A night of angst and despair for a lone seagull

Way back in 1970 a writer of sorts called Richard Bach (no relation to Johann Sebastian as far as I know) published a novella called Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was, yes, about a seagull of the same name. But, of course, it was also a metaphor about life, freedom, and all those things that in 1970 were very dear to the hearts of hippies, students, and stoners. It was a kind of spiritual guide to life a la shithawk, I guess. I thought it was the most execrable dreck and about as significant as the ‘pet rocks’ that came out around the same time.

Actually the publication of said tome escaped my attention entirely. And then, sometime around 1972, I was undergoing some sort of despair and angst over the fact I really wanted to quit teaching school and do something different. So, a dear counterculture friend, hearing of my ‘crisis’, rushed over with a copy of JLS. “Read this,” she implored with deep sensitivity, “And you will find that your life will be almost instantly transformed. I read – oh – I think about 17 ½ pages and gritted my teeth to keep from exclaiming out loud “This is the most banal crap I have ever read in my life!”

But, hey, it made a big chunk of change for Mr. Bach, so who am I to quibble with success?

But, I thought of that aged book the other night when a seagull was raising a ruckus around our place. Now, Jonathan notwithstanding (hated him), I quite like seagulls. I’m less than charmed when they immediately crap on my newly washed black car, but otherwise, I think they’re kind of cool. At our part-time home in Victoria, which overlooks the sea, they ‘start’ at about 4:30 in the morning, and by five their clarion calls are deafening. No need for an alarm clock in the summer months. A hint of dawn’s early light and they are out calling attention to themselves.

But, the other night, about 10:30, a seagull began flying past the apartment block making a godawful noise, wailing plaintively. I actually got concerned about its well-being, since they are normally silent at night. Earlier in the evening there had been a hawk perched on the balcony of the building next door, and I wondered if the hawk was harassing them, or had even apprehended one. Anyway, after about a half hour it quietened down.

As I said, I like seagulls. Normally their call is quite romantic and speaks of misty seas and long walks along beaches. Seagulls, they say, saved the early Mormon settlement in Salt Lake City by eating all the critters in a biblical plague of grasshoppers that was assailing Brigham and his girls.

Ornithologists say they’re very bright birds, much like crows (which I also admire), and great survivors. They seem to have differing roles in their lives. Some go out to sea, in keeping with their names. Some are found well inland. None are found in Hawaii, by the way, because it’s too far for them to fly. Their rowdier elements (I imagine) hang around landfills, or raid garbage cans. So, I wonder, do they vary their lives? Do they have agendas? You know, Tuesdays and Thursdays out at sea; Mondays and Wednesdays at the city dump, and Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, at assorted fast food outlets?

Anyway, I never did find out what had distressed our gull. I found no feathers on the ground in the morning, so I must assume all was well.

Oh, and if seagulls could provide a genuine example for a well-spent life, it is known that they mate for life. So, if you see a little seagull couple, commend them, for they are very happy and very much in love. Kinda sweet.