Hey tweets, I just got back last night from a trip to Westport, where the
highlight was to be a pelagic trip on Saturday. Going on a pelagic was a big
decision for me, as I am among the world's worst sailors. I had decided to
venture out on the strength of my husband's predictions. John read the
reports from the deep-ocean buoys to find out what kind of seasickness I
might have to suffer. The word was, no seasickness at all! The ocean was
going to float peacefully under a strong high, so there might be gentle
swells, but that was all. In fact, John worried that the pelagic birds might
be few and far between, since they don't like to flap. In calm conditions,
they sit on the water and are hard to find. That was fine with me. I'd much
rather give up the chance to spot a ton of birds for the possibility of not
having to heave over the side too often.

I should have known that my luck can trump science any time. When I arrived
at the dock on Saturday morning, the wind was howling at 35 mph. Power
outages were being reported up and down the coast. Every single leader on
the boat was wearing full rain gear: rubber boots, rain pants, waterproof
coats and neoprene gloves. I was wearing ordinary pants, running shoes and a
fleece jacket. Ruh-roh.

We motored out of the marina and hit the full force of the gale. It took us
an interminable amount of time to get past the jetty and over the sandbar
that lies at the entrance to the bay. Spray flew in all directions, and
chaotic waves the size of Volkswagens erupted on all sides, like some sort
of fast-forwarded film clip showing the rise of the Himalayas.

The captain assured us that conditions would get less rough once we were
past the bar, but that was just idle chatter. At one point, the boat tipped
over so far that water flowed onto the deck through the scuppers. Very few
birds were flying (they had too much sense), and the ones that were were
almost impossible to identify, since we couldn't clap our binoculars to our
eyes and still hold onto the boat with two hands. We did see one sooty
shearwater, some rhinoceros auklets and a few common murres - they shot
across the stern like they'd been fired from a missile silo.

After half a lifetime of pitching and tossing, the captain turned us around
and motored back to the dock. Just in time for me, as I was beginning to see
my life pass before my eyes.

I spent the rest of the day birding around town, running into forlorn
members of our expedition. The storm did blow in a lot of migrants, though,
as reported on tweeters. My own highlights for Friday, Saturday and Sunday
include:

Bottle Beach
CHIPPING SPARROW
LINCOLN'S SPARROW
HERMIT THRUSH
RED KNOT (one among the numerous westerns, short-billed dowitchers, dunlin,
semipalmated plover and black-bellied plover)
ORANGE-CROWNED WARBLER
COMMON YELLOWTHROAT
YELLOW-RUMPED WARBLER (both Audubon's and Myrtle)
GREEN HERON
CASPIAN TERN

Bowerman Basin
SEMIPALMATED SANDPIPER (one among the egregious westerns and dunlin)

Twin Harbors State Park
BLACK-THROATED GRAY WARBLER
WILSON'S WARBLER
ORANGE-CROWNED WARBLER
YELLOW-RUMPED WARBLER
TOWNSEND'S WARBLER
HERMIT THRUSH (2)
VARIED THRUSH
CHESTNUT-BACKED CHICKADEE

Oddly, LEAST SANDPIPERS were hardly in evidence at Bottle Beach or at
Bowerman. I did see a couple. But I saw larger numbers among the grassy
hillocks and pools at Midway Beach and at Nisqually.

I ran into the Sullivans at Bottle Beach on Friday and informed Patrick that
I had seen an AMERICAN GOLDEN-PLOVER. He went charging off to find it but
returned empty-handed. The bird I saw was in molt; rather than claim it
without confirmation from another birder, I'll just let it go. It's at least
possible that the bird I saw could have been a female black-bellied plover.

One of the dubious charms about birding is that we deal with real-world
biology, where birds can look different from the ideals portrayed in our
field guides or preserved in our museums. Birds can appear where and when
they aren't supposed to be. All this makes birds a lot harder to identify
than you might think. In order to "see" a bird, your eyes have to be
prepared to see it. Otherwise, you get eye glide and discombobulation. It's
like the time I saw my dentist jogging around the local park one morning. He
was wearing a sweatshirt and showing a lot more leg than I was used to
seeing. He smiled warmly and said hi, but I failed to respond. Something
about the guy looked familiar, but what? I turned around to look closer, but
all I could see was his fast-disappearing back, which presented few
definitive field marks. It took my brain several minutes to process the
image and to realize that the guy who had just run by was not an overly
friendly womanizer but my dentist of the past 20 years. Truth to tell, I
wasn't absolutely sure of this ID until I had my next appointment, at which
time my dentist asked me why I hadn't said hello.

In the case of the plover, I hadn't expected to see one of the golden
varieties among so few black-bellieds. I studied the field marks, true, but
more to look at a bird in molt than to ID a rarity. It wasn't until I was
walking back to the car that my brain awoke and suggested a golden plover.
By then it was too late to go back - a yellowlegs had come and spooked all
the shorebirds, who flew off to the right.

I could look at this experience as one more lost opportunity in a career
loaded with "little brown jobs" of indeterminate identity. However, I prefer
to look at it as nature's deepest incentive to keep birding: I still have a
lot to learn. Just think of the fun we birders have, learning new things
every day. It's one of the greatest appeals of birding. It keeps the world
fresh for us. - Connie, Seattle

csidles at isomedia.com