Puffle

A bird must learn to spread its wings, or it will fall like a pebble.

Unless it’s a puffin. In which case it might land in a comical heap on the ground or end up in a classic belly flop on the waves. Such antics, combined with a plumage designed for attracting a mate during the Spring months, may be why this colourful auk is sometimes called “the clown of the sea.”

Just before midnight, a pair of red-ringed brown eyes peep from a burrow opening set high on an Atlantic clifftop. Belonging to a fledgling puffin named Puffle, they are mesmerised by the silvery glow of a moon suspended in a sky that is so dark it appears to have been draped in a velvet cloth.

On a clear night, an infinite number of stars glimmer in this magical vista. In some unimaginable distance, cloudy bands of light making up the Milky Way, are visible. Such constellations provide a series of landmarks used by puffins and other birds to navigate flight paths believed to have been chosen as a result of heredity and other influences not entirely understood, over miles of sea and coastland.

Waddling along the grassy clifftop where during the day, wind-swayed ferns, shrubs and sea lavenders make a life among the rocky outcrops, our male puffling breathes in the air’s salty tang. On his first and most important venture into the unknown, he tries to decode his Ma’s instructions on how to deal with the world beyond the confines of the burrow. His feet may be wobbly, yet guided by some inner compass, in a few minutes he’ll have reached the point where the cliff meets the sea.

According to his Pa, true freedom can only be found when you catch the ocean’s breath – that is, if you’re strong enough to handle it. Puffle wonders if he’ll ever be strong enough. Such an inducement should be a cause for excitement, yet Puffle is beset by doubts and confusion. For instance, why did Ma eye Pa meaningfully when she talked about birds falling unless they spread their wings? And why did Pa respond by uttering a strange snorting sound? It was hardly reassuring.

Or had he just blundered his way into what was meant to be private conversation between adults?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As it happens, Ma’s three rules of survival for leaving the burrow, in no particular order are:

Come to think of it, there are actually five.

1. You’ll need eyes in the back of your head for predators. They’ll come at you from nowhere and you’ll have to act instantly.

2. The higher you fly, the less you’ll be seen.

3. However hungry you get, keep away from things that look strange, messy, big, and/or smell terrible.

4. Remember, the rules at sea are different from the ones we have on the colony.

5. When the time comes, be patient round female puffins and wait for one to select you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The pungent citrusy air, far from unpleasant to a puffin, is actually the result of numerous bird droppings accumulated over many years on the cliff.

Plodding along, Puffle thinks how long it must have taken for Ma to spring clean the burrow to make it perfect for laying and hatching his own precious white egg. Before lining the nest with leaves and twigs she would have spent hours foraging. Pa played his part by doing a grand job of digging out a bend to make a toilet area to keep their space nice and clean. Once he’d hatched from his egg and the days turned into weeks, the toilet was moved closer to the burrow entrance (Ma’s way of hinting that this was the best place to use it, and in the process encouraging her puffling to move out and make his own way when the time came).

Even if he didn’t want to.

It saddens Puffle to think he’ll never again get to spend quality time with the puffins who went to such lengths to incubate and raise him. But perhaps they’ll allow him to pop round one day when he’s fully grown after being away for three years at sea, just to say hello, even though Ma will almost certainly be occupied with another chick by then.

If the occasion arises, he won’t make a fuss. He has no intention of being like the more inquisitive puffins who can’t wait to poke around any available den, given half a chance. Ma called them “the nosy folks”, but Pa said they were just being friendly. Apparently, Ma had huffed at the idea of being “checked up on” by older members of the colony in case something went wrong with the new egg, especially if it wasn’t going to hatch properly like the last one.

“They should know we had no choice but to discard that egg,” she complained to Pa. “Also, it’s really none of their business how we raise our chick.”

Pa just grinned, and said, “Try and ignore their bustling, Hillie.” That was the name of Puffle’s Ma. His Pa was called Billy. “They mean no harm. It’s just the puffin way.”

To which she would simply reply, “Huh.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Anyway, if everything goes according to plan, next Spring a new chick will arrive and as sure as eggs are eggs, it will take Puffle’s place. And providing the sea doesn’t get unseasonably warm and rise too high making it harder to find fish, there’ll be another one the year after that.

Pa and Ma will be upset if there isn’t enough food. Sometimes the particular fish puffins need for eating get trapped in huge nets, and then there’s not enough to go around. One time, Ma heard a chick hadn’t survived because it choked on a fish that was too big for it to swallow. But that was all its parents could find – it was either eat what was offered or starve! Puffins are baffled as to why humans need to take quite so many fish from the sea.

On the other hand, humans do have their virtues. A long time ago, most members of the colony were relieved when a number of people turned up armed with some serious-looking paraphernalia and stopped the rats from pillaging the burrows lower down the cliff. Puffins hate rats because they love stealing their precious eggs.

Ma once came across a rat in the burrow, but it scuttled off after she glared at it.

Ma is pretty fearsome when she has her dander up, but by then, the damage had been done, and another egg was lost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At seven weeks old, Puffle should be more than ready for his first flight. Ma warned him that nothing can prepare a puffling for the experience; all he can do is be alert.

Soft grey feathers and white belly ruffling in the breeze, he makes another step forward, proud of a grey bill tipped with light yellow and dark grey waders – even if they’re not a patch on the iridescent ones that will develop when he’s mature enough to attract a mate. All that will come later, and he can hardly wait.

But in the here and now, the doubts have returned, and all he wants is to slope back to the safety of the burrow.

As is the puffin way, Puffle’s parents took it in turns to feed and protect their chick once he’d chipped his way out of the egg. Ma and Pa did their best to ensure Puffle’s early life was great, but sometimes when they thought he was napping and couldn’t hear them, he’d catch Pa saying, “Well, Ma. Looks like we’ve got a right one here,” and she’d make a tsking sound with her beak, and say, “Don’t you fret Pa. Mark my words. He’ll land alright.”

As well as being troubled by parental concerns over his welfare, Puffle hasn’t been able to grasp the concept of why “you need eyes in the back of your head.” How can that even be a thing – unless you happen to be a hawk, and everyone knows their markings are just to fool the gullible into thinking they’re actually eyes? All Puffle knows is that when he was nuzzled up between his parents, his worries had been few and far between.

If only it could have stayed that way!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Then this very evening, an impossible to ignore feeling came over Puffle. Perhaps he’d been spurred on by Pa’s mutterings to Ma a few days ago when words like “overstaying his welcome” were used, as well as something about it being “more than six weeks now!”

Ma had ruffled her feathers telling Pa he was being over dramatic, as usual. “You know it’s not our place to interfere. Our boy will leave when he’s good and ready.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

That’s why just before midnight, Puffle squeezed past his sleeping parents and now finds himself padding towards the cliff edge with the waves pounding and churning below.

Like a throbbing pulse, the time has come.

Heart racing, he stretches out his wings and….

Then out of nowhere, something sweeps down and scoops him up! Cold air swamps his lungs and he feels as if he’s going to be sick, but the grip is merciless. A monster salivating at the prospect of puffin meat!

Like a frozen river, time stands still…

In his wildest dreams, Puffle would never have expected this! Predators don’t usually hunt at night, and the great-blacked gull is one of the worst offenders. Ma was always warning him to avoid it at all costs. Now, reeling with the pain and humiliation of being taken before he’s even had a chance to prove himself, he must think and act. Fast!

But what can he do?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Suddenly, the air is filled with cries that are so anguished the sky would turn red if they were a colour. Ma must have woken and decided to break the puffin code of not interfering with nature by following her puffling out of the burrow. However, with an enemy this fast and powerful, how can she launch any kind of attack? As the gull ascends further out of reach, all she can do is to scream at her son to fight back. Her sad cawing fills Puffle with grief. In the unearthly stillness, he hears the wind-whispered words: “Be brave, be brave, be brave.”

Determined not to let his mother down, he pecks wildly at the beast’s claws; he suspects it feels more like being nibbled, but it’s worth a try.

By now, Ma’s cries have faded to a distant muffle. Every so often, the beast dips tantalisingly close to the water’s edge, but weakened by his ordeal Puffle has resigned himself to whatever horrors lie ahead.

But then out of the blue, a fish rises up, skimming through the air and slamming into the side of the gull. Startled, it drops its prize midair and flies off squawking. Meanwhile, as if it’s never been, the fish disappears back into the depths. Sore, but otherwise unharmed, released from those fearsome claws, Puffle feels himself falling uncontrollably. Any moment he’ll plunge into the sea, having no idea of how to swim.

A split-second later or in the blink of a puffin eye, something changes. It’s now or never. As his fears unscramble, Puffle finds himself flapping his wings the way he’s seen Ma do when she gets impatient. Flap, flap, Flap. Feathers billowing, he grapples with the wind, until gathering momentum he allows its force to work in his favour.

With the exhilaration that comes from body and mind acting as one, the puffling is flooded by a new sensation: the unadulterated joy of being alive.

For a while, Puffle exults in his new freedom. But then, just when he’s feeling like he could go on like this forever, his belly starts rumbling. If he’s to stand any chance of propelling forward, the hunger must be sated. No longer nostalgic for the burrow or even the welcome sight of one of his parents carrying a mouthful of fish back from the sea, his taste buds water at the thought of searching for sand eels unaided.

Sink or swim, he must find his own food.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Ma once told Puffle there was nothing more majestic than the sight of a flock of birds migrating. Now seeing it for himself, he’s inclined to agree. So unlike puffins who only get to be sociable during the warmer months of the breeding season. Having shed their bright colours for a drab wintry camouflage, they spend most of their lives at sea alone.

Approaching the coast, Puffle’s eyes widen at the sight of hundreds of fish, their silvery backs tormenting him beneath the waves. Buoyed by recent success and too hungry to care about anything, he dives in, waxy feathers protecting him from the cold. Without thinking, he uses his wings as propellers and discovers swimming underwater is as graceful as flying in the air. Fish dart off in all directions, but using his feet to steer, Puffle manages to grab a handful, and rises triumphantly to the surface.

His first ever catch! Fish held firmly in place by a hinged bill and spiny tongue, Puffle’s eyes are pinned to the shore searching for somewhere safe to land.

Almost instantly, he’s surrounded by three skuas with long pointy beaks. For some minutes, Puffle weaves between them with a valour borne from desperation, but one of them grabs some of the fish hanging from his beak. With Ma’s advice ringing in his ears, Puffle scrambles to keep the remaining ones.

For a second, the distracted skuas turn their attentions to one another, jealously scrapping. Seizing his chance, Puffle flies off and quietly quenches his hunger on the shore.

Afterwards, feeling somewhat refreshed, he lands clumsily on the waves where he floats and bobs like a duck. The waves may be high but using his feet as rudders he learns to ride them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Out here all is boundless ocean; in the silent cry of an epic sea, time passes immortal and unseen. Flying in the sky or resting upon the ocean, memories come and go, finally melding into one. Already, the burrow has receded and exists only as a fragment of some former life. Puffle can only hope his mother witnessed his miraculous escape earlier and be thankful for the strange encounter with the flying fish. With each second as vital as the one that preceded it, the present is the only certainty.

Seen from a distant shore, Puffle is nothing more than a speck moving across a vast sky. Wings a grey blur, his brain is guided by some unknown internal radar, leading him further north in the relentless pursuit of food. His mind, razor sharp, has edited and refined every image as a reference point for the future. Although he’ll never forget Ma’s wise words, he’s fast learning that experience is by far the best teacher.

^ • ^