From the Slow Lane: Close encounters of the bird kind

Not long ago, I saw a photograph of Second Bridge in the Reporter’s archives that reminded me of back when there were a couple of really mean dudes controlling the west end of Bridge Street, right near the Dory. I met the terrible twosome one day when I parked near the pharmacy and then decided to walk down to that area, but they wouldn’t let me pass. And when I got too close they actually threatened me.

I ran back up the hill, got in my car and then drove to Bridge Street. But the pair stood in the middle of the road and dared me to run them over. Of course I didn’t (I wanted to, but people were watching). Instead I made an 18-point U-turn and got out of there.

“Help!” I said to my husband, “There are two pelicans on Bridge Street who are being mean to me.”
He said, “Oh, please, no! Not the pelican thing again,” but after I armed myself with a flyswatter for protection, he drove with me back to Bridge Street, so I could personally point out the perps.

The pelicans stood at the edge of the water, under the bridge, pretending they were just waddling about minding their own business. When he approached them, they preened and smiled and did cute pelican tricks, not the slightest threatening gesture or hiss.
“Those are geese,” my husband said, “not pelicans. And they seem harmless.” Then he wondered what was wrong with me that I had this weird “bird” problem.

I did have a bird problem, but it wasn’t my fault and the Bridge Street incident was simply another in a string of unprovoked bird attacks I have endured since moving to New York more than 30 years ago.

Once, when we were camping at Hither Hills in Montauk, while I was cooking breakfast, there was a swoop and suddenly a pound of bacon was snatched right out of my hand. As soon as I recovered from the shock, I chased the thief across the dunes, waving a spatula, screaming at the top of my lungs, “That @$%$! pelican stole my bacon!”

Of course the commotion brought the curious out of their tents and campers and all my husband said, when he stopped laughing and was able to talk, was that it wasn’t a pelican that stole my bacon, it was a seagull.  Like it made any difference — the bird still had the best part of my breakfast.

I am not much better now at identifying our feathered friends than I was back then, when I recognized two kinds of birds, parakeets and pelicans. I could tell which was which by this method: if it would sit on my finger and say “pretty boy” it was a parakeet; everything else was a pelican.

It was a long time before I stopped calling seagulls pelicans. And even when I would say, “Look at all those seagulls,” in my head I’d be thinking, “Wow, pelicans!”

I had another unfortunate bird incident once when we were waiting to get into a Broadway theatre and I felt something warm and heavy land on my head. I looked up, saw the grinning creature sitting on the ledge and said, “That @$%$! pelican just pooped on my head!”

Of course, everyone in line saw the splat happen and backed away, and laughed.
“That was not a pelican,” my husband corrected, “that was a pigeon. A terribly sick pigeon.”

It was shortly after the pigeon splat incident that I came upon those Bridge Street bullies. I was determined to not let two birds who were not even pelicans intimidate me, but when I tried to stand my ground they honked and stretched their necks trying to peck, while I, on the other hand, turned and ran. And I wasn’t the only one who had a problem with the geese. Island residents shared stories about encounters with the dastardly duo, obviously bad-eggs from dysfunctional families with major attitude problems complicated by severe PMS.

I avoided Bridge Street long after those pelicans — I mean geese — moved on to greener pastures.

That’s why it’s sort of ironic that after those bird encounters, here I am, a snowbird, and part of the family. I’m still not much better at identifying my feathered relatives than I was back when one of them stole my bacon, but at least I no longer think that anything that isn’t a parakeet is a pelican.

Which brings us to a dock in Key West. I was standing beside a fellow snowbird from North Carolina who was fishing and who said I could have what he caught. He pulled up a keeper and a split-second after he set it on the ground there was a flurry of feathers, a swoosh of wings and, swoop, it was gone.
“That seagull stole my fish!” I wailed.
“I don’t know what ya’ll call ‘em in New York,” the fisherman said, while he baited his hook, “but where I come from we call ‘em @$%$! pelicans.”