The Rarest Bird in the World by Vernon R L Head

Author:Vernon R L Head
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pegasus
Published: 2016-03-27T16:00:00+00:00

Ian I first knew only through his many books. The day I first met the great Ian Sinclair I was nervous, and also humbled by his presence as part of our team of three. He stood in front of me in the salty mist of the cool sea air on a squeaky beach dune that was bleached, cracked, whalebone-hard and bright white. I was brittle with excitement. Youthful optimism had manufactured a bird for me – a possible new species for Africa! I had been at the spot the previous morning and convinced myself I had found a Cocoi Heron, a South American bird that would have been a new vagrant record for Africa – new for the Africa list.

We stood on the muddy flats at the mouth of the Olifants River on South Africa’s Atlantic coast, a place of sea diamonds and ship skeletons – ships that the sea had stolen. The lazy river couldn’t quite push its way into the ocean, and I could hear rough, impatient waves lurking a little way off. The fat-bellied river leaked into the sticky sand, wallowing and quietly estuarine: a lagoon. Everywhere was water, wide and reflective. Hartlaub’s Gulls giggled like nervous children at our arrival and prawns zipped into holes like guards on sentry duty.

I pointed out over the shiny surface. The bird was feeding out there.’ This was my best attempt at a sophisticated ornithological communication. Ian smiled. We started walking and I led the group proudly. At every step, ripples bumped into the sand. I carried my heavy new spotting scope and new tripod over my shoulder, with my new binoculars at my neck. We walked and walked. It was all flat and all new for me. There was no polite talk. We had come here for the bird. It was a serious and important time. It was my first discovery – at last, a contribution to birdwatching history.

Then, with the grace of a seabird, I disappeared. I sank quickly, leaving only a memory on the surface: a bird-fish flutter, a telltale curling of water. Plunging into the pothole was strangely invigorating, momentarily dispelling all social awkwardness. Only on my re-emergence did I feel a lingering sting like that of a jellyfish. My head appeared amid froth and bubbles, and I crawled out with all the finesse of a sea cow. Ian, having avoided the pothole, tugged me out, along with my dripping equipment (fortunately all waterproof). We laughed, though my own laugh was false behind a seaweed-mask of shame.

I disappeared three more times before we found the bird.

Ian took the spotting scope gently and looked at it. He was quiet for a minute. I could feel the quick sun. Everything was at once fast and still and strangely inevitable. He shook his head slowly and looked at me.

‘Interesting.’ His word was framed in careful encouragement. ‘This must be the first record of hybridisation between a purple heron and a grey heron.’ At once he dissolved my embarrassment and sheltered me under a clever discovery, a discovery designed by him for me, a trophy of friendship.

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