The Gannet
© Ed Mitchell 2006
Some time ago, I decided to take a walk on a deserted Vineyard beach. It was a cool, drizzly afternoon, a damp day born on a southeast wind. Leaving my Jeep behind the dunes, I followed the trail up and over to the hard pan of the back beach. And from there I descended to softer sands, all the while heading eastward as waves roared in the intertidal zone.
Lost in thought, I continued on about a mile, before spotting a white shape lying ahead in the sand. From a distance I assumed it to be a dead gull. Seeing dead gulls on this strand wasn’t at all uncommon; I regularly found them there. Why that is remains unclear to this day, yet on any unprotected shoreline one has to expect that life and death are as much a part of the fabric as the cycle of light and tide. And over the years that fact has born out itself. On such walks I have encountered not only dead birds, but whales, seals, fish, and even four legged critters. That's just the way great beaches are.
As I drew nearer I realized this couldn't be a common gull; it was far too large for one thing. Next I thought it might be the Herring Gull's notorious cousin- the Great Black-back. The size was right. But step by step, I dismissed that notion too, this shape was too light in color. No, the closer I got the more I knew that something unexpected lie before me, something far from the ordinary.
Holding my jacket collar closed against the wind, I knelt next to the huge bird. Bent in death, it lie peacefully on the slate colored sand, a few precious yards from the thundering surf. As best I could tell it was totally intact - no blood, no breaks, no wounds - as if it were here simply asleep on the sand. For a instant I even imagined that it might awake and suddenly scream skyward like a startled eagle. Yet the truth was undeniable; life had long since gone.
The enormous white wings, tipped in black; the long blue-gray, spear-like, bill; the dark-rimmed eye; and the golden crown. Even in death the bird held a haunting beauty, a perfection of shapes and colors that spoke to the higher forces in the universe. I couldn't take my eyes off it.
Here was the largest of the North Atlantic seabirds, the powerful Northern Gannet. I saw my first one over fifteen years ago while fishing at Watch Hill on a stormy November day. I'll never forget it. A northeaster had hit the night before and the seas were wild. So churned up in fact, it was all but impossible to fish. While leaning on a stonewall near the lighthouse, I heard someone near me yell "gannets" with an arm stretched toward the horizon. Quickly I glanced over the water to see a flock of white birds high up against the black clouds. And as I watched one folded in its wings and fell out of the sky like a stone. It was breathtaking dive. From ten stories up, the bird plummeted straight downward, rocketing into the dark sea. Another bird followed. And then another. I couldn't believe my eyes. And I certainly didn't believe that any living thing could survive such a fall. Yet gannets do; they have their magic.
Still kneeling on the sand, I pulled my camera out from inside my jacket. No doubt, this was likely to be the closest I would ever get to one of these magnificent creatures. I took several pictures. Rising, I looked up and down the beach, searching for signs of anything else. Granted the chances of another gannet being nearby were extremely remote. Still I wanted to be sure; I needed to be certain.
As I prepared to leave, a fine rain filled the air, forcing me to tuck the camera back inside. With my jacket buttoned up, I turned and went off a few steps, before stopping for one last look- at this regal corpse, resting on a remote and lonely shore.
The End