Sultry summer’s swallows sit, swoop, and soar, crickets sing, while South sands shift and Parade Ground crow ring this hazy – even lazy day on Fishers Island.
8/08/16
I knew right away it would have to be a message of hope, this very simple story; in a way, perhaps I insisted on it…
It was during early July – a week of particularly sorrowful news: police shootings in Dallas, unspeakable violence going viral on video, racial tensions taut. I had just received an email that informed me of a double suicide within my Bering Sea tribe. That would be five now, familiar faces with strong ties to their own island, disappearing in their own despair; all gone in just a year and a half.
And the glimmers? They all started with a phone call from Fishers Island summer resident Bob Meyer.He reported a banded pigeon huddled beneath the telephone pole and osprey nest outside West Harbor.
It felt like the last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday evening, but the day had been a scorcher and thunder showers were expected to blow in, so I drove right away to meet Bob who was standing watch over this worn out feathered messenger.
Before I knew it I scooped up my now-passenger pigeon and headed home with the bird in the front seat, avoiding two unsettled ospreys circling overhead.
Swinging by the Village Market at closing hour I ran in and grabbed an empty Harpoon I.P.A. box from the help-yourself corner. I smiled, thanking the universe for any humor: I.P.A. – Island Pigeon Association.
By nightfall, tucked cozily in the box in a terrycloth nest, Harpoon sipped lots of water, poked and pecked at a bird seed mix with an added concoction of cracked corn, dry peas, grains, wild rice, even a plain Cheerio or two.
Clearly exhausted, this winged voyager would not fly. Looking like its city-pigeon cousins, Harpoon sat for days with feathers puffed up just outside my cottage under the shade of an elm tree.
While this particular naturalist doesn’t happen to have a pigeon coop set-up, the neighborhood soon found out there was a grounded visitor and kind folks took the bird under their collective wing by keeping a careful look-out.
Marj Beck texted one evening and asked if I knew about a banded bird and sent a photo of what turned out to be Harpoon at the school playground! I could’ve sworn the pigeon was nestled just outside. By 6 a.m. the next morning I rode my bike by the school, but there was no sign of my feathered friend. By 6 p.m. Harpoon appeared back at the cottage, perched under the elm tree. The next day, pedaling east past the Parade Grounds, I waved down school custodian Tommy Doroshevich who was mowing the lawn.
“Hey Tommy, did you happen to see a banded pigeon around the playground yesterday?
“Yeah! It sat all day right outside your classroom – the third and fourth graders you always visit – right there under the window, all day.
I thought it fairly amazing: a bird walking what looked like two football fields away and later returning “home.” Then I got goosebumps – the nice kind – when I remembered the date: the day my Mom had passed a couple years before.
I turned around and headed back home to catch Harpoon and decode the bright yellow band around its leg, labeled “49 IF NLI 2016.” I jotted the numbers and letters down on scrap paper.
The “NL,” which I supposed would be for “New London,” turned into North Long Island.
The “IF” originally was the “Iffy” sensation I felt while trying to locate Harpoon’s owner, but that turned into “International Federation.” It appeared my messenger was of thoroughbred racing stock.
So I searched the internet, piecing together lost banded racing pigeons of 2016 and flight distances across Long Island Sound and Fishers Island Sound. After a few emails and phone messages, I tracked down Tom Newman, the head of the North Long Island branch of pigeon fanciers. Our conversation was pleasant, and of course I made sure to add a few remarkable elements.
“I think this bird is a bit special. It survived two cranky ospreys, walked to the school playground AND back, thankfully outwitted the dog next door chasing a tennis ball through the yard AND there is even a ‘dove interest’,” I said. (Harpoon being a fancier too.)
Then Mr. Newman added his own remarkable element: Harpoon originally had flown from Smithtown, N.Y. I did my own quick calculating: 151.3 miles away, 2 hours 54 minutes – but that’s if the bird took I-95! Someone suggested the pigeon got blown off course and found Fishers Island.
But the question remained: Would Harpoon take wing and return to Long Island?
“Well, I know the owner and he’ll have to figure out how to get the bird back,” Newman said. “Does Fishers Island – I don’t even know where it is – does the island ship live (animals)?”
“Wait a second. I’m not packing this pigeon up to be sent UPS,” I said. “I think its owner should come pick it up. I don’t think it wants a life of competing and racing around anyways.” I was trying to be funny, but really wanted the owner to take some responsibility.
Days turned into weeks. I sent clever updates with photos to Mr. Newman, narrating Harpoon’s love affair with a mourning dove, documenting my first ever Amazon order of pigeon grit, how far the bird walked as it rejuvenated. I even confided that on my birthday, Harpoon happened to fly for the first time up to my open window – the nicest present.
If it’s true that home is where the heart is, then this creature must have felt comfortably at home because we formed a sweet bond – of hope I think it was. A simple pigeon trusted it would be cared for; in return, those heavy sorrows of early July that I has been carrying began to feel lighter with each day I spent with Harpoon.
One evening, three weeks to the day of Harpoon’s arrival, I leaned my bike against the cottage gate and gave my routine call of “Harpooooon,” with a bit of cooing.
Bursting out from atop the canopy of one of the tallest elms on Fishers Island, soaring and tumbling with what appeared to be effortless joy against a purple sky, there went Harpoon!
“May wherever you land feel like home,” I thought.
I knew right away it would have to be a message of hope, this very simple story; in a way, perhaps I insisted on it…
It was during early July – a week of particularly sorrowful news: police shootings in Dallas, unspeakable violence going viral on video, racial tensions taut. I had just received an email that informed me of a double suicide within my Bering Sea tribe. That would be five now, familiar faces with strong ties to their own island, disappearing in their own despair; all gone in just a year and a half.
And the glimmers? They all started with a phone call from Fishers Island summer resident Bob Meyer.He reported a banded pigeon huddled beneath the telephone pole and osprey nest outside West Harbor.
It felt like the last thing I wanted to do on a Saturday evening, but the day had been a scorcher and thunder showers were expected to blow in, so I drove right away to meet Bob who was standing watch over this worn out feathered messenger.
Before I knew it I scooped up my now-passenger pigeon and headed home with the bird in the front seat, avoiding two unsettled ospreys circling overhead.
Swinging by the Village Market at closing hour I ran in and grabbed an empty Harpoon I.P.A. box from the help-yourself corner. I smiled, thanking the universe for any humor: I.P.A. – Island Pigeon Association.
By nightfall, tucked cozily in the box in a terrycloth nest, Harpoon sipped lots of water, poked and pecked at a bird seed mix with an added concoction of cracked corn, dry peas, grains, wild rice, even a plain Cheerio or two.
Clearly exhausted, this winged voyager would not fly. Looking like its city-pigeon cousins, Harpoon sat for days with feathers puffed up just outside my cottage under the shade of an elm tree.
While this particular naturalist doesn’t happen to have a pigeon coop set-up, the neighborhood soon found out there was a grounded visitor and kind folks took the bird under their collective wing by keeping a careful look-out.
Marj Beck texted one evening and asked if I knew about a banded bird and sent a photo of what turned out to be Harpoon at the school playground! I could’ve sworn the pigeon was nestled just outside. By 6 a.m. the next morning I rode my bike by the school, but there was no sign of my feathered friend. By 6 p.m. Harpoon appeared back at the cottage, perched under the elm tree. The next day, pedaling east past the Parade Grounds, I waved down school custodian Tommy Doroshevich who was mowing the lawn.
“Hey Tommy, did you happen to see a banded pigeon around the playground yesterday?
“Yeah! It sat all day right outside your classroom – the third and fourth graders you always visit – right there under the window, all day.
I thought it fairly amazing: a bird walking what looked like two football fields away and later returning “home.” Then I got goosebumps – the nice kind – when I remembered the date: the day my Mom had passed a couple years before.
I turned around and headed back home to catch Harpoon and decode the bright yellow band around its leg, labeled “49 IF NLI 2016.” I jotted the numbers and letters down on scrap paper.
The “NL,” which I supposed would be for “New London,” turned into North Long Island.
The “IF” originally was the “Iffy” sensation I felt while trying to locate Harpoon’s owner, but that turned into “International Federation.” It appeared my messenger was of thoroughbred racing stock.
So I searched the internet, piecing together lost banded racing pigeons of 2016 and flight distances across Long Island Sound and Fishers Island Sound. After a few emails and phone messages, I tracked down Tom Newman, the head of the North Long Island branch of pigeon fanciers. Our conversation was pleasant, and of course I made sure to add a few remarkable elements.
“I think this bird is a bit special. It survived two cranky ospreys, walked to the school playground AND back, thankfully outwitted the dog next door chasing a tennis ball through the yard AND there is even a ‘dove interest’,” I said. (Harpoon being a fancier too.)
Then Mr. Newman added his own remarkable element: Harpoon originally had flown from Smithtown, N.Y. I did my own quick calculating: 151.3 miles away, 2 hours 54 minutes – but that’s if the bird took I-95! Someone suggested the pigeon got blown off course and found Fishers Island.
But the question remained: Would Harpoon take wing and return to Long Island?
“Well, I know the owner and he’ll have to figure out how to get the bird back,” Newman said. “Does Fishers Island – I don’t even know where it is – does the island ship live (animals)?”
“Wait a second. I’m not packing this pigeon up to be sent UPS,” I said. “I think its owner should come pick it up. I don’t think it wants a life of competing and racing around anyways.” I was trying to be funny, but really wanted the owner to take some responsibility.
Days turned into weeks. I sent clever updates with photos to Mr. Newman, narrating Harpoon’s love affair with a mourning dove, documenting my first ever Amazon order of pigeon grit, how far the bird walked as it rejuvenated. I even confided that on my birthday, Harpoon happened to fly for the first time up to my open window – the nicest present.
If it’s true that home is where the heart is, then this creature must have felt comfortably at home because we formed a sweet bond – of hope I think it was. A simple pigeon trusted it would be cared for; in return, those heavy sorrows of early July that I has been carrying began to feel lighter with each day I spent with Harpoon.
One evening, three weeks to the day of Harpoon’s arrival, I leaned my bike against the cottage gate and gave my routine call of “Harpooooon,” with a bit of cooing.
Bursting out from atop the canopy of one of the tallest elms on Fishers Island, soaring and tumbling with what appeared to be effortless joy against a purple sky, there went Harpoon!
“May wherever you land feel like home,” I thought.
Displaying their breeding plumage, Short-billed Dowitcher’s pick through thick seaweed berms at low tide.
July 08, 2016
We all do it at least once, especially during these early days of July: we make an appearance here on Fishers Island.
On a recent early Saturday evening, in my neck of the woods on the western end of the island, the Munnatawket offloads another parade of cars, then a screaming helicopter touches down (for a minute I am tempted to “fume” too). A stream of invitees-to-cocktail-parties traffic moves down the Fort Wright stretch. Laughter wafts from mingling on porches and floats with the scent of honeysuckle seaward.
The birds chirp excitedly and prep for evensong and with the dimming sunlight, I smile, knowing we already have made other plans. South towards Elizabeth Field airport, parallel to the runway, a sandy sanctuary invites me. Oddly, but ever so humbly – because I never RSVP – there is a sense of my past moments living in the Pribilofs that I embrace here. Maybe it is revisiting with the innate and intuitive, but I find myself appearing in this special place often, mostly to observe and now, over the years, more likely with a sense of protective preservation.
I have been happy asking the town of Southold to send me more signage to mark delicate nesting areas of the island’sslowly but surely rising population of oyster catchers. I’ve been enthusiastically sharing unique sightings of the elusive shore birds; creating posters to suggest a ban on Mylar balloons; taking time to untangle tidal pools strangled with yards of ribbon; and diplomatically reminding beach combers to leash their dogs, while explaining just what healthy habitat a wrack line is. For me it is like being a steward in “stewardship,” and just NOT waiting for the “ship” part to come in.
And now sitting here peacefully this late Saturday eve in this sanctuary of sands on a sun-washed wooden plank, buried knee high in warm, smelly, salted seaweeds, I find my own sweet spot along waving sand dune grasses. A rarely seen Spotted Sandpiper appears and welcomes me as we share this moment.
Spotted Sandpiper
We all do it at least once, especially during these early days of July: we make an appearance here on Fishers Island.
On a recent early Saturday evening, in my neck of the woods on the western end of the island, the Munnatawket offloads another parade of cars, then a screaming helicopter touches down (for a minute I am tempted to “fume” too). A stream of invitees-to-cocktail-parties traffic moves down the Fort Wright stretch. Laughter wafts from mingling on porches and floats with the scent of honeysuckle seaward.
The birds chirp excitedly and prep for evensong and with the dimming sunlight, I smile, knowing we already have made other plans. South towards Elizabeth Field airport, parallel to the runway, a sandy sanctuary invites me. Oddly, but ever so humbly – because I never RSVP – there is a sense of my past moments living in the Pribilofs that I embrace here. Maybe it is revisiting with the innate and intuitive, but I find myself appearing in this special place often, mostly to observe and now, over the years, more likely with a sense of protective preservation.
I have been happy asking the town of Southold to send me more signage to mark delicate nesting areas of the island’sslowly but surely rising population of oyster catchers. I’ve been enthusiastically sharing unique sightings of the elusive shore birds; creating posters to suggest a ban on Mylar balloons; taking time to untangle tidal pools strangled with yards of ribbon; and diplomatically reminding beach combers to leash their dogs, while explaining just what healthy habitat a wrack line is. For me it is like being a steward in “stewardship,” and just NOT waiting for the “ship” part to come in.
And now sitting here peacefully this late Saturday eve in this sanctuary of sands on a sun-washed wooden plank, buried knee high in warm, smelly, salted seaweeds, I find my own sweet spot along waving sand dune grasses. A rarely seen Spotted Sandpiper appears and welcomes me as we share this moment.
To me it feels unusually autumnal within some of these June moments; a northerly wind gusts and rustles the lush green leaves that then become silver. Against an utterly blue sky an egret coasts and swoops looking like some origami ornament overhead.
But then again, there is still the usual summer feel – ferries offloading more cars, returning college students arriving early for summer jobs, the scent of cut grass awaits families, even boats and moorings are united again.
When our Island Sentinel team monitors East Harbor it’s not unusual for us to count the vessels that start rafting up in July and August – just off the Golf Course next to the old red roofed Coast Guard Station. Data suggests each year there seems to be more boats, I am grateful though that each year there seems to be less rubbish and marine debris along these sands; to me a sign of good neighborly stewardship.
There is a healthy and lush Eelgrass meadow within that Harbor too. I bring this up so boaters will be extremely mindful not to drag anchor and impact this unique habitat.
And then there is “Raymond. The Fish team at Mystic Aquarium helped me to identify a stranded Atlantic Torpedo ray (torpedo nobiliana) which Island Sentinel Olivia Backhaus discovered this month while recording morning observations at low tide up East. Come to find out Raymond “can produce an electric charge of about 170-220 volts. “Not enough to kill a healthy human, but it would knock ya for a loop!” That same morning the unique creature was ever so gently assisted back into the harbor.
So as we enjoy the glorious days of summer, so thankful for Fishers Island Sound with seagrass habitat that’s willing and able to recover, we can all remind each other to tread lightly because “Everybody loves Raymond”.
“Who- Who- Who- Cooks- for you?” Barred owl’s echo off Silver Eel Cove is muffled with the pillow over my head. Honestly Owl, I cook for me, but not at 4am. A few toss and turns later the chorus of songbirds announces the coming of day. The sun dressed in pinks, reds, even violet peeks peacefully over South Beach and the parade grounds. There is the flip flop of webbed feet above me; the cottage roof where a herring gull stands watch. With all my naturalist endeavors, I would like to think this bird is satisfied with baby bunker fish. Perhaps it got wind of strewn popcorn the Fort Wright crows often insist upon (my bad). As the 7:45am ferry docks, a pair of mallard ducks make their routine landing and quite a splash into a terracotta bath meant for that chorus of songbirds. It looks to be a calm blue-sky day and with tides low I grab binoculars and clicker and head off on my bike to Hungry Point.
Last year the harbor seals hauled off and out by May 8th. Today by 8:00am on May 11th, pheasants are grazing beside the old movie theater. Time flies with me as I coast down the hill and pedal even faster past the duck pond. I look for the wood duck Carl Scroxton always sees and I remind myself to ask Janio if I might place a wood duck house in that habitat. Looping around the post office, I veer off to the Village Market – with a hankering for toast and fresh squeezed OJ, I am making great time. A few minutes later I find that I have detoured to check on coyote tracks at Dock Beach. Rounding the bend I spy an overturned horseshoe crab. Just as I put on the brakes, I receive a text at 8:30am: Seven baby swans are in a pond before the Big Club. The morning shifts from third to first gear; the upside down Limulus is rescued and swims into West Harbor. The sun glints and climbs beside me as I dart back to the post office remembering I need to stop by Eiriksson’s and check on the injured crow Lisa is caring for. My today is turning into a “to do.” Just then Larry Horn waves me down-all timing seems perfect. I tell him all about the incredible minke whale sighting the ferry crew shared with me; last Friday eve just off Government Bell Buoy. But it’s stinky VS. a minke as we revel in these stories. Larry pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of a dead skunk ashore on Chocomount! I joke that “smelling is believing” and speed off to photo document; smiling about our Island times with “All the News that’s Fit to Print”. I take a shortcut and whiz past the gate house waving to Johnny B.
“Don’t give me a demerit!”
Bruce Hubert’s bicycle van comes to a halt.
“Thanks for tightening these brakes, Bruce”.
“Hey Justine, did you get the 2 Owls I dropped off, somehow got trapped in a house.”
“Yes, barred owls, but the museum already has a specimen – I got them to a freezer” shouting from up the road.
I can tell the noon whistle is about to blast, remembering I didn’t get to the store, remembering to thank Pierce for sharing Island history slides yesterday. It’s a funny thing – memories on a tiny Island. Noting the osprey’s attempt to nest neatly, I swerve through a cluster of branches and dried eelgrass dropped below on the Recreational Path. A sharp turn and I’m aimed towards Chocomount Beach whose monster’s painted footprints appear different from 40 years ago-different species I suppose. Following the scent of skunk I snap a few pictures. I also follow the trail of nearby landscaping-wondering if the animal snuck into some mulch or even equipment on its maiden voyage from the mainland. The super tide over the weekend has me deduct differently. By 2:25pm, this afternoon I can see that the seals at Hungry Point are teasing me-hauled off but heads and snouts bobbing-no final departure northward yet. If I pedal fast now I can safely maneuver Island work force traffic headed home on Baby Doll, Popeye, and the 4:45 ferries. Finally arriving west myself, I run upstairs to check email: Would I please come east and document a dolphin washed ashore at the castle? I laugh, still wanting that slice of toast but blessed with this Slice of Life.
With supple sway and gracious bend atop crown and canopy so sure
Give radiant rest to thoughts in flight; ideas seeking roots secure
Await and see! There shines a beam
midst budding vernal
Swift
Spiral
Swirling
Within annual rings; yet ever towards eternal
Once
Founded
Then firmly
Grounded.
I was just noting our early arrivals on Island this year.Tree Swallows already darting above the Parade Ground and Oyster Catchers claiming their rock clumps off Hungry Point.So I decided to arrive even earlier at Chocomount Beach this April morning .Scanning the horizon from atop old Picnic Rock I could bearly believe my eyes…..