The first time I spied newborn Western gulls, I instinctively wanted to scoop the downy, dotted hatchlings up and away from a sea and sky of dangers. I needn’t have worried. Their parents had the job covered.
For years I’d dismissed seagulls as rowdy thugs, scavenging through beach litter and dive-bombing picnic tables. After reviewing studies of seagulls’ more grievous behaviors—from piracy to cannibalism—Adam Nicolson, author of The Seabird’s Cry, raised “an uncomfortable question…Are gulls naturally bad?”
Not necessarily. As a monitor with the Seabird Protection Network, I’ve discovered a softer, sweeter side to the most notorious species: Western gulls, cast as avian terrorists in Hitchcock’s The Birds. These sturdy pink-legged birds, who annually settle atop a massive rock just off Bodega Head, are tender and devoted parents.
From the beginning of breeding season, prospective mothers and fathers share responsibilities. After selecting a site, they spend weeks ferrying seaweed, grasses and feathers to construct a large, bowl-shaped nest. During 29 to 32 days of incubation, they alternate shifts of foraging for food and sitting on the nest to keep a clutch of two or three eggs warm and safe.
At birth, the hatchlings are “semi-precocial”—relatively mature but unable to feed or protect themselves. The new Mammas and Papas take turns regurgitating food, mainly small fish, into the babies’ beaks. And they never leave the nest unguarded. With a hyper-vigilance that makes helicopter moms seem careless, they constantly watch for airborne predators such as eagles, hawks and other gulls.
If unable to scare off an invader, the parents shriek for reinforcements. An entire squadron of whooping gulls can attack with the ferocity of House Targaryen dragons. Instead of breathing fire, they pounce, bite and vomit or poop on the intruder—less dramatic than Game of Throne’s epic battles but effective nonetheless.
Within a few days to a week, chicks are walking on spindly legs and pecking at food brought to the nest. At about three weeks, under their sires’ vigilant gaze, the curious youngsters start exploring the neighborhood. Their fuzzy down gives way to gray and brown juvenile feathers that provide better insulation and water-proofing.
The next challenge is figuring out how the odd appendages on their sides work. I’ve watched a gust of wind puff a chick’s wings and lift it a few inches into the air. With feet and legs dangling, it squawks in surprise, fear, excitement–or all three. Again and again the wannabe flier trampolines into the air and thuds back to earth. Exhausted, it settles back to watch its parents demonstrate their take-off techniques. At six or seven weeks, flight school begins. The parents take to the air on a windy day, soar overhead and signal the chicks to follow and mimic their movements.
For “fledglings,” the sea is the final frontier. Once coaxed or, if need be, nudged into the water, the naturally buoyant seabirds quickly manage to paddle and stay afloat. However, their parents have much to teach them: how to maneuver in rough water, dive for fish, recognize potential threats. Day after day they swim for longer durations and distances and spend less time near the family nest.
When I return to the breeding site after the season ends, I reflect on yet another similarity, beyond round-the-clock feeding and protective instincts, that we share with gull parents. Like us, they end up with empty nests—in their case, literally.
Photos: © Sylvia Hunt / www.ConspiringWithNature.com
