Duck Out of Water
by Paula Feldman
“T
hat duck has been sitting there, in that same
spot, since early this morning,” Peter remarked, as we
walked along the sand on Kiawah Island. Colorful paper
kites soared fitfully in the late afternoon breeze, and sun
worshipers were plentiful, even for late April. It was bright
and warm - a fine beach day. People walked past the black
duck nestled in wet sand, but he didn’t fly. He barely
moved, even when they came within a few feet. He might
have been a piece of strewn seaweed or a broken sand
dollar - the sort of thing your eyes take in at a glance but
that doesn’t altogether register.
“He’s in trouble,” I said. “Ducks don’t usually sit
on the sand like that.” I don’t know much about ducks, but
this didn’t look right. And he wasn’t an ordinary duck - at
least not one that I was used to seeing. His bill was oddly
shaped, for one thing, and he had white patches on his head.
As we came closer, I could see his fluffed out feathers.
“He’s cold.”
“He’s just resting.”
I stepped closer still. No response. But as I bent
forward, suddenly he lurched away, wildly skittering,
tottering, like a drunk, across the sand. Though his wings
flailed, he couldn’t fly, but scampered, unsteadily, just a few
feet. Despite all the alarm, he had made no sound.
“He’s in trouble,” I said again. This time, Peter
agreed. But what was there to do?
A woman approached, drawn perhaps by seeing us
so obviously puzzling over the duck. “I’ve been worrying
about this little creature all afternoon,” she said. “I can see
him from my porch.” So, others had noticed. And like us,
they had probably wondered, “What can you do when you
find a duck in distress on the beach?”
We called the beach patrol, of course. A few
minutes later, a sandy-haired man pulled up in a jeep and
listened patiently. “I wish I could help, ma’am. Really I
do. Our policy, though, is to let nature take its course.” We
stared at each other as he drove away.
“This duck needs a vet,” I said.
“Vets,” Peter reminded me, “don’t make beach
calls.”
27
So, there was nothing to do but to bring him in
ourselves. The way to capture a wild bird is not to give
chase. As long as it can see, it will do anything possible
to elude your grasp. But in darkness, it will become
astonishingly docile. Once I helped a neighbor who had
tried for hours to capture an errant hummingbird trapped in
her garage. “Turn the lights out,” I advised. “Then gently
grab it.” The hummer was free within minutes.
But the sun on the beach was still bright - and
would be for hours. It was only a matter of time before a
hawk or a bobcat would take this duck.
“I wish I had an old towel to scoop him up, and a
box,” I whispered.
“I’ll get something,” volunteered our beach friend.
Five minutes later, she returned bearing bath towel and
laundry basket.
So, now, all that was needed was to cover the
duck’s head with the towel to avoid a struggle. I didn’t want
to miss, for he seemed fragile, on the point of exhaustion.
I crept closer. The duck’s yellow eye watched me and my
towel warily. Then, like a predator, I pounced. But I wasn’t
quick enough. The duck skittered away, just out of reach.
On my second try, I lof Y H