One February afternoon a squawking, crying medley of voices attracted us to the beach in front of our house. We raced toward the water where many hundreds of birds whirled, soared, dived, clamored -- black, brown and white markings contrasting with bright-colored beaks and legs. Here was frantic activity directed at great schools of fish carried in by the running tide. We watched the incredible number of birds, each in its own manner, put on a show of fishing and diving skill, a display that lasted over an hour. We counted pelicans, terns, boobies, cormorants, grebes, gulls and smaller birds until we gave up counting and just watched in pure enjoyment. John Burroughs, writing about bird-watching, commented "There is a fascination about it quite overpowering." But after the fascination comes questions.

     Where do all these birds nest? Where do they fly each night to sleep? Which birds are true residents and which are seasonal visitors -- or which are just passing through? How and where do they find food when the fishing is poor?

     Like the people of the estuary, only a handful of birds remain the year round. Most remain for the winter season only, or visit briefly while en route to summer or winter homes. Many, like the sandpipers, hatch out near mountain streams in Alaska, on the shores of Greenland, or in the tundra of Hudson Bay, and there they will return to nest. Others stay with us all year -- homebodies like the Gambel's Quail, the Bigbilled Savannah Sparrow, and Say's Phoebe, who nest beneath the dune shrubs or in the eaves of beach porches. These, our daily companions, are the birds we watch for at sunrise and sunset. But the sea birds also beckon us daily to the blue-green Gulf waters where the excitement of their predatory life keeps us glued to binoculars for hours on end.

     The most striking and alluring of these birds, the Pelicans and their many relatives such as cormorants and boobies, are characterized by four-webbed toes and throat pouches of varying colors, shapes and sizes. e cart This order of birds, the peliformes, includes six different families: 1) pelicans; 2) cormorants; 3) gannets and boobies; 4) tropicbirds; 5) anhingas and darters; and 6) frigate birds.

     Our favorite of all these -- and the one we almost gave up as lost forever -- is the Brown Pelican, that half-clumsy, half-graceful, but always fascinating sea bird. At one time we feared its extinction with good reason. There were a few warnings in the 1950's when the Brown Pelican's western population declined somewhat. But by the turn of the 1960-70 decade both the California and Baja populations seemed doomed. In 1969 and 1970 only 9 fledglings survived from 1,852 nests surveyed on islands off the coast of southern California and northwestern Baja. The cause, as we now know, was pollution of their ocean environment by DDT-related discharges, mainly from a Los Angeles manufacturer dumping liquid wastes into the ocean. This resulted in disastrous eggshell thinning in many species of birds including the Pelicans. Fortunately for the Pelican ovyiat12, (and probably for fTian as well), in 1970 the plant was forced to cease dumping its waste fnto the ocean. It had been a close call for these large birds, whose softened eggshells could not stand the weight of parental care, and whose young were crushed to death before hatching.

     During this time on short winter visits to the Gulf, we would scan the flocks with anxiety, watching for those drab young-of-the-year among the white-headed adults. Only seldom could we spot more than one or two. Gradually they have come back, though not yet in sufficient numbers for us to feel secure. Brown Pelican productivity may still be too low for population stability and we watch more carefully now, along with many others, for aliim signs of environmental pollution.

     But now, the pelicans are again diving off-shore and sunning on the sand spit at low tide. On today's walk to the estuary we witnessed a new sight. Seventy pelicans were clustered on the near sand bar and, as we watched, one after another threw back a head, stretched a huge, yellow-orange throat pouch upward, beak skyward, and turned the neck so the white plumage shone in the sun. The head would then swing downward back to its normal position. Each stretch seemed to call up a response from the others, like a yawn, and one after another, sometimes three or four together, would engage in this strange display, almost flower-like in its colorful expansion. So far we have found no reason for this unusual display.

     Brown Pelicans, unlike their White Pelican cousins, are skillful and adventurous divers. They start at various altitudes, but always land with a foamy splash; when they surface they are faced in the opposite direction from which they entered the water. We haven't seen any other diving birds making this sudden direction-switch underwater. Their flying is amazingly agile and graceful for birds of such bulk, and when they locate a school of fish, they dip and turn in what seems to be ex-tremely close quarters. We have yet to see them collide in mid-air as gulls are apt to do when squabbling over a feast of fish.

     Many other diving birds share the fishing grounds and often a mixture of pelicans, boobies, terns, cormorants and mergansers feed in a wild con-fusion on a single large concentration of fish. Cormorants, the next on eArk our peliform list, appear amidst the splashes and below the aerial fishers. A Their dark heads, raised above the water, appear at first glance to be loons, but subsequent actions prove them otherwise. For one suddenly rears up above the water, spreads his wings in a manner similar to his relative the Anhinga, and immediately lifts in flight, thus revealing himself a cormorant.

     This black "cue_rvo marino" (as it is called by the Mexicans), is often mistaken for a duck because of its similar flight silhouette. At this time of year there are many, forming long, dark lines against the pale sky. Unspectacular compared to the diving birds, they are neverthe-less such efficient fishers that they have long been put to work for this purpose by the Chinese. Placing a ring around the cormorant's neck to forestall swallowing, the Chinese owner allows the tethered bird to fish, the catch then being collected from the bird's pouch by this enterprising human exploiter. Here, however, the cormorants swim freely beneath the furious aerial activity and enjoy the fruits of their own underwater fishing skill. e cl.a"

     Gannets and boobies make up the third of our peliform es list. The gannets we do not see here -- they remain close to their northern rock clifti. But we are fortunate to have the most beautiful of the Gulf divers, the Brown Booby, perform for us. This spectacular bird drops from both low and high altitudes, folding his wings so tightly at the last minute of his flight that he cleaves the water like an arrow. As he rises with his catch, his sharp wings cut a clean line against the cloudless sky, the brown and white pattern on his underside flashing in the sun. One February day we spotted a few white-rumped individuals among them, a feature of a different species, the Blue-Footed Booby. Following them carefully with glasses, we easily detected the blue beaks, but rarely could catch the lovely blue color of the legs.

     Another fascinating performance that the Pelicans, Boobies and Terns have in common is a "traffic circle" behavior. When a large school of fish become the target, these divers follow a striking pattern. They approach upwind, dive, soar upward, then circle downwind and fall in, more or less near the end of the group, again approaching upwind until each bird in the group peels off when it it time to strike again. From a distance it looks much like a busy "traffic pattern" at some modern airport, even to the upwind approach.

     Cousin to the pelicans and boobies, the Red-Billed Tropicbird, is seldom seen close to shore. We were fortunate to encounter one on a boat trip from our own Puerto Penasco to Bird Island, a group of rocky peaks six miles off shore and south of us in the Gulf. Traveling by motorboat, mainly to fish and to view the sea lions and porpoises, we were honored by a half hour visit by this amazing bird who chose to playfully criss-cross our boat, hanging about 15 feet above our heads, speeding up as we did, racing us in the spirit of game-playing -- and proving our boat was no match for his speed:

     The anhingas and darters are not seen in the Gulf, but occasionally we are visited by the Magnificent Frigatebird. Once at Thanksgiving we saw several flying along the beach.

     The other diving birds in this fishing assemblage are the terns, their specific composition varying with the season. Today, the first of February, hundreds of Forster's Terns have suddenly appeared over the shallow shore. We have seen but a few before today. In their hungry diving for shiners they are almost frenetic, their continuous calls making a noisy, collective chatter. From past years' experiences, we know that one morning we'll hear a new note, a voice of Spring -- a screaming from high above. There, streaking across the bright sky in close formation, a pair of prosaically-named "common" Terns will be seen cutting a sharp outline against the blue. Some will stay for a few weeks to wheel and dive with the Forster's Terns, adding a familiar Cape Cod dimension to the sound medley arising from the beach surf. These, the birds Thoreau called "Mackerel Gulls", are welcome visitors during March and April, and then one day they are gone -- on their way to island homes far north, perhaps to New England's coast, or Canadian lakes.

     Other terns appear, each with a special appeal. The Elegant Tern is one of these; few American bird watchers have seen this species although it occasionally wanders to the coast of southern California from its breeding grounds on islands in the Gulf. The Least Tern, bouncing above the estuary waters in summer is a favorite, perhaps because it's so easy to identify: its call is swallow-like, and its yellow bill is a diagnostic delight for the amateur. We are always on the lookout for the large Caspian and Royal Terns; they are oddities, seeming to lumber across the water in gull-like flight compared to their buoyant smaller cousins. But, the most incongruous of the group are the Black Terns, who feed here briefly in May before leaving for in-land domesticity in Canada and northern USA, far from marine shores. Each day during our walks we make discoveries on the beach. Some are unpleasant, underscoring the damage man inflicts on his fellow creatures, often unwittingly. Today we found, at high water mark, a dead blue-footed booby; on closer examination, the cause of death became unhappily clear. Wound tightly around one foot and one wing was a nylon monofilament fishing line, one of man's lethal snares for un-suspecting wildlife. How he had become entangled will never be known, but his death was surely one of hopeless struggle. The finding recalled a similar incident that occurred a few years back on Convict Lake in California. This was a strange event, yet with a much happier ending than today's sad find.

     We had been camping at Hot Springs Creek, but decided to visit Convict Lake because of its reputation as an extremely beautiful and limnologic site, and indeed it was. In fact, it was so delightful that we decided to walk around it. As we were returning, having nearly com-pleted the long loop, we noticed a California gull sitting in a shallow bay, strangely motionless. Turning glasses on the bird, we could also see a good-sized trout close beside it. This seemed most unusual and we walked back toward the bird who made no motion to fly. Wading into the water toward him we discovered he had become entangled in cfishing line -- a line to which the fish was securely hooked.

     We had with us no equipment whatever, but by wading closer, Jerry was able to divert the bird with one hand and grab him securely with the other. Then, with Jerry holding him aloft -- fish, fishing line and all -- I was ten-able to grab his feet, both of which were tightly entangled in the line. I used the only weapon at hand, my teeth, and broke the line in two places so I could then unravel it and free the bird's feet. I still recall, vividly, biting the tough line with my fac-e -haTiburtiect‚Äîirt the -soft, white gull feather face half-buried in the soft, white gull feathers. Once untangled, the bird was placed back in the water and after a few minutes of paddling his feet, he flew out toward the middle of the lake, where he landed --either to rest or to sooth his sore feet in the water. The sight was well worth our entire day's visit. The fish and line we buried so no other bird would become entangled.

     After the adventure at Convict Lake, we have looked on all gulls with affection, although most people do not count them among their avian favorites. The gulls evoke mixed emotions -- master fliers, they sur-pass the most graceful] glissade, but their mores can be questioned from an anthropocentric viewpoint. Gluttony, thievery, murder and cannibalism all have been part of their heritage, and these traits must have had substantial survival value in the long history of this species. Whatever their personality, they are part of the seasonal panorama at the estuary, and they are as welcome as the gentler species.

     Gull-watching involves spotting beak colors, leg hues, and wing tip/mantle comparisons. The Ring-Billed Gull is a winter resident along with the similar, but larger and ubiquitous Herring Gull. It is the former, however, that is our "haus Vogel", visiting us daily for scraps and perching on nearby porch railings. The Herring Gull, with the coldest of eyes, seems to disdain such handouts. When we drive to Puerto Penasco, however, we find him abundantly in the smelly dump, belying his dignity and independence. If we happen to approach downwind, the entire flock takes off directly toward us, swerving off to safety the moment they are airborne. Most of these scavengers are Herring Gulls.

     In some ways the herring gull is not such a fine bird. We knew he was a scavenger, but we did not realize he was a bird-killer until one day, through bird glasses, we saw three herring gulls nipping at an eared grebe. The grebe seemed to be trapped in a very shallow back-water quite a distance from the receding tide. He was making valiant efforts to achieve that distance by flapping along against a powerful wind and sinking back into the water, too shallow for him to dive away from the gulls. Twice while we watched a gull lifted him a foot aloft, only to drop him when he struggled. The grebe seemed additionally inhibited by the fact that he had been moulting and could not get under-way against the strong wind. We broke all sprint records in our dash to drive away the gulls, and walked guard for the grebe until he was able to achieve the 'ocean edge and deep-water safety. He seemed not seriously hurt, but we chalked up one more answer to why so many dead grebes had been seen on the beach.

     In Spring, the dainty Bonaparte's Gulls join the beach crown. More tern-like than the others, they prefer to sit on sandbars among the terns rather than with their closer relatives. Later, during the summer months, a few Western and California Gulls move in to replace the Herring and Ring-Billed Bulls who have moved to their nesting places far to the north. The Western, with his dark back, reminds us of the fierce Great Black-Backed Gull who is part of the rugged scenery of Mount Desert Island and the granite seascape of the Maine coast.

     The best fisherman of the gull lot is the darkest of them all, Heerman's Gull, and he is with us all year. Except for their bright red beaks and white heads, they blend in with the black lava boulders upon which they perch along the waterfront at Puerto Penasco. Here at the beach, whenever there is a fish-bird boil, with all the pelicani-form species, grebes and mergansers diving and surfacing frantically, the dark silouhettes of Heerman's Gulls are part of the tableau. Usually one or two attend a pelican, following his every aerial maneu-ver and slanting down with his dive, alighting close to the spot where the large fisherman surfaces with his catch. In the British Virgin Islands we once watched the Laughing Gulls attend Brown Pelicans in the same manner, sitting close by individuals that had just dived, emerged and were floating on the bluest of Caribbean waters. This behavior on the part of the gulls must have some advantage; perhaps the pelican is a sloppy eater, dropping tidbits or more likely losing a newly-caught fish. If so, the other gulls at Estero Morua haven't learned it yet, and are missing a good thing.

     Sometimes, though seldom, the Osprey joins this diversified group of fishermen. Usually a solitary hunter, the Osprey uses a different approach. Hovering over his prey until the fish is close to the surface, he then dives, plucking his catch out of the sea with his powerful talons and carrying it to a shore perch to enjoy at leisure. Each morning when we step out of the door onto the warm sand we look east-ward to seekuaf our resident "fish-hawk" is perched on his pole behind an empty beach house. We have been watching him foraging both in the estuary and offshore, and recognize him by the short fish line dragging from his leg. So far, it seems to have not affected his fishing, but we are concerned that sometime it may tangle him up with fatal results.

     There is a legend, or perhaps it should be called a myth, that concerns these estuary Ospreys. It may exist elsewhere, but we had not heard it before. In several places at Estero Morua, near the beach or high on a dune, stand slender, tall poles, each usually topped with a curved boat hook and with a braced crossbar. They were raised in memory of deceased friends or loved ones in hopes that the "sea eagle" would use them as perches. Each time the hawk returns to the pole, the tradition goes, the soul of the departed returns with him to relive joyful times spent here. To those who credit such fantasies of rein-carnation, it is especially pleasurable to see the Osprey land on one of the lofty perches. It is a reminder of those who enjoyed the estuary before us, even though we don't know to which individual soul each pole belongs. Indeed, it is such a delightful myth that we hope to be so honored by someone who lives here after us, so we can fly back with the Osprey for brief visits.

     Sometimes the poles are used by other birds, usually as a sally point. The graceful little American Kestrel is often perched high on a bar meant for Ospreys, and he seems nearly acceptable as a spirit bearer. The occasional shrike and Say's Phoebe do not make quite as good substitutes for a sea eagle, but there was no question -- no doubt whatsoever -- that the two Starlings we saw one time high up on the dune pole, represented the reincarnation of no one we wanted to know! (A son-in-law, reading the foregoing statement, called it "continental chauvinism".)

     On a sunny, windy day in February we walked over the dunes to the estuary, not to catch fish, crabs or oysters, but simply to bird-watch. The tide was at the ebb with only a shallow stream making its last hurried exit to the Gulf. But beyond the fast-flowing rivulet, in a shallow backwater curved up against a dune, floated fifteen ducks, paddling back and forth lazily. A familiar green flash announced an old friend, the GreeTinged Teal. It was the first time we had seen the species in the Gulf and we watched their activity for nearly an hour. The green was not obvious at first, but as one after another would rise up on the water, flapping his wings, a white chest and under-wing appeared; then, as they settled back onto the smooth water, a bright jade, almost irridescent in its brilliance, would flash briefly before the wings again folded, leaving only slight tips of emerald still showing. By looking closely we could make out the green eye patch on the males -- the same lovely bright shade, but muted by the rich dark cinnamon feathers that surrounded it.

     Much more common than the teal and the most abundant of our ducks are the wintering Red-Breasted Mergansers. Returning from our walk that day, we came upon a handsome male, all alone near the reefs; he seemed undisturbed by our presence. Usually the Gulf mergansers are gregarious, gathering in great rafts to fish, but this one seemed to be making a solitary toilet. He was close enough for us to admire his markings even without glasses, but with them, every colorful detail of his plumage, his bright red beak and eye, his red-brown and speckled breast and white neck band, could be enjoyed at very close view as he preened and bathed. Excellent fishermen, these ducks have sharply serrated beaks,and any fish they seize has little chance of slipping away. Modern birds have no true teeth, but the notched bills of the mergansers serve them effectively, pseudo-teeth though they may be. Cinnamon Teal occasionally visit here and twice, while we were hunting oysters on the outer reef, a small dark goose, the Black Brant, went honking past us hardly higher than our heads. This was an unusual occurnce, as we see very few such geese. By contrast, the Surf Scoter is a regular winter visitor. We have found several dead on the beach and we always speculate on the cause while admiring the bright red and white beak, much more colorful than shown in our guide book. A round, black spot centered in the white base of the bill gives the appearance of a large eye, bringing to mind the deceptive "eye" near the tail on many of the brilliant fish we have seen on tropical reefs. The Surf Scoter's real eye is small, set farther back and nearly hidden beneath the white marking on the forehead.

     Two other elegant, graceful and familiar birds, the Great Blue Heron and the Snowy Egret, frequent the estuary and the off-shore reefs These birds exhibit distinct differences in their feeding habits; the Egret is a busy hunter, cruising back and forth through the shallows, constantly on the move; the larger Great Blue Heron stands motionless, tensely poised, waiting for long moments before a lightning-fast strike secures his prey. Both are strikingly beautiful to watch, but nothing can equal the flowing ease of the Great Blue Heron as he slows to land, daintily setting his feet onto the sand, his lovely slate-blue wings gleaming a moment in the sun before he folds their color into the familiar grey-blue profile.

     In the Gulf the loneliness of the Great Blue Heron contrasts sharply with their behavior in their nesting habitat. Lake Itasca, Minnesota, was one of these places where three or four herons could usually be spotted along the shoreline. During a summer stay at that lake, we discovered a busy rookery in a nearby grove of red pines where dozens of pairs resided. Although they ranged far to supply their nestlings, some always were hunting the Itasca shores. A unique feature of these Minnesota herons was their habit of landing on the water to float like long-necked ducks. Our boys were young then and when fishing from canoe or boat, they would throw unwanted perch high in the air whenever the herons passed. This would bring the great birds down to float buoy-antly while picking up the fish. Then with one stroke of their wings they were airborne and gaining altitude as they flew home to the rookery. This was decidedly different behavior than the herons we watched in the estuary.

     Equally at home floating in the estuary or fishing in a rough sea, the Eared Grebe is a winter and spring visitor. We have come upon these unsophisticated little divers foraging in the tide pools, aware of our presence but showing no fear, apparently unaware of the dangers associated with mankind. By mid March their delicate golden "ears" (plain and unadorned in the winter months), presage spring and the onset of warm weather. The golden feathers, fluffing out in the spring breeze on each side of the grebe's small head, reflect the sun, and one instantly knows why they are called "eared" grebes. Though strictly western birds, this year one surprised the experts by turning up in a Christmas bird count from the New York side of Lake Champlain -- an unprecedented appearance. The American Oyster Catcher, a louder, brighter, estuary inhabitant, is usually seen whenever we walk to the oyster reefs to pry off the tilt, delicious rock oysters for an evening meal. These birds herald their approach with shrill, short cries, and they continue to shriek as they pass, their red beaks bright and distinctive. They seldom mingle with other species but stay aloof in groups of two or, rarely, three. We see evidence of their feeding at low tide; since many freshly-opened and cleanly-picked shells remain to bleach in the sun, we assume the birds are eating well.

     The Turnstones, both Ruddy and Black, also find much to their liking in and around the oyster beds. Their characteristic foraging behavior of flipping stones to search for invertebrate tidbits is fun to watch. One day we chanced upon one of these birds who had an un-welcome hunting companion -- a fast-moving sanderling. The sanderling stood close by waiting until the turnstone tossed aside a small stone; then he rushed in searching for whatever prey might be uncovered; this seemed to confuse the busy turnstone. Apparently that bird, at least, had not experienced this type of looting before. More often, sanderlings are found in small flocks on the beach, alone or in company with a variety of other species, relying on no one else for their dinner; with shallow probes, too rapid to count, they seem to be sucking up nourish-ment unavailable to other shore birds. We have never witnessed another incident of a sanderling relying upon the skills of a turnstone for his food.

     All the shore feeders have a place and a time to hunt and, thanks to the pull of sun and moon, the tidal regime/offers varied opportunities. The sandpipers skitter along in the shallows or wade deeper according to species. The plovers, on the other hand, seem to be almost afraid to wet their feet. The largest and most common plover on our beach is the Black-Bellied Plover whose hunting tactics remind one of a robin on a suburban lawn -- it runs a few steps, stops, seems to listen, and suddenly plunges its beak into the burrow of an unfor-tunate sandworm. Recently a graduate student at Yale, armed with stopwatch and notebook, showed that the steps between successive plover probes mean something: if the bird has good luck, he takes fewer steps before trying again. The Black-Bellied Plover knows in some ancestral, selected-for behavioral way that "clumping" is a common pattern of distribution among animals, including his prey.

     Other smaller plovers are less common here. The Semipalmated Plover, striped like a little Killdeer, seems to be a successful and widespread bird, co-occurring with the others on our beaches. It is found on the East Coast also, and on the sands of Cape Co it coexists with the noisy Piping Plover, a counterpart of our western Snowy Plover. The middle-sized Wilson's Plover isn't part of the assemblage of other shorebirds on the beaches. Far less sociable than other plovers, one or two occasionally visit the tidal mud flats in the estuary. These birds display a different pace from their relatives. Almost cat-like, they stalk their prey; creeping closer and closer with head lowered, they conclude with a last-minute dash for the quarry. With such a foraging technique, they can ill afford to hunt where other beach combers, running here and there, might alarm their victim. Commonest of all the estuary sandpipers, the Willet is also one of the most nondescript, drab and undistinguished of shorebirds when seen feeding in the shallow wake of receding tides. But he exemplifies perfectly what Henry Beston meant when he wrote, "No one really knows a bird until he has seen it in flight." With its singularly striking black and white pattern, the airborn Willet is a joy to watch. Once seen in flight, it can't be forgotten.

     In addition to distinctive beak shape, leg color and flight pattern, a sandpiper can be identified by its mode of feeding. If you see a lone bird unhurriedly probing the mud flats high above the receding tide, you may guess it's a Long-Billed Curlew. The sure identification, of course, is the Curlew's long, curved beak -- which contrasts to the straighter, shorter beak of the Marbled Godwit -- a bird more apt to wade out from the water's edge as the tide rises. The Willet's feeding pattern is apt to fall somewhere in between these two. The Greater Yellowlegs, on the other hand, lurches and splashes in a drunken manner, chasing and seizing the prey it scares up. A bird that runs along the water's edge at high tide, probing rapidly in what appears to be sterile sand, is usually the Sanderling, the largest of the "sand peeps". Parenthetically, it seems wrong that the turnstones have the generic name, Arenaria; it obviously belongs to the Sanderling.

     The Dunlin, Knot, Dowitcher, Surfbird, Wandering Tattler, and the two smallest peeps, the Western and Least Sandpipers -- all display a confusing array of somber hues, but each is beautiful in his own way, occupying his own niche in the beach economy.

     In their distinctive, indivival ways of living the sandpipers remind us of human behavior. In this we again agree with Beston who called his outer Cape sandpipers, "...the thin-footed, light-winged "peoples" ... the busy pickup, runabout, and scurry-along "folk". The peeps, in particular, remind one of a little person running on the beach, now pausing to scan the field, then suddenly changing his mind and racing for the ocean at full speed.

     "Life no longer than a sand peep's cry...", wrote Edna St. Vincent Millay, lamenting her years spent away from the Maine coast. And we are reminded again, how brief are the moments we are able to spend on the beach, close to the ocean with our bird relatives who share this planet.