On the previous broadcast I described some of the major damage that this four-day northeast gale – known as the Perfect Storm - did to the Cape’s beaches and shoreline structures over the Halloween weekend in 1991. But what remains most vivid in my memory is the effect the storm had on the Cape’s bird life, in particular, gannets.
During most northeasters, numbers of offshore birds are blown into Cape Cod Bay. As the winds diminish they gradually make their way along the inner shore of the bay until they reach the open ocean again. But the winds of the Halloween Gale, or Perfect Storm, were so fierce and prolonged that it resulted in some poignant sights.
On the first day of the storm Beth and I drove down to Paine’s Creek Landing in Brewster. The Bay was a seething cauldron of wind and wave. In the foreground the full seed-headed stalks of tawny cord grass whipped and shimmered like wild fields of wheat. Across this dramatic setting a seemingly endless progression of birds crawled continuously eastward. Brilliant, pied flocks of eiders wove past us in low, fluttering formations. Groups of black ducks beat and plowed above them, tilting to show their silver wing linings. Out of the creek mouth small flocks of black bellied plovers started, like small arrows in the morning sun. The gulls, ever more pragmatic, stayed closer to land.
The following morning, October 30, we went down to Paine’s Creek again. The tide was two hours past high, but the creek and marsh were still flooded, and spray broke over the rock revetments. The gulls, ducks, and eiders were still there, beating slowly eastward. But above them all, and marvelous to behold, was a seemingly endless procession of adult gannets, first dozens, then hundreds of large white fusiform bodies with black tipped wings beating east flying as if in slow motion over the black water.
The gannets flew right up against the parking lot, making binoculars unnecessary. They wheeled and dipped, beating strenuously over the parking lot and along the shore. So close were they to us that we could see the saffron dusting of color on the heads of the adults. They were there in all stages: black-and-white adults, speckled juveniles, nearly-uniform brown 1st year birds. On and on they came, materializing in front of Wing Island, then moving with excruciating slowness from west to east, working their way in front of our windshield and out over the churning, muddy, magenta waters. It was painful to see how much energy it took for them just to remain in place. Occasionally one would suddenly swing back, sailing as if flung from a sling, carried a hundred, two hundred yards downwind in a few seconds.
We sat in the car for what seemed an age and there was no letup in their passing. They moved so slowly against the unrelenting wind that it seemed they made no progress at all. I had the strange feeling that the landing had become detached, floated away from shore and pushed out into deep waters where these birds normally moved. It was as if we had come to them, not they to us. When one exhausted gannet ceased beating and actually landed on the beach for a few moments, Beth vocalized her empathy: “Oh yes, please let me rest here for just a few seconds!”
