Birds of the Sea(sick)

A few weeks ago, I learned two very import things. First, the vast Pacific Ocean is home to numerous unusual and wonderful bird species.

Second, they belong out there. I almost certainly do not.

But when you’re on a quest to see at least 300 bird species in Humboldt County in a single year, at least one pelagic birding trip is essential and several are even better. So I mustered the courage to sign up for two outings this fall, giving me plenty of time to stock up on a couple of highly rated motion sickness remedies and to get used to the idea of floating like a crouton in the deep murky soup of the sea.

But as fate would have it, three days before the very first trip of the season, my buddy Leah Alcyon made me an offer I couldn’t refuse; the words “ideal conditions” and “seas as calm as glass” might have been bandied about. I made a reckless and impulsive decision: I would be on that boat.

At the crack of dawn on a Saturday, dressed in four pairs of pants, three long-sleeved shirts, two jackets, a rain coat and a ski cap, I boarded the Stellar Sunrise along with 12 other intrepid birders. I was reassured by the size and sturdiness of the vessel, nicely appointed with a warm cabin and tiny bathroom, and ably helmed by Capt. Lowell Wallace. He spoke briefly to the assembled passengers about the trip ahead, advised against lingering in the stale air of the cabin, mentioned that the toilet was out of order and requested that any vomiting be done over the stern (the back of the boat to landlubbers). Then we set out.

It was a party atmosphere among first-time and experienced sailors alike as we chugged out of the bay, passing fat sea lions basking on the buoys just yards away and flocks of low-flying Brown Pelicans preparing to scoop up fish in their ridiculous bills. Optimism was sky-high. Anything could happen.

What happened were waves. A whole bunch of waves. We reached open water and picked up speed, headed for a place some 25 miles offshore. Suddenly, we were plowing through 8-foot troughs that tipped the boat up, then dropped it like a rock. In between splash landings another set of waves came in the from the side and threw me against the railing repeatedly. A few birders were already puking over the stern. Soaked with spray, I wrapped an arm around the rail and hung on for dear life, kind of thrilled by the crazy rollercoaster ride. The wind was fresh with a salty bite and the horizon and life birds lay straight ahead.

The trouble started when I took my eyes off the horizon to look at those birds. Somehow peering through binoculars at my first Black-footed Albatross (a beauty) did funny things to my brain and then to my stomach. I ignored the sensations because soon the lifers were piling up: Rhinoceros Auklets, Sooty Shearwaters, Pink-footed Shearwaters, Cassin’s Auklets. When a Murphy’s Petrel flew in, followed shortly by a stunning Hawaiian Petrel, everyone on board was enthralled.

Along with my euphoria came the sinking realization that my five-star remedies had failed me and the conviction that there would soon be a burial at sea — mine. I slumped into a seat in the bow, kept my eyes on the horizon and vowed never to leave dry land again.

Hours that seemed like days later, after we finally turned back toward shore, a shout went up and I glimpsed a plume of spray and a massive fluke breaking the surface. It was a humpback whale, a magnificent creature with an IQ higher than the collective sum of our current administration’s; even so I found it impossible to stir from where I sat like a lump of oatmeal. But I finally staggered to the back of the boat when a Parasitic Jaeger was called out. And when a trio of gorgeous Sabine’s Gulls circled off the prow, I felt a spark of life and thought maybe I’d survive this experience after all.

It took nearly four hours to reach Humboldt Bay again, during which my condition steadily improved. Some aboard had fared much worse, but most had weathered the bumpy ride with aplomb. When one of the latter reached into his backpack, hauled out an enormous burrito and began to gnaw on it, I averted my horrified gaze and refocused on the horizon. All together it was a nine-and-a-half-hour voyage with eight life birds, no spilled cookies (by sheer force of will on my part) and a vertiginous sensation that persisted for hours after I was back home. No photos — I’d never even touched my camera.

“Never again,” I told my faithful dog Aggie, who doesn’t like the water either.

But I suppose a bad trip on the big blue is akin to childbirth — you swear each time is the last but then the experience is enveloped in a rosy glow that turns you into an amnesiac. Maybe, just maybe, I could survive another one of these tossing and turning adventures. It hadn’t really been so bad, had it? Eight life birds, after all.

And there are a lot more birds out there that I want to see: a stately Laysan Albatross, a Pomarine Jaeger robbing gulls of their catch, tiny Ancient Murrelets with their funny white eyebrows.

So yes, I might sail again. But not without some serious drugs.

Sarah Hobart (she/her) is a freelance writer based in Humboldt County.

This article appears in Global Solidarity at the Mouth of the Klamath.