THE FOLLOWING MORNING Heather awoke to music playing on her phone. The room was filled with the soft, pewter-gray light of predawn. She threw back the sheet and, rising, felt the usual sweltering heat of a closed-up room.
Today was a day for positive thinking and new initiatives. She quickly dressed in the clothes she’d laid out the night before: lightweight khaki-colored nylon fishing pants and shirt, her typical uniform when she did research. She hurried to the dimly lit sunroom, needing to draw a moment of strength from her precious companions before venturing out of doors. Her canaries were still one-legged puffballs on their perches. They jerked their heads up, startled, and began chirping as though to say, Why are you up before the sun?
“Sorry, sleepyheads,” she crooned to the birds. “I’ll be back to feed you soon.” She slipped into her sandals, grabbed her backpack, and, resolutely ignoring the roiling sensation in her stomach, stepped outside.
Dawn by the ocean was a world fresh and new. Lifting her face, Heather breathed deep the moist air. A hush hovered over the land. Feeling the birth of adventure in her heart, she hoisted the backpack onto her shoulder and climbed from the side of the as-yet-unfinished deck to the ground.
She followed the narrow, winding beach path that cut through the dunes. The sand was cool and damp with dew. In and around the plants along the dunes she saw the narrow scratches of ghost crab trails. Suddenly the path opened up, and she stood before the vast vista of sea and sky as dawn broke around her. Great shafts of rosy light spread across the gray sky. The beach below, washed clean by the tide, shimmered in the pearly tints of the sunrise. Here and there she spotted horseshoe crabs dotting the beach, waiting for the next tide. This thrilled her because she knew that these creatures—twice as ancient as the dinosaurs—were laying eggs. And these nutrient-rich eggs were a feast to migrating shorebirds.
To her left a long swath of beach led to the pier miles away. From the maps she’d studied, that would be Front Beach, where shopping, hotels, and restaurants clustered. To her right, the beach curved where it met Breach Inlet, a no-swimming area of turbulent water; just across was the northern end of Sullivan’s Island. This was where she’d read shorebirds were more likely to gather. Only one way to find out, she thought. Heather adjusted her backpack and took off to the right. As she walked, the pink light of dawn spread out to stain the entire sky and shimmer on the moist sand below. It was so beautiful it felt unearthly—almost like a fairy tale.
She smiled as a small group of sandpipers ran across the beach in their comical, stiff-legged gait, searching for their morning meal of crustaceans and insects. She pulled binoculars and a notebook from her backpack. Looking more closely at the birds, she made out the yellow legs and dark, ruddy brown coloring and corrected herself: “Least sandpipers.” Lowering the binoculars, she put a check mark next to the name and noted where she’d spotted them. Heather paused, chewing the end of her pencil. She thought that was correct—but truth was, sandpipers were hard to distinguish from other “peeps” in the genus Calidris. There might have been a couple of semipalmated sandpipers in the mix. She tucked the binoculars back in her backpack, knowing she’d have to return to photograph them to capture the distinguishing marks that could be frustrating for casual bird-watchers.
During the spring and fall, shorebirds migrated in large numbers along the Carolina coast. Birdlife on the beaches was a sight to behold. Many of the shorebirds were just passing through. These beaches were important way stations for migrating birds, and they were hungry after traveling thousands of miles. Other birds stayed for the summer to nest and raise chicks, then left again in the fall. Still others made the Carolina beaches their winter homes.
Heather stopped short, listening, her heart pounding with excitement. Near the inlet she spotted numerous shorebirds poking in the sand and skittering from point to point, creating a cacophony of sound that, to her, sounded like a song of welcome. She stopped a fair distance away so as not to disturb them as they foraged for food. This was what she’d come for!
She sat on the cool sand and pulled the binoculars from her backpack. Resting her elbows on her knees, she peered at the birds she’d spent hours researching up to now only in books. In the brightening light she recognized royal terns, least terns, black skimmers, oystercatchers, and plovers, taking care to check off the species on her list. She felt elated when she spotted the endangered red knots that came to feast on the horseshoe crab eggs. Heather lowered her binoculars, grinning from ear to ear. It was so much more vivid and compelling to see them alive in their habitat, and it was the first time Heather could recall feeling real, unbridled joy in quite a while.
She had only meant to stay a short while, but she hadn’t expected to see a cornucopia of shorebirds. So many on her list . . . She pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw. To create an authentic rendition, she had to observe a bird’s interaction with its own and other species, its hunting pattern and diet, and how it ate, built its nest, raised its young, found shelter. She’d come to the right place. She’d concentrate on the chunky medium-size red knots today, high on her list of endangered shorebirds. They’d be moving on soon. There would be ample time for her to observe, photograph, and sketch other birds she needed for the stamps.
Her hand moved quickly over the paper as she drew the red knots. She was lost in concentration when she heard an excited bark, loud and gruff, coming from behind her. Heather jerked her head up to see a brown Labrador charging right for her—and the birds. Heather leaped to her feet and spread out her arms to chase the dog away.
“Stop!” she shouted, waving her arms madly. “Get out of here! Go away!”
The dog didn’t even slow down. It simply detoured around her and headed straight for the birds, still barking enthusiastically. Heather turned, mouth agape with shock, to watch the entire group of shorebirds scattering in the wind. The dog barked after them, tail wagging, having a good ol’ time.
Heather stood staring at the now-empty shoreline with her arms limp at her sides, breath ragged and all earlier sense of peace as dispersed as the birds fluttering in the sky. And things had been going so well! Against her will, she felt the hot prick of tears behind her eyes, and angrily brushed them away.
A woman in a pink jogging outfit trotted closer with an angry scowl on her face. She was twice Heather’s age and size, with an air of entitlement.
“What’s your problem?” the woman shouted at her.
Heather turned, perplexed, toward the angry woman. She couldn’t respond.