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 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.
Every seabird parent faces the same challenge: How do you raise a baby on a wave-battered coast? Each species has evolved its own solution. During the months-long breeding season, volunteers with the Stewards of the Coast and Redwoods monitor these unfolding family dramas.
Seabirds emerge from their shells as hatchlings, quickly becoming voracious chicks completely dependent on their parents. Western Gulls—the only gulls to breed on our coast—alternate shifts, with one protecting the nest and the other foraging for small fish before returning to regurgitate a meal into gaping beaks.
Within days gull chicks begin to stride more confidently. Fuzzy down gives way to feathers shaded in gray and brown —perfect camouflage for their rocky home. In a few weeks, they begin to experiment with the odd contraptions attached to their sides.
One windy morning, I watch a gust fill a chick’s wings and lift it a few inches off the ground. For a heartbeat it hangs in the air, webbed feet bicycling furiously, before settling awkwardly back onto the rock. It looks less like an aviator than a toddler discovering that running can become flying.
Soon the parents begin “Flight School,” drilling their offspring in take-off and landing skills and building stamina for longer voyages. But not all seabirds instruct their youngsters so openly.
Pigeon Guillemots, elegant black birds with fire-red beaks and legs, keep their family life private by tucking their nests deep into crevices on a cliff face. We know hatchlings have arrived when adults begin an almost endless procession of food deliveries. Each parent carries a single fish, silver and intact, in its beak.
We seldom glimpse the chicks themselves. After a month or two, usually under cover of darkness, they flutter and scramble to the water below. Although not yet ready for sustained flight, they can swim and dive immediately—and begin catching their own food almost from the time they reach the sea.
For young Common Murres, fledging (leaving the nest) requires a daring dive into the sea—a plunge that inspired their nickname: “jumplings.”
Packed shoulder-to-shoulder on narrow ledges, each pair of Common Murres lays a single pear-shaped egg directly on bare rock. Their chicks grow quickly under the constant attention of both parents.
Around three weeks of age—while still hopelessly unable to fly—each little Murre inches toward the edge. Whether it jumps willingly or after considerable encouragement, gravity eventually takes over. The jumpling’s buoyant body disappears into the waves, then pops back to the surface. Waiting nearby is Dad. Together, they head out to sea, where the father continues feeding and protecting his youngster for weeks.
Soon the breeding colonies will empty as the seabirds disperse across the Pacific, spending most of the year far from land. But, as in so many years past, this stretch of coast has served as nursery, classroom and launching pad. Another generation has learned to fish, fly or descend into the unknown.
Filled with hope and anticipation, we watch the Class of 2026 take wing.
Photo: © Sylvia Hunt / www.ConspiringWithNature.com
