Seabirds.

 

Riley Bilyk 2023

More than anything else, California is known for its shoreline. Hollywood, Disneyland, the redwoods, nothing compares. Second only to maybe – and big emphasis on maybe – Yosemite National Park, the California coast has served as the state’s number one tourist attraction for as long as I can remember, and for good reason. Though the coastal weather is never perfect, and the fog is unbearable on most summer mornings, the natural beauty and variety of the beaches along Highway 1 are undoubtedly some of the most beautiful in the world.

I just wish they would start warning people about the birds.

Just as there is with any place in any country, there are certain unwritten rules that locals of the California coast know to follow. Swim parallel to the shore if you’re caught in a riptide, for example, and keep a watchful eye on your kids, because there’s not a single lifeguard in the state of California. Always bring shorts and pants, because the minute the sun sets, that west coast warmth is nowhere to be found. The sand is too tough for slides, but too hot for bare feet, so sneakers are almost always the right choice. And whatever you do, don’t feed the seagulls.

Live here long enough, and things like this become common sense. That being the case, you can imagine what the expectations are for someone who has spent all 19 years of their life here. There’s no sympathy for those of us who know better. Oh, the things we learn the hard way.

I was a junior in high school when I faced the painful reality of just how evil seabirds can be. My mother, an Illinois transplant who swapped cornfields for sunflowers, has always had a particular fondness for the San Francisco Bay. A two-hour drive is by means a vacation, but day trips to The City have always been a favorite form of escapism for my family. My mom loves the ocean, my dad loves the lights, and I loved the food. Things worked out.

I say loved, in past tense, for a reason. I guess I could probably say that I still love San Franciscan food, just like my mom still loves the ocean and my dad still loves the lights, but it’s been a few years since, and I personally try not to lie for the sake of parallelism. Besides, they say all it takes is one bad experience to ruin things, and despite 17 years of warm San Francisco memories, when someone asks if I want to meet them in The City for dinner, only one comes to mind.

There are certain things that I always assumed only happened in cartoons. Things like slipping on banana peels, anvils (just kind of in general), and conveniently placed patches of quicksand. Being dive-bombed by a bird was, without a doubt, one of those things. Even in spite of my irrational childhood fear of the winged nightmares, I never seriously thought one would intervene with my daily life. Then one day, when I was standing beside my mom on Fisherman’s wharf, a bowl of clam chowder in one hand and a spoon in the other, I realized I was mistaken. 

We tried to find a table as soon as we had ordered our food from the vendor. We were in a densely populated community square somewhere in between Pier 38 and 39, but despite the area having a variety of shopping and attractions, there were very few picnic tables and benches. The only available table wasn’t really available at all, as it was covered in a sea of white feathers and beady eyes. Standing isn’t exactly my preferred eating position, and I’m sure my mother can say the same, but seeing as how the decision came down to fighting off a flock of birds or eating on our feet, neither one of us had any complaints.

Avoiding the birds by standing was a fool-proof plan, but the execution fell short. The thing about seabirds that sets them apart from most other animals is their lack of fear of humans. Nothing – and I mean nothing – will keep a seagull away from you if you have something they want. Another lesson I learned the hard way. 

One minute I was standing, spoon-full of clam chowder in hand, distractedly watching a street performer, and the next I was in tears. All I really remember was a blur of grey and a harsh gust of wind thumping against my skin. In a terrified scramble to get as far away from my feathered attacker as possible, the plastic bowl of soup slipped from my grips, clattering against the concrete beneath my feet in a chunky mess. As if the surprise of the situation wasn’t enough, I’m lucky enough to have ornithophobia and an anxiety disorder. Needless to say, I was already terrified and crying, so the whole dropping-my-entire-meal thing was really not what I needed. 

I don’t eat outside anymore. Not anywhere, really, but especially not in San Francisco. I went home traumatized that night, a new source of anxiety unlocked. My parents tried to make light of the situation to cheer me up, but you can imagine how that went.