In the wind-shelter of an island of tall reeds, I pivoted the kayak around, and began my return journey down the Assateague Channel. Now, the stiff northeast breeze sailed me down the channel and the ebbing tide flowed in my favor.  An occasional easy stroke with the paddle was all that was needed to stay on course. The sun broke through the thick, gray early November clouds and I savored its warmth on my face and chest. The waves splashed against the kayak. A solitary seagull, bright and white looped lazily over the water and called kee-ew, kee-ew, kee-ew.

I glided under the graceful arching concrete bridge that connects Chincoteague Island to the barrier island of Assateague, the home of the Chincoteague National Wildlife Refuge. Once past the bridge I had a full view of the stately, old, burgundy-striped Assateague Lighthouse, a tall sentinel whose light still circles and shines through the dark nights and the thick fog. Along the shoreline of the refuge, stood vast stands of golden-brown cordgrass punctuated by spits of tan sand. On my right, across the channel, stood the developed shoreline of Chincoteague Island, rows of bright blue, white and gray condos, colorful and capacious channel-side homes with piers, porches, and docks

Angling into a channel that would eventually take me back to the kayak launch at Memorial Park I was surprised to see that a tidal mud flat had emerged where earlier there had been open water.  An oystercatcher and a seagull walked across the mud, stepping through upturned oyster shells, searching for food. I knew these emerging tidal flats influenced the rhythm of shorebird life and quickly decided this was a good time and place for a sit spot.

I had been planning to do a session of nature observation during my brief visit to Chincoteague, had been searching the refuge for a good location, and thinking about a good time, all of this part of my usual deliberate approach. But now, this spot presented itself and I decided to accept what felt like a gift or perhaps a directive from nature.

Paddling over to the far side of the mud flat, I backed my kayak into the reeds. I had not brought a notebook, but for some reason had stuffed a note pad from the motel into my pocket and digging around in my shirt found an old ball point pen. Things seemed to be working out.

I took in the view. The mud flat lay directly ahead, reed banks to the left and right, open water in the channel, and in the distance the lighthouse surrounded by trees and framed by a gray sky. The wind rattled and rustled the reeds, wavelets lapped against the kayak, seagulls called.

The oystercatcher walked towards me along the edge of the mudflat. I brought up my binoculars and got it in focus, a big, handsome, boldly-patterned shorebird, jet black head, long strong red bill, bright white breast, tall pale legs. Its bill was mud-stained, its legs mud streaked. It probed its bill into the mud, shook its head violently, withdrew its bill holding a chunk of soft gray flesh at the tip, lifted its head and swallowed the morsel. That morsel must have been an oyster, I thought with a smile. And, it looked very much like the fresh oysters on the half shell that I had enjoyed the night before.

A few minutes later three more shorebirds stepped along the edge of the flat displaying classic shorebird appearance; long legs, rounded body, long neck, long bill. They moved closer. I studied them through the binoculars; bright yellow legs, long dark bill, mottled brown and white breast plumage. The birds walked slowly and gracefully picking delicately into the mud and then suddenly broke into a frenzied dash through the shallow water scooping and spearing with their beaks. These were greater yellowlegs.

A large-winged slender bird flew over me, set its long wings and glided silently to a landing on a thin strip of mud at the edge of the reeds. Binoculars up, another striking close up view; nature generously teaching me about shorebirds. This was a heron with slate blue plumage, dark purplish head, a blueish spear shaped bill and dull dark legs. A quick check on my iBirdPro app confirmed that it was a little blue heron, a first ever sighting for me.

I’m not a compulsive life-lister, but there is something incredibly satisfying about seeing a bird for the first time, something exciting about seeing it alive and moving, something compelling about observing and naming another unique creature, another brightly colored tile in the mosaic of life. And this heron was behaving exactly as expected; in a marsh, at water’s edge, standing stock still, neck extended, sharp bill poised at a 45 degree angle, coiled and ready to spear a fish in the tide-drawn shallows.

 

 

 

 

I glanced back at the mud flat and saw that two more flats had emerged, a reminder of the ever-changing landscape of a tidal channel. More birds arrived, gulls, and terns, and sandpipers. I thought about the cycle of the tide and about the birds’ time awareness. It wasn’t like they were sitting up in a tree watching and waiting for their feeding grounds to emerge. They had a way of knowing, an awareness of the tide, a way of sensing the emergence of the flats, and they arrived right on time.

A ring-billed gull foraged amidst the shells and debris. It grabbed a shell in its beak, flapped up in the air, higher and higher, hovered, released the shell, and flutter-followed it back down to the mud, seized the now shattered shell, picked it open, and swallowed a morsel. How it found that shell amidst a jumble of shells was a mystery to me.

A minute later the seagull repeated the maneuver a second, third, and fourth time. The whole process fascinated me, the most beautiful parts the down-following flight, white wings fanning the air, and then the impeccable finding of the shell.   More avian skills, more avian ways of knowing revealed to me.

I looked at the reeds surrounding the kayak; green and tan, narrow and tubular, smooth cordgrass adapted to grow in saltwater, evolved to thrive in the twice daily tidal immersion, a rapid growing opportunistic plant that protects the shoreline. The reeds rattled with each gust of wind, a rustling chorus, rising and falling, softer and louder.

I heard the seabirds calling up and down the channel, the gulls, sandpipers, and willets. Each had its own signature call, but all were resonant, full toned, far-carrying calls; calls I suddenly realized designed to carry through the noise of wind, waves and rustling reeds.

A flock of sandpipers flew down the channel, fighter jet sleek with pointed, angled wings, fast wing strokes, slicing through the wind, banking, whirling, setting their wings, gliding in unison to a landing on the far mud bank. Once on land they looked so different, small, rounded birds, walking delicately on slender legs, heads down, probing the mud flat with long beaks, moving in concert. It can be a challenge to identify sandpipers. My best guess was that these were dunlins, birds that fly in flocks and feed on mudflats.

More birds appeared, gathering at the splendid table provided by the receding tide. More gulls flew in to pick for food among the upturned shells.   A snowy white egret flapped over the channel, landed along a far reed bank and immediately assumed its statue like hunting pose. Common terns arrived, flapping over the shallow water, plunge-diving down to snatch the increasingly vulnerable fish in the shallowing water. Cormorants, big and black, with fast regular duck-like wing strokes zipped down the channel. Two cinnamon winged, long-beaked shorebirds flew above the mudflat, marbled godwits perhaps. High above turkey vultures flapped and glided in large circles. A flock of honking geese, climbing, sorting into a V, flew towards the refuge.

I gazed upon the mud flat. The little blue heron stared steadily into the water. The lighthouse watched over the channel and the islands. Three watchers we were. I was surely the least skilled, the most scattered. The little heron more focused, but just here at low tide. The lighthouse saw it all, the tides ebbing and flowing, the storms rolling in, the cloud banks sailing by, the seasons cycling, the boats and ships plying the ocean and channel, and the flocks of birds coming and going, calling and crying, flying and feeding.

It was I who broke focus first. My hour was up. The kayak seat wasn’t designed for a long still-sit and I felt stiffness settling into my legs and back. I pushed the kayak free from the reeds, out into deeper water, and paddled back to the park ceding the channel and the mudflats to the true watchers.

This sit spot session took place on November 8, 2018 in the Assateague Channel near Chincoteague, Virginia.