Seaweed Table

The silver glittering shine of a fish protruding and waving in the wind as the Catcher dodges and dives his way to the seaweed covered rock below my perch is magical. He is followed by two screeching and bellowing noisy mates with their wings spread, bobbing and weaving like boxers in the ring. The cacophony of sounds reminds me of middle schoolers at lunchtime as more winged specimens gather. No bell has rung to assemble the flock but the learned pattern of behaviors and hunger guides them in. They dip, they pivot, they glide to the seaweed covered earth and rock. They wait and patiently edge closer to the Catcher. The flock of gulls has quickly grown into a mob. They loop around and peer while the Catcher pecks nervously at the fish on its table. For a few brief moments there is no movement, not a sound can be heard except for the slowly lapping waves rolling off shore. As if on cue, a single boisterous bird charges to the rock where the Catcher has placed its meal on the seaweed table. It proves to be the designated decoy. The mob engages with noise that would rival the student section at a ball game. Not a movement from the gathering except for the Catcher who attempts to defend the prize by flailing feet and a blaring beak that is directed at the decoy. As if practiced and scripted, a lone member of the mob edges in behind the Catcher and steals the fish from the seaweed table. A melee ensues as the flock hounds the daring thief as it takes flight with its prize. I continue to watch as the crowd moves a short distance up the coastline in pursuit only to witness the stage set once again of the play I just viewed. Panning back to the seaweed table, the Catcher now stoically stands in silence and then quietly takes flight. I pause, look out to sea and feel like I was privy to a cycle of nature not at all unlike that of a pack of hyenas circling a meal that has been taken down by a rival hunter. Survival of the fittest reigns.