Time stands still when you focus

CATHARINE COOPER

I dare not move a muscle as my kayak floats in the still water next

to the rocky islet. On the water’s edge, pelicans, blue footed

boobies, double-crested cormorants, American oyster catchers and

California gulls bask and preen in the late afternoon light. A few

feet removed, night and green heron of various ages shyly watch my

ship, while atop the tall cardon, two osprey guard their nest. One

vocalizes with a high pitched “shreep,” while the other’s head

remains swiveled in my direction.

I’ve floated for nearly an hour next to this rookery, mesmerized

by the winter migratory waterfowl here in the Sea of Cortez. In

particular, a baby great blue heron (Ardea herodias), who sits with

regal pose on the island’s edge, has garnered my attention.

The chick is possibly four weeks old and cannot yet fly. Aredid

chicks can leave the nest by two weeks of age as “branchers” or

“perchers” while they finish their maturation. They fledge between 55

and 60 days. He (I have made a unilateral decision that the chick is

male) bears all the beauty of his adult relatives, but scaled down

and muted. Tall lanky legs support a narrow body of soft gray-blue

feathers, and a too-long-for-his head beak strikes out from his black

colored face. Occasionally, he emits a short “groonk,” the same sound

as an adult, but truncated in length. In some ways, he may be as

curious of me as I am of him, as we gaze human to fowl, fixated on

one another.

I feel honored to be in his presence, to have the opportunity to

stay still for so long. The smallest of paddle moves keeps me in

close proximity, as the need for doing anything other than witnessing

his behavior has fallen away. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do

but be in this very moment. I notice the smallest of things. The way

he nods his head preceding a vocalization. The delicacy with which he

places a foot on the slippery rock surfaces. The tiny dark eyes that

survey every movement of fish or fly.

It has been a week of honoring and magic. The desert has dished up

an experience unlike any of my earlier journeys to this region. Three

days of bitter cold have left my shorts and cropped tops at the

bottom of a bag, and led me to praise my last-minute decision to add

a fat parka and warm gloves. Thick dark clouds followed the cold, and

yes, rain! In an arid desert that annually receives .5 inches,

precipitation is a blessing. The ground opens her dry and crusted

surfaces and thanks the heavens for this life-giving water. The air

fills with the scent of a land, long without rain.

The sea is still; no wind ruffles the glasslike surface except for

dancing skittering raindrops. We leave the beach and paddle up the

coastline. A seal joins us, playfully swimming around and near our

boats. Sergeant majors, brilliant blue neons and soft gray perch swim

just below the surface. Royal terns hover overhead, chattering

between themselves before diving headfirst after their prey. A

magnificent frigatebird, the first I’ve seen here, courses the sky.

Back in the estuary, the white and snowy egrets chase tiny fish

stranded by the ebb tide. Crashing pelicans, the clowns of the

beachfront, flap their heavy wings, run with their wide webbed feet

and become air-born, only to crash, beak-first at the first sign of

fish. After countless attempts, I determine their ratio of success at

about one out of 10.

I’d like to think that on my return, I will the find the baby

great blue heron. He’ll be in his first full year, still a juvenile

in coloring, but that something about his motion or a particular way

he moves will give him away. If he makes it through his first year,

the odds are in his favor of living for another 15. I’d like to

believe that he’d remember me. But then, we all know I love to dream.

* CATHARINE COOPER loves wild places. She can be reached at

[email protected].