So I’m out walking the woman-lately-known-as-my-wife’s dog on Burton beach a week or so ago when two exceptionally nasty shore birds start dive-bombing us, and making a terrific racket. They don’t sing, they don’t call, they don’t cry. No, instead they make this crazed croaking sound, like they’d just come from screaming their little lungs out at a Seattle Sounders soccer match.

Anyway, the thing about living on Burton Beach is that it’s sort of Vashon’s Grand Central Station of migratory birds of all stripes and habits, especially ducks. You wake up one morning, and they’re all out there; maybe they like redeye flights. Then, a few days or weeks later, they’re gone. It’s like your college kid visiting, except without all the laundry. 

These two birds, however, were different. They were a bit like small, slender gulls, but with long, reddish-orange beaks and split tails. I’m watching them screaming around our heads and it suddenly occurs to me: they’re arctic terns! Now, you may know as little about waterfowl and shorebirds as I do, though that’s doubtful given the depth of my ignorance. I haven’t a clue why I thought “arctic tern.” I’ve never seen one in my life, and, if I did, I wouldn’t have a chance in you-know-what of identifying it. It’s a bird, OK? Good enough for me.

Nonetheless, I looked them up.  It turns out (no pun intended), that these little birds migrate — I am not kidding — more than 44,000 miles each year from pole to pole, which is to say if they were cars they’d have no resale value. But of course, they’re birds, which is a different thing altogether, though I don’t know why.

So, I’m thinking, here’s two of these terns flapping furiously north, and their conversation goes like this:

“Hey, Ralphie! You got any idea why we keep doin’ this, season after season, year after year?!”

“It’s what we do, you idiot.”

“Yeah, I get that, but why?”

“It’s what we are. We’re terns. That’s how we get the name: we get someplace then —BAM! — we turn around and head the other way, like feathered yo-yoes. It’s just we can’t spell.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that, totally, but what if we called a halt. You know, a work action or something.”

“Whadda, you nuts? A Commie?”

“Commies don’t migrate, you imbecile.”

“Whatever…”

“So look, right down there below us. Know what that is?  That’s Santa Barbara, that is. Look at that beach! We could swoop down there, hang out along the tideline, let the girls get nice tans. I mean, why not land here and call it done, already?! I hear Canada geese figured this out, and now they don’t have to end up in Canada which is where, you know, there ain’t no summer anyways. Not to mention culture.”

Of course, being the intrepid recovering journalist that I am, I sought out the wisdom of this newspaper’s very own tame bird expert, Alan Huggins, who is a lovely chap even though he spends half his time peering through high-powered binoculars at … that’s right, birds. Me, I could think of better things to peer at, but that’s another topic.

And, of course, Alan quickly notes that these are not arctic terns, but mere Caspian terns (their black socks are apparently the giveaway). Their migration, while still amazing, is a mere fraction of their Arctic relatives’ (maybe these are the smart terns?). But Alan may be guessing, because the terns are gone the day he arrives on Burton Beach, the same way that squeak or knock in your car goes away the moment to you take it to Engels.

“If they’d been rare arctic terns,” he says with the slightest touch of disdain tinged with longing, “There’d be more birders here than birds.” I shake off the vision of this.

So we walk the beach and he points out other waterfowl — clown-faced scooters (what kinda name is that?), not to mention buffleheads (ditto). And I’m thinking, you know, who makes these names up and how long have they been out on the beach freezing their brains solid to come up with them?

While Alan’s watching the duckies, I see one of our local Great American bald eagles swooping overhead. They’re very active in the spring. Also very inactive. I’ve seen one of them sit motionless on a wood piling off the beach for hours on end. I figure this guy’s divorced from his spouse and avoiding paying fish alimony. 

But here’s the thing that troubles me: Have you noticed these alleged Great American bald eagles have totally sissy voices? Great big bird; little, high-pitched sqeaky voice. Nothing noble about it, you know? And I’m thinking, this is just fine for, say, the Lesser Uraguayan Prozac Pigeon or something, but not America’s icon. Uh-uh.

So, I don’t know about you, but I think it’s time we demanded to see the birth certificate of this so-called Great “American” bald eagle.

The long form, of course.

— Will North is a Vashon novelist who is being tolerated by the patient residents of Burton … So far.