Watchmates

This herring gull is as common as can be, yet her arrival and brief stay on our boat was magical. Photo by Molly Mulhern

May 2023

By Molly Mulhern

She came unannounced, without an invitation, although I suspect she took the blazing light as a welcome. Her arrival was noiseless up to a point – and then, all at once clamorous. She found her own way in – the first inkling I had that she knew exactly what she was doing. When she finally left, our time shimmered away like the dawn light.

It was just after 2200, the start of my watch. Wildwood, our 36-foot sloop, sailed gently under full main and jib, in an inky black world between sky and water, the wind pushing our sails from the southwest, on course for the buoy just southwest of Monhegan. My boat partner, Geo, lay below in the leeward berth, resting for his upcoming watch.

I was alone in the cockpit, offshore. The gurgle of water along Wildwood’s hull was faint yet reassuring. Every now and again the slight whirr of the autopilot’s ram came to life.

I settled into the cockpit, with the Heavenly M, Cassiopeia, just off the mast. It wasn’t long into the rhythm of my watch – scan port, scan starboard, look aloft at the mainsail telltales, use the flashlight to do the same on the jib, scan starboard quarter, scan aft, scan port quarter – that a vague disturbance, felt and heard, interrupted my vigilance. I froze, listening. You know that pleasant expectant feeling you get when you hear harbor porpoises or whales exhaling before you see them? Well, this was not that. I strained my eyes to see into the dark layers of the ocean’s night. Whatever it was seemed airborne, ghosting above Wildwood.

Something flickered around our masthead light, flew down along the boom. My whole body tensed, ducking. The creature came in over the leeward rail, close by, then flew off. My heart took the proverbial leap into my throat. Then a whoosh and a thump. As my eyes and ears began to adjust, and my heart began to settle, I stared, dumbstruck, at the dark visage. A gull had landed on the cockpit seat.

She – this was the gender I immediately assigned her – cocked her head in that quick way of a bird, one way, then the other, surveying me, the traveler, the tiller. I cocked my own head, following her movements. She took a few hops aft toward the autopilot.

Now I was both dumbstruck and curious.

Was she injured? She didn’t move like it. Was she tired? What did she want? Water? A cracker? Here I was, trying on my human hospitality instincts on a wild creature.

As I ran through my silent questions my fellow traveler, still exploring, hopped down into the life raft well, a small, confined space under the tiller. This totally baffled me. Why would a freedom-loving, winged being head deeper into our floating platform?

Perhaps to gain some wisdom from my companion, I greeted her. “Hello, what’s up?” By this time, I had taken the flashlight and shined it down on her. Her feathers were mottled brown, kinda dirty. Her beak was black. I gazed long enough to sense that she looked intact. Not just intact. She looked entirely at home.

By now I had neglected my watch-tending, so I turned forward, resuming my scans of the horizon, the set of our sails. But my watch was no longer solo. Between the canopy of stars and an entire ocean below, teeming with what I knew not, my floating oasis had expanded to include this messenger from an avian world. As Ladybird – this is the name I gave her – settled in, my questions continued. Had she been attracted by the masthead light? Shouldn’t she be flying? Was I unwittingly aiding the delinquency of a gull? She was a wild creature that was behaving not wild.

Her continued presence was eerily calm, and calming, after my initial near-heart-attack. I was floored that our sailboat felt so welcome to her. We were moving along on the dark ocean with a harmony of purpose. She had hitched a ride, settling in. This comfort perplexed me.

And in what seemed minutes, not the hours since I began my watch, I heard sounds from below: the kettle boiling, the clank of Geo’s boat harness as he geared up for his own watch.

“You’ve got company,” I explained as he came on deck. “There’s a gull in the cockpit, by the lazarette. Her name’s Ladybird.” I might have shone the light on her, just to assure him I hadn’t been hallucinating. It was the darkest part of a sailor’s night, the 0100 to 0400 watch.

I stumbled below, weary, ready for my bunk. I wrestled out of my damp gear, caught the log up on our progress, and introduced our stowaway to its banal pages. Chores done, I lay my head down to sleep, convinced Ladybird would be gone by my next watch.

My sleep was deep. Wildwood slipped along on a quiet ocean with the night breeze. Hours later, clambering on deck, hot tea in hand, I greeted my boat mate with my pressing question. It wasn’t our position, or course, or wind, or any vessel traffic I cared about: “Is Ladybird still with us?”

“Still here.”

My watchmate hadn’t fled! I resumed my post; watched Orion rise; traced meteors with their tails falling to the sea. Eventually the coming day’s light glowed peach to the east, and the stars disappeared, along with the breath of wind that had been ghosting us along. I needed to start the engine, aware that doing so would disturb both my feathered cockpit companion and my boat mate below.

Ladybird rustled to life when the diesel awoke. In one fleet moment the gull hopped up to the cockpit bench, rotating her bird head all around, owl-like. I took a moment to take her in, too. The light of the new day showed her glorious feather pattern of brown and whites; a dark, fanned-out tail; pink-webbed feet topped by spindly legs. She was a juvenile herring gull. As common as they come. And yet I knew she had a remarkable knack – that of assured self-preservation – plus a regal kind of bearing, queen of the cockpit.

In a flash she hoisted herself aloft, off the seat, over the starboard lifelines toward the rising sun. I was dazzled. She was healthy, vibrant, steady, and on her way. I had been worried. My joy mingled with the sadness of her departure, the way it feels when your adult child rolls down and out your driveway.

“Take care, Ladybird,” I uttered as she flew, feeling emptied. She landed on the glass-calm ocean, as if she wanted to get a last look at us. In a moment she took off again, flying around the bow, down our port side, across our stern, then on starboard, circling Wildwood. I prepared to wave her off, not really wanting her to board again, despite our pleasant silent communion over those 30 or 40 miles. But she wasn’t attempting to reboard. She circled two more times. On what I didn’t know was her last circuit she gained altitude, was joined by another gull, tipped her wings, and glided toward the distant shore.

Molly Mulhern is a nautical publisher, editor, writer, and champion of all things book- and sailing-related. Molly sails and races her one-tonner Wildwood with her boat partner George out of Rockland, Maine. They would love to encourage other one-tonners to get in touch. In addition to sailing, Molly volunteers her time at the nation’s national parks; skis, runs, and finds pretty much any excuse to be outdoors.