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Until I arrived at the Gulf Coast to assist with environmental impact studies from a major oil spill, I never considered the pelican to be much more than an odd-looking and rather humorous presence in the region. The graceful neck supports a head burdened with an equally ungraceful bill – a long brown structure with a split character. The top side is hard as bone, while the lower half is a pliable, velvety pouch. A prominent hook abruptly ends the contradiction, and the entire assemblage is held downward against the breast, as if in an effort to keep the embarrassment tucked and hidden. This top-heavy bird is supported by two stout, webbed feet. It is as if God, after creating the gracefully delicate features of the heron, the fearsome smart lines and stern glare of the hawk, and the vividly colorful songbirds, went rummaging through his spare parts drawer and built the pelican from what was left.
His wings unfold in a tremendous span as he drops towards the water’s surface, trusting the palm of God to catch him—which it does just inches over the gentle swells.
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Our work involves close handling of these wild birds. Moving stealthily toward a row of pilings (where pelicans love to roost), I am unnerved to be scrutinized by a glaring blue eye. Like it or not, I am the focus of this creature—he sizes me up with unabashed judgment, carefully contemplating his counter-move. As our boat drifts quietly through the invisible line he has drawn, he opens his wings and launches himself into the air. His wings unfold in a tremendous span as he drops towards the water’s surface, trusting the palm of God to catch him—which it does just inches over the gentle swells. The few lazy flaps of those huge wings hardly seem enough to keep him aloft, nurturing in me a suspicion that he is propelled by unseen angels. He continues to calculate, coolly deliberating his next move. Will he circle around and land again on the same group of pilings, or will he continue to another set?
Every pelican is different, each occupying a different piling. As we glide quietly past them, some leave earlier, others stretch their wings out from their bodies in threat of flight, but don’t make the move just yet. Still others just sit and stare, wings tucked tight, determined not to leave their roost, assigning guilt with their eyes that we would dare disturb their siesta.
Ultimately all the birds flee, heading for other pilings. Perhaps one will alight on a piling with a soft leg trap—a device that harmlessly clamps the leg when the bird lands upon it. The pelican is no stranger to trapping, being well-practiced in the art himself. He dives down and fills his pouch quietly in fluid motion. In contrast, the loud and sudden report of our metal tools work with all the elegance of an over-amped rock guitar grinding out Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. Despite our best intentions, we lack these birds’ natural grace as we awkwardly step into their world.
I find that the gentlest of holds work best; he relaxes perhaps because he senses that I relax. I am tuned into him fully, and as I cradle him, we are one in that moment.
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A pelican soon lands on a trap and the clamp snaps closed. He immediately flies off the piling but the weight of the trap prevents him from taking flight. He splashes into the water, his wings beating with futility—but he remains on the surface. We move in quickly, avoid his attempts to bite and gently grasp his head from behind. While another person controls his long beak, we scoop him into the boat. A light cloth covers his head to calm him.
We have samples to take, observations to record, and equipment to attach. He is brought quickly to our makeshift base of operations 50 yards away, the low concrete platform of a small, unmanned oil rig. He is held while I draw blood, clip and pluck feathers, and examine him for signs of oil contamination. Then I hold him while the crew attaches a metal identification band and affixes a transmitter (much like a small backpack).
I find that the gentlest of holds work best; he relaxes perhaps because he senses that I relax. I am tuned into him fully, and as I cradle him, we are one in that moment. As he starts to struggle, I gently increase just enough restraint to counter it; and as he relaxes again, so do I. In this subtle quiet dance, we work together, pelican and I, and perhaps understand each other as much as our limited perspectives allow. The cloth that covers his eyes falls off, and a blue iris drills into my soul. I am not merely seen; I am judged. And in that moment, our universes spill into each other’s.
The biologists affix the transmitter and he is ready to go. We carry him to the end of the short dock, and release him. This time, the palm of God does not catch him; he flaps once or twice and settles with gentle resignation into the water. I am heartbroken, wondering if he can return to his world. He stretches his wings, flaps a few times more, but remains bound to the water. He then folds his wings and slowly floats away from us. I watch him for over an hour. Then in a swift, deliberate effort, he breaks his bond and his wings gracefully sweep him away.
As I watch him disappear, I wonder if he will find his friends. We each return to our own worlds. I know I will never forget him. I wonder how long he will remember me. I am stirred by the thought that a contemplation of me, however unkind, may churn about in his mind as he glides against the setting sun over the glowing orange marshlands.
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Photo credit: Getty Images
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