Seabirds

The Real Birds That Inspired Hitchcock’s Thriller

“Come to the beach—NOW!”

I scan the urgent texts from neighbors and naturalists and bolt out the door. Racing over the dunes, I hear a cacophony of squawks, bleats and cries. Then I see the birds—thousands swirling in great swooping waves, wing to wing, their dark feathers blotting the sun, their sleek bodies wheeling over the sea.

“It looks like something out of Hitchcock,”  an onlooker says.

In fact, a scene like this one occurred not far from the director’s house on the Central Coast a few months before he started shooting The Birds.  On August 18, 1961, masses of crazed birds invaded the town of Capitola, colliding into buildings and smashing onto cars. 

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Summer School for Seabirds

There’s a baby boom on the northern California coast.  

Cliffs and offshore rocks that seemed almost lifeless through winter are teeming with seabird families. Through my binoculars, I watch tiny Western Gulls wobbling on spindly pink legs, secretive Pigeon Guillemots ferrying fish into invisible nests, and Common Murres preparing their youngsters for one of the most astonishing leaps in the bird world.

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The Uncommon Saga of a “Common” Seabird

Over the last 175 years, common murres (pronounced murrs) have been pushed to near-extinction by greed, pollution and a warming ocean. But in a remarkable turn, the “penguins of California” are establishing new breeding colonies and laying eggs on rocks and outcroppings off  the Sonoma coast.

Despite their name, common murres are anything but ordinary. On land they waddle in dapper black-and-white plumage. Under water they dive like torpedoes. In the air, their short wings—better suited to swimming than soaring—beat furiously, whirring like wind-up toys. About the size of a football, murres spend most of the year over open water. But each Spring they return to the stony sites where they were born to cluster in densely packed colonies.

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Notes from an Accidental Ecologist

“So you’re an ecologist?” a doctoral student on a field trip asks.

“No, I’m not a scientist,” I hastily reply. “I’m just trying to get to know my neighborhood.”

With a patient smile, she informs me that “ecology” comes from the Greek words for “study of” and “home” or “place to live.”   By this simple definition, I qualify–as, at the least, an accidental ecologist.

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