A Trip to Cape Cod's South Beach for Shorebirds and Seabirds

We had almost passed by the Chatham Lighthouse since the parking places there were nearly full. The weather was bright and sunny, so plenty of October vacationers were at this scenic spot. We were members of the Allen Bird Club searching for migrating birds on our annual Cape Cod Weekend.

A few years ago, a mighty winter storm had broken through the barrier beach in front of the bluff where the lighthouse stands. Now this spot stood exposed to the open sea, the surf squeezing through a broad inlet and roiling the entrance to Pleasant Bay to the north, still protected by the old dunes of Nauset Beach. In the opposite direction stretched the newer dunes of the still-growing South Beach.

We had just finished a grueling trek out to the tip of South Beach, where we were alone with the wind, the waves, and the birds. The boaters and beachgoers of summer were not there, and even the clam diggers decided not to venture out on a blustery day.

The ferryman was surprised at our intentions, but he brought us out to the drop-off point and we trudged slowly into the wind the last three miles to where the shorebirds fed, the last few thousand of a long migration season. They paid the band of humans little heed as they raced time and the fallen tide to find enough food to further their long trip south.

We saw hundreds of plovers and sanderlings and dunlin, the hardy members of this mud- and sand-loving tribe of water birds. There was a smattering of others like the oystercatchers, red knots, willets, and also the king of the shorebirds, the marbled godwit.

Six of these tall, stately, cinnamon-colored shorebirds brandished their 18" long bills like deadly swords, probing deep in the mud. The marbled godwit nests on the Northern Prairies and most winter on the West and Gulf Coasts, with only a few stopping here in the fall.

After a while, we left the calmer flats on the bay side and crossed the dry dunes to the ocean side. There the gulls swooped and glided while the huge seals lifted their gleaming gray heads from the surf and stared at us with wide wondering black eyes. The terns we expected to find were not in sight. We trudged to the pick-up point and rode the ferry back to the crowds and traffic.

We forgot our fatigue as we emerged from our cars at the lighthouse, for there were the missing terns, hundreds of them flying before and below us, diving into the waters to catch the small fish that were concentrated in this one spot. These birds had a long flight to Central America ahead of them, and they were already late in setting out, but the good fishing and mild weather kept them here still.

However, they had to watch out for pirates, and so did we. In a few seconds, we found them, more active and agile than the terns, making quick short dives and climbs with sharp U-turns on longer, powerful wings. In Britain they call these birds skuas, but for some reason here, we use the word jaeger, the German word for hunter.

Either word conveys the sense of unsavory supremacy that are ascribed to these seldom seen species. To us, the piracy they practice by forcing other birds to relinquish their 'hard earned' catch is at least suspect. In the animal world, piracy is simply another way to survive in a world where getting it done is the only virtue.

The power and beauty of these birds enraptured us, for this was a show none of us had ever seen, and few ever see. Usually jaegers are far off-shore, and we get glimpses of them from a tossing deck as they race by the boat. Here, we were wowed by their mastery of the air, for they did what seemed impossible; made the terns and gulls seem slow and stodgy.

We chorused our approval as two or three jaegers sped back and forth in the hunt before us. The casual tourists kept their distance or approached cautiously to ask what was so special about a bunch of seagulls. You can miss much if you do not look closely at the wild world around you.