Heather flinched. He wasn’t making this easier. “Actually,” she said, irked, “while I was sketching, I noticed its left wing was held lower.”
Bo lowered to inspect the wing. “There’s the problem,” Bo said, waving her closer and pointing. A large fishhook was visible piercing the wing, and the fishing line was wrapped around it. “What a mess. It’s good we caught this early. It’s embedded deep. I don’t dare try to cut the line off. Nope, it’s got to go in.” Bo walked back to his supplies and pulled a towel out of the crate.
“Heather, you walk around on the ocean side of the bird. I’m going to catch it. If it starts heading toward the water, ward it off. If it goes into the ocean we’ve lost it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Heather replied, though she couldn’t imagine the pelican going far. It could barely walk. Still, she hurried to the shoreline and held out her arms at the ready.
She watched as Bo slowly approached the pelican. As she’d expected, the poor bird didn’t move. In one swift movement, Bo wrapped the towel around the pelican and, bending at the waist, scooped it up into his arms. Heather came closer to see if there was anything she could do to help. She could see the bird’s dark webbed feet dangling from beneath Bo’s arms.
“Could you keep the people away?” he asked as he hefted the bird toward the carrier.
Looking over her shoulder, Heather saw two women approaching. They were in jogging gear and, seeing the commotion, trotted closer. Heather’s eyes widened. Her last experience keeping a woman away hadn’t ended well. But she wasn’t going to back down in front of Bo. Heather licked her lips and hurried across the sand at an angle, cutting them off.
“Hi,” she began with a smile. She pushed on. “Sorry, but could you wait here? The pelican is injured and very nervous. He’s putting it into the carrier.”
“Of course,” one of the women replied. “He’s a professional?”
“Yes.”
“That poor bird. Can I take a picture?”
Heather was relieved at their willingness to cooperate. “Of course.” She waited by the women while Bo put the docile pelican into the carrier. Then she thanked the women and hurried back to his side.
“What happens next?”
“I take it to the birds of prey center.”
“Of course.”
Heather watched as he put a towel over the carrier and gathered his backpack, zipping it and sliding it onto his back. His movements were slow and deliberate. Then he turned to face her, a final gesture.
“Thanks for calling it in.”
“Do you need any help? I can carry your backpack.”
“I got it. Thanks.” He bent and picked up the bird carrier.
Heather walked beside him as he carried the bird to his truck. He put the carrier in the back and secured it. Heather hung around, feeling like an awkward teenager, wondering how to ask if she could go with him.
Bo slammed the gate closed and slapped the sand from his hands. He looked up and appeared almost surprised that Heather was still there.
“Do you need a ride home?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Uh, no, thanks.”
After an awkward pause he said in a professional manner, “Okay. I better get going.”
“Bo?” she blurted out.
He looked at her. His face gave away nothing.
“Would it be out of line for me to—to go with you? To the center?”
“You want to come along?”
“Yes! I really want to come. I promise I’ll stay out of your way.”
“It’s a long drive. I don’t know when I’ll be done.”
“I don’t care.”
Bo considered this. He nodded once. “Then hop in.”
On the forty-five-minute drive to the center, Heather sat in the passenger seat of his truck looking out at the view as they whizzed past, desperately trying to make a few comments about the scenery or the weather. They were inane, but she didn’t have to facilitate brilliant conversation, she told herself. She just had to engage. This wasn’t a date, after all. It was just two people riding together to rescue a pelican. She was dressed comfortably in her nylon fishing pants and shirt. Not in some tight dress with high heels. It helped her feel emotionally comfortable.
“Have you been a volunteer long?” she asked Bo.
“Eight years,” he replied. “It’s hard work, but I love it. Love being out with the birds.” He paused. “Mostly the Center for Birds of Prey has raptors—eagles, hawks, falcons, owls. They’re a lot different than shorebirds.” He glanced at her. “And those sweet little canaries you’ve got.” His gaze returned to the road. “They’re wild. Fierce. They might be injured, but their MO is to get you. That’s why we wear leather gloves and gear. And we don’t name them. The goal is to release them, and they need to have the predator instinct to survive in the wild. So we’ve got to be careful not to habituate them. But they’ll take a chunk out of you if you’re not careful.” His hands tapped the wheel. “Yes, they will.”
“So why volunteer with shorebirds?”
“I love raptors, don’t get me wrong. But being a surfer, my heart’s with shorebirds. My first rescue was a pelican. A fledgling that wasn’t making it. The birds of prey center started taking in shorebirds after they signed on for oil-spill disaster relief. So I volunteered for transport. I know how to catch them and bring them in.”
He drove a few minutes, then added, “You know, in some ways shorebirds are like canaries.”
Heather turned her head to study his profile. His long forehead, straight nose. A gentle face that came together so pleasingly. But from this angle she couldn’t see his eyes. Oh, God, she loved his blue eyes.
“How so?” she asked.
“Well, shorebirds tell us about the health of our oceans because they eat the local fish. If they’re sick, that warns us about what’s happening out there. Kind of like canaries in coal mines.”
“I never thought of it like that. It makes sense. So?” she asked, curious. “How are the shorebirds doing?”
He made a face. “Not good. Shorebird populations have shrunk on average by an estimated seventy percent across North America since 1973. Experts are worried that without action, some might go extinct.”
Heather felt a sense of dread. And it was personal. All those magnificent birds she’d been photographing and sketching . . . “I didn’t realize the drop in population was so massive.”
“Most people don’t. It’s especially bad for those birds that migrate thousands of miles.” He turned his head, his eyes gleaming. “See, they make these epic round-trip journeys each year, some flying farther than the distance to the moon over the course of their lifetimes. Imagine that.” He paused, then glanced at her again. “Those big issues are for the experts. I figure the rest of us can either sit back and moan, or do something. It’s the old act locally thing.” He shrugged lightly. “So I rescue shorebirds.”
“Light one candle,” Heather said, quoting from the Bible verse.
He smiled, appreciating that she understood. “Yeah, something like that.”