The Pelican
The large sea bird floated down from the sky and landed on the beach. Nothing
too unusual about that in Big Sur. Pelicans, sea gulls, petrels and terns
all swirl and glide though the sky here on the edge of the continent, here
where the coastal mountains of California drop straight into the raging Pacific.
But this pelican was different, at least in my experience.
I was sitting on the beach this singular afternoon, enjoying the sun and the
ocean breeze, watching the surf crash and the birds soar. A group of three
people were passing by, walking north up the beach into the wind. That's
when I first noticed the pelican, as it glided in behind them for a smooth
two-point landing on the sand. The people continued on without looking back,
oblivious to the large bird that touched down not more than twenty feet away.
The bird stared after them as they walked away and then it's head swiveled
my way. I was sitting on the sand about one hundred feet away at the base
of the steep sandstone bluff that drops from the highway far above. The pelican
seemed to appraise me for a moment with its sharp fisherman's eyes and then
began to walk. What I found surprising was that it was moving straight at
me. I watched its waddling approach with some amazement.
My astonishment increased as it proceeded to march straight up to me and stop
just a couple of feet in front of my crossed legs. We stared eye to eye for
a few moments, its large head nearly as high as mine. "Hello",
I said, at a loss for words. The pelican is strange looking bird, with its
enormous bill equipped with a large leathery basket for scooping up fish.
Natures own dip net. I have sat on the beach in Southern California and watched
them fish, gliding effortlessly over the ocean only to crash straight down
in a kamikaze dive when they spot prey. They have always seemed primitive
to me, looking like the reptilian pterodactyls that fascinated me as a child.
I have seen them cruise along the coast in perfect formation, six abreast.
The Mexican Air Force we called them for they always seemed to come from
the south. But I never expected to be looking one straight in the eye from
two
feet
away. "Hello?"
To my vague relief he said nothing in reply. I am not one that believes in
talking beasts and personal spirits. Schooled in science and rational by
nature, I'll leave talking animals to peyote-addled academics pretending
to be Indians in the deserts of Mexico. But this bird certainly had my attention.
It stood there calmly, if that term can be used for a pelican's demeanor, looking
me straight in the face. "Howya doin?", I inquire. We face each
other silently. After a long time it waddles around beside me, until we are
both facing the ocean, our backs to the cliff. This is just fine with me.
I look over at it occasionally but it seems unconcerned with my attention.
And then it leans against my shoulder like a drunken college buddy or a high
school sweetheart. "This is one strange bird" I think.
Eventually it straightens up and shuffles its huge webbed feet back in front
of me. It begins to eye my toes, which are sticking up through the sand,
as if they are tasty morsels. This makes me a bit uncomfortable and I bury
them under the sand before the bird decides to compare their flavor to sardines
or squid. Its interest subsides and we resume our silent companionship.
Possibly because my conversation is lacking, or that my toes are no longer
available…. But probably due to some other primitive instinctual urge … the
Pelican decided it was time to be on its way. It padded across the sand straight
away from me to the point where it touched down, raised its huge wings, and
with a couple of strokes soared off into the sky. "I'll be damned."
A few of years later, after I had moved to Hawaii, a couple I know insisted
on buying me a tattoo. After some resistance, I finally relented and made
the obvious choice on which animal I wanted to carry with me the rest of
my life. A shark, of course.
