One morning in mid-November, I was bopping along on one of my walks (I’ve got three pedestrian destinations from my home in Enchanted Lakes: Lanikai Beach, Kailua Beach, or through Kailua High School, down the Pali a bit, and across as much of the Kawanui Marsh as I deem fit. Sigh . . . life is full of tough choices, isn’t it?).
I am naturally on the lookout for birds. If you and I are having a conversation, and a great frigatebird (‘Iwa) floats by behind you, I will blank out and watch him the way some people watch a beautiful woman passing. After he’s out of sight, I’ll return my gaze to you, apologize sheepishly, and ask if you could please repeat yourself.
And so, it wasn’t so strange that while crossing the bridge makai (toward the ocean) over Hamakua toward town at 7 AM, I noticed a big bird flat on its back in the gutter. Its wings were half spread, and its head was turned sideways. I stopped and wondered what such a big dark grey bird was doing on the road, and how it had died.
You know how you can have a million thoughts in just a few seconds? Especially when classifying something new? I started with the obvious: this bird was much larger than our regular urban Kailua town birds: the gang member mynahs, oversexed pigeons, plucky red-headed cardinals, and the childlike and ubiquitous zebra doves. And then there are the kolea, or golden plover: the migratory rooftop and lawn bird with the deer-like walk and sometime roller coaster whistle.
Back in the gutter, the big bird opened and shut its beak slightly. Not dead! Yay. Although it was most likely hit by a car, I imagined it beaking out, “Oh God, what a night I had!”
I scooped it up gently, turned it upright, folded its wings, and held its webbed feet close to its fluffy warm body with my fingers. Then I tucked the bird—definitely a wedgetail shearwater!—into a hammock made with the bottom of my shirt and supported it with one hand from underneath. It didn’t struggle in the least.
What next? I was walking incognito (no cell on me), and I was a mile or so from my place. I noticed two men sitting and conversing outside of the Kalapawai Deli across the street, so I walked over and asked if they would make a call for me. They both politely paused their conversation, and one man dialed and held his phone to my ear. How nice.
I am friends with a woman who spends much of her days protecting native Hawaiian species. I knew she would know more for this particular moment. She answered the call, and she told me that shearwaters spend all day in their burrows and go out on the wind over the sea to hunt for fish at night. I ought to get a cardboard box, tuck the bird comfortably inside for the day, and release it into “a good gust of wind” at Kailua Beach at twilight. Sounded good to me.
I found a whole dumpster of cardboard boxes behind the Macs Made Easy shopping complex. I spied the perfect box (a tortilla box!), but no matter how many gyrations and odd positions I contorted myself into, I could not reach the middle of the dumpster without chancing I’d crush the bird. As I write this, I realize I could have just put the bird down and climbed in to get the box. After all, the bird was in the gutter a few minutes ago, but for perhaps the same reason, that idea didn’t cross my mind. I wanted to keep “Bailey” safe and warm.
Yes, under the right conditions, it doesn’t take me more than a couple of blocks to get attached.
So I waited for another creature with opposable thumbs to appear. And one did! A man on his smoke break! I hoped I didn’t look too unapproachable: hanging out by the dumpster in my knit cap with a lap full of feathers, but I asked him if he’d please grab the box. And—mahalo so much—he obliged! Bailey was soon ensconced in a corner of the box, which I carried gingerly home.
Years ago in Northern California, I hit a starling with my car. She was flying low across the road and I barely saw her, but I did hear her glance off my bumper. I was mortified, and I circled back to see if I could find her. She was stunned, lying on her side, beak agape. I picked her up and carried her to a quiet spot, and placed her on a rock. I poured water for her into a scoop in the rock. I was in a car accident once, and someone gave me water “so I didn’t go into shock.” The bird was not interested, and she didn’t move at all. I was volunteering as a raptor feeder at the time, so I called the Bird Rescue Center.
“Hey, this is Amy. I just hit a starling on the highway.”
“Nice job!” the operator joshed.
“I know, I know,” I said, wincing. “What should I do?”
“It’s in shock. Put it in a dark, quiet place. Do not give it water. (Oops.) If it recovers, it’ll be within the hour.”
Happy to have clear instructions, I surveyed my car and decided on a reusable shopping bag with a plastic “floor.” I placed the bird inside the bag, folded the top, secured it with a paper clip, and whispered the whole thing onto the passenger side floor. I shut the door (hard to do, quietly) and went back to my side to read. And to worry a little bit.
In about forty minutes, dusk had fallen and suddenly, a clearly energetic “escape!” jab sounded from inside the bag. Yes! Then, an obvious jump and hit located higher than the floor of the bag. Even better! I scrambled out and ran around to the bird’s side of the car. And then the bag was out of the car, in my hands, the paper clip off, the bag open, and the bird shot up and out straight into the trees!
I don’t remember if I cried or did a touchdown dance. Not that those are the only options. . .
Bailey’s “burrow” was placed in the foyer; away from the strength of the wind, but near the smell of the lake and . . . our shoes. I feared she’d get cold in the spacious tortilla box, so I curled some soft clothes inside and went about my day, occasionally really wanting to open the box to see how she was. I don’t know if she was male or female, but I’ll continue with “she” because the bird felt like a she to me.
Around 3 PM, we heard a tapping (no, not at our chamber door) from the box! Perhaps she’s ready to go early? I surmised. When I’d picked her up before, I’d done an amateur’s check on her wings, and nothing had seemed broken.
We took her outside to the lawn by the lake. It was very windy. I put her down on the lawn, and she tipped onto her side. That didn’t look promising, but I wanted her to be okay. I wanted her to fly. I held her up and wondered why she didn’t spread her wings now, while facing into the wind. She was pretty downy, but nonetheless she looked like an adult bird to me. I thought perhaps she had just fledged and wasn’t used to the process yet. Fly much? Come here often?
I sat down and held her at arm’s length, still pointing into the wind, and I nudged her wings open a bit with my thumbs. She opened her wings the rest of the way, and she began to beat them in tandem. That looked good.
I hoped it wasn’t too windy.
I stood up and tossed Bailey into the air, into the wind, and watched.
And she fell straight back to the ground. I really should have caught her, but I didn’t. Honestly, I had expected her to fly. While in the air, she didn’t spread her wings or anything. So I tried again, which doesn’t make sense to me now, but made sense to me then.
And that time didn’t work either. So I apologized and offered the bird some Reiki for the pain I had caused. She chose to accept the healing boost, and I wondered what else I could do to make things better besides not throwing her into the air again. I settled for the least stressful thing I could think of: putting her back in the box and hoping she wouldn’t feel too restless.
I contacted my friend again for advice. I e-mailed photos of Bailey, and I was assured that the bird was an adult. I also learned that shearwaters can barely see in the daylight. Bringing her out so early may have been a shock to her system.
We decided to wait for nightfall and see if she was more apt to fly then, from the beach. If she didn’t go at night, my friend would drive Bailey to Sea Life Park in the morning. According to this really fascinating article from 2011, Sea Life Park has the only seabird rehabilitation facility of its kind in Hawai’i.
When night fell, we drove Bailey to Kailua Beach. She was offered smelt from Foodland that my friend had kindly picked up. The shearwater wasn’t responsive at all, listing on the sand, and so the next morning my friend drove her to Sea Life Park in the tortilla box. Actually, in her car. I do not know what happened to Bailey after that, but I will do my best to find out and let you know in next month’s column!
Until then, Dear Readers: Keep swimming, and best fishes for the holidays!
The above column was originally posted in December of 2012, in the online newsletter kailua411.org. It was reprinted here with permission from the publisher. The newsletter is no longer online.