Where the Birds Fly | #Flash Fiction #authorsky

“Where the birds fly” came as a prompt from Bluesky’s book community, of which there are many strands. I usually check out booksky, authorsky and the guineapig areas(!). I think this came from Author Sharon Lopes in #authorsky. Today’s story is just under 1500 words.

“Go to your nearest book. Turn to page 51. Find the first line of the last paragraph on the page. Use that line to start your scene.”

So I turned to my nearest book, which was the Ship-Thief, and found page 51. My line is:

“A familiar bird sweeps along the far horizon.”

I debated whether I was to use it as the first line, or as inspiration, and went for inspiration.

Where the Birds Fly

As the ferry left Oban I took up my customary position: close to the stairs leading up onto the top level, back to the cabin, two seats away from the rail. I had learned by trial and error that it was the warmest place on the open deck. 

We passed from the lee of mainland Scotland. I slunk closer to the slight protection of the stairs, and concentrated on what I could see.

Birds. Always birds following the ferry. Gulls flying on still wings, floating, motionless relative to the boat. How did they do that?

A little further away, on a sightline that went below the ferry’s massive sides, little specks bounced along, seemingly running from wave top to wash stream and back again. Mother Carey’s Chickens, or Storm Petrels to the formally trained. I usually only saw them when storms were due. Was that why they were named as they were? Some seventeenth century ornithologist had noticed a correlation between sightings and storms?

I carried on watching. The ferry did not take long to get to Mull. I kept wishing I could spare the time to go to Coll or Tiree, the outer islands I would see from my cottage, lying on the horizon like a sleeping man.

Unusually, there were few other bird species that turned up. One single tystie scurried back towards the rocks as we came a little closer. No ducks or other seabirds. No cormorants or shags flying past. Not even gannets or guillemots. Around the other side there would be puffins and razorbills. Perhaps everything was over there. If so, I was in for a feast of birdwatching from the windows of my cottage. I loved this place.

After two days at the cottage my disappointment had grown to the point where I sought out the farmer and asked him where the birds were.

He heaved a sigh. “That’s what we’d all like to know. They say its to do with the sand eels, but the Turus Mara went right out to where the birds fly at this time of year, and there were plenty of fish there, just no birds harvesting them.”

“And the puffins aren’t nesting on the Dutchman’s Cap this year?” I asked, naming the island where most of the puffins, razorbill and guillemots nested.

“No sign of them. Too late in the season to even expect them back now. I think Fergal’s had someone with him on most trips, trying to sight them.”

Fergal was the master of the Turus Mara, a small converted fishing boat that did excellent but  affordable tourist trips to the islands, especially to Fingal’s Cave on Staffa, with stops at the puffin islands on the way.

Next day I turned up at the harbour where a few people waited for the tourist boat. The black and white craft was making ready on its mooring, and soon sped across to collect us.

“Apologies for the delay,” Fergal called to the assembled company. “If you’ve booked for Staffa, I’m afraid we probably won’t be going there. I can refund your tickets, or fit you in another day.”

About half the people muttered, and grumbled and hustled to get their money back or rebook. Fergal’s daughter took charge of them while Fergal loaded the rest of us onto the boat.

“Right, sit yourselves down and I’ll do the safety bit until Kara gets back.” So we had our safety lecture, and got ourselves into our life belts, which seemed to be smaller every time I went, because the designs changed, not because I’d grown. Kara came in and we set off.

“Sorry about the mystery tour,” Kara said to the rest of us, as we sat, bemused, while Fergal did what he did best, that is, sail the ship. “We got word of something strange happening out beyond Coll, and we are the boat best placed to investigate. I hope you don’t mind.”

“What about the puffins?” A guy in blue asked, still well wrapped up for standing on deck in a howling gale, even though the cabin was warm and getting fuggier by the minute.”

“They haven’t come back to the islands this year, you should have been told that when you booked.”

“Well, yes, but…”

Someone else piped up: “I think we hoped there might still be one or two, but anyway it would be interesting to see where they liked to live.”

“There are a fair number of guillemots and tysties, and a small number of razorbills but no puffins. We haven’t sighted any, and neither have the survey team.” Kara explained.

“Survey team?” A woman in a green outdoor jacket asked.

“Yes. The hunt is on for puffins, and failing that, for sand eels. Two RSPB teams and three Scottish Environment teams out searching for them. What with sand eels and bird flu they’re in a desperate situation.”

“So why are we heading out beyond Coll?” I asked.

“There’s been a suspected sighting. We’re going to check.”

As we passed between the northern tip of Tiree and the southernmost part of Coll, most of us were out on deck, looking. I had always wanted to go there, and this was probably the closest I was going to get. Wild, woolly, and full of wildlife. Even from offshore, over the sound of the engine, I could hear corncrake calling. Everyone had their binoculars out, hoping for a glimpse of something. We gave up mentioning eider and bonxies, since they were so plentiful. ‘Hen harrier” brought a ‘where?’ chorused response. There followed the practical impossibility of describing where a pale moving object was against a mottled green background dotted with white and brown rocks and boulders, all from a moving platform. 

As we got out of the shelter of the islands we hit the Atlantic waves.

“If you’re going to throw up, make sure you’re on the side with the wind at your back, and aft of everyone else,” Fergal instructed. Four people moved aft and clung to the railings, binoculars abandoned and tucked into their jackets.

“What are we looking for?” I asked, having been on whale watching trips.

“Where the birds fly,” Fergal responded. “Although if you see any puffs of smoke, shout ‘whale’ and point at it.”

Two in one nature trip. I was enjoying this. My stomach was asking for a little less movement, but I breathed deeply and told it to shut up.

“What’s that?” someone called from further forward.

“Where?”

They pointed, and Fergal said ‘two points on the port side’ pointing in the same direction. I pointed my binoculars. Eventually I found some birds, wheeling around a patch of water that was not behaving like the water we were on.

“Any ids?” Fergal called.

“Small, dark, could be auks,” someone said.

“Some gannets are diving,” I offered since that shape was unmistakeable.

“Well, we’re going to go slowly around the patch at a distance while I radio in the co-ordinates, so you all keep watching, and noting what you see, and how many you can estimate. And don’t throw up.”

His warning was wise, since once we moved parallel to the waves we were ‘broadside on’ and lurched around horribly. Fortunately we got through that, started down the seaward side of the fishing ground, and continued straight on rather than cross broadside again. We took a long route to get the most comfortable course Fergal could find as he left his number two at the helm and called us down into the cabin. He handed out some paper and pencils and asked us all to list what we saw, and how many, as best we could estimate. “Then add your name, an email if you want to hear more from the project team, and an idea of how experienced you are at counting birds.”

I wrote my list, scratching my head a few times as to whether I’d seen one or two hundred of something, but I knew how counting birds worked so I put down ‘one-two hundred’, and added I’d done some annual bird surveys on land, including gull surveys a few times. The project team would then know how reliable my estimates were. Kara brought round hot coffee or chocolate while we were doing that, so once we’d finished our tasks we sat back and started chatting.

“Does anyone want to land at Staffa?” Fergal called down to us at one point.

It seemed that nobody was too worried, we’d all been into Fingal’s Cave before, save for one couple, who said they’d come on another day. Fergal replied he’d make that a free trip.

We got back to the harbour a little later than we might have done, but we had a fantastic day, and we thanked Fergal for the opportunity to contribute.

“Just remember to watch where the birds fly,” he said, as he helped some of us disembark. “And support puffin conservation. Spread the word.”

© J M Pett 2025

https://www.bto.org/understanding-birds/birdfacts/puffin

Translations of scottish birds:

Tystie – Black Guillemot

Bonxie – Great Skua