks partway open, holding tightly to their round treasures as they prepared to let go and watch the shells crack open revealing the gooey contents within.

The feast continued, the birds seemingly nonplussed by our arrival. We walk towards the spit, where more gulls and a few crows lit upon the beach, or flapped by low over the water. I stooped to look at a shell, when suddenly the air was rattling with a chorus of seagull cries and the familiar caw of agitated crows.

Suddenly they all took flight en masse, filling the sky in blacks and whites like dominoes, abandoning their feast and taking to the air, all beaks pointing west out of the bay.

I looked up for a reason. Yes, an eagle. The king of the bay flew high overhead, successfully scattering the smaller birds of the bay, in a sudden flash of feathers and a chorus of squawking warnings.

Just as soon as I saw him, this great bird disappeared far off to the west, as the dining birds around us settled back in to finish what they had begun.

On the walk home I listened quietly to the birds singing in the bush, the promise of spring ringing in their songs, and I listened too, to the soft patter of my dog’s feet squishing through the soft mud lining the street.

To hear is a miracle. To really listen is a gift we can give ourselves, and others, every day.

On land, sounds flow freely into our ears, for better or worse, but in the water most sounds disappear or come in muted rumbles. It is relatively quiet in the water, and sometimes I can hear no sounds at all. Some senses are heightened there, others dampened.

In the afternoon I gathered my swim kit and set out for Blakely Harbor to meet my newest swim buddy, Liz. I predicted that the water would be calmer there than Fletcher Landing, and told Liz I was wanting a still water swim.

The sun broke through as we stepped into the quiet water, and few birds showed themselves, save a handful of ducks enjoying the calm waters of the bay. Our main escort was a silver headed seal, much to my delight. This would be a good swim.

We swam west, along the shore and under the footbridge, our glistening faces cold and happy, my spirit soaring as we explored this new place together. The cold water woke me up from my multi-day brain slumber and heavy mood, again the water worked it’s magic and again I felt like I had returned home. And I felt bright.

Blackened pilings lined the beach around the harbor. At low tide dozens of stumps are visible from the old sawmill, once one of the largest in the world, milling lumber here to send by tall ship to far off lands around the globe. There was once an entire town and Japanese American village here too, on the hill, a melting pot of people and cultures from over a dozen countries.

As we floated along I wondered about those people, the lives lived in this place, and as I stopped to eye our seal friend I wondered about her ancestors. Perhaps they swam with and kept watch over the many faces that laughed and cried and sang and spoke around this harbor when the sawmill was here and farther back still when the First Peoples were here, harvesting and foraging and building lives and memories.

I guess new memories are still made here, in this harbor. Some enjoy this view daily from waterfront homes, or from their home in the water, or watercraft large and small, others from the tops of cedar trees, others from the shore in the company of old friends and young dogs and every one else in between. Young people, my teenage sons among them, have filled the harbor with their voices and art, adding their spray paint marks to the one lone shell of a building which stands like a rainbow-colored beacon along the shore. A public art palette of graffiti, with layers and layers of old paint. Huge red letters on the east side facing the bay read, “RBG”, marking in bold lettering the life of a bold, smart woman.

Our silky swim companion stayed with us as we made our way around the bay, the only company we had. We would pause and find her peering at us from a safe distance, floating lazily in her liquid world. She would sink under and we would swim a bit, only to stop again to find she had blown past us by a long shot, while our chests heaved and our cheeks grew rosy, reflecting the work we had to do to stay afloat. Her path seemed haphazard and unpredictable, at least to us, but she was always there. She always reappeared if we were patient and took the time to look around.

As we swam under the footbridge, the current picked up and swept us in to the middle of the back bay. Our return trip required considerable effort, fighting the tide, but the wind stayed light and the water calm.

As we approached the shore, I caught a glimpse of the seal swimming below me. She appeared low and to my left, not more than a few feet away—like a pale yellow torpedo, speckled in grey dots. There, then gone.

We kept swimming, while my heart soared and our water friend surfaced to offer one more goodbye—or perhaps make sure we didn’t overstay our welcome. Liz exited the water and I turned to hover near the seal. I watched water glistening in the sun on her dark silver and black speckled head. She was a cars length away, at most, and after a sideways glance she turned away, showing me the back of her head.

Perhaps she was done with me. Or found me boring. Or maybe she turned away because she felt safe. I was not a threat. She was not a threat. And I felt safe too.

And all was quiet. And cold. And peaceful among the ghosts of this harbor, save for a few songbirds chittering in the brush along the empty beach.