Floating alone in the water, the Long Tailed Duck may strike most birders as an unremarkable creature. Its body is not particularly large or small when compared to other similar birds, and its patchy black and white plumage gives it the appearance of a clown who has erred in applying his makeup. Nonetheless, this little clown of the sea is one of the most amazing creatures in the animal kingdom.
What about this creature is impressive? Is it their voice? Certainly not. Look no further than their more colloquial sobriquet - "oldsquaw." As is often the case with such words, the exact origin of this name is unknown. However, we can make some inference based on their call. Loud and squawky, this duck seems to say "OW-OW-OWA-WET, OW-OW-OWA-WET!" I suspect some early observer likened its call to native American wives chastising the men in their lives, or, perhaps they were chastising each other. We will likely never know where the term originates, nor is such information necessary for appreciating this animal.
Indeed, this creature does not impress us when it is alone, but rather when it is surrounded by thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, of its own kind. Every year, great rafts of these ducks leave the frigid waters of northern Canada to winter over in the relative warmth of the North American East Coast. Many are particularly fond of the waters surrounding Nantucket.
I first learned of the Long Tailed Duck when I moved to the western end of Nantucket, a region called Madaket. A friend told me that late on a cold winter day, I might see thousands of these little flyers on their daily commute from their oceanic feeding grounds to the relative peace and warmth of Nantucket Sound. Always skeptical of exaggerations, I nodded and smiled, but secretly doubted her description. Nantucket is already inundated by thousands of tourists every year. Could there really be room for thousands of these ducks? Certainly not, I thought.
That perception changed one twilight evening in December. While jogging along a path towards the island's western edge, I suddenly noticed something in the sky, perhaps half a mile ahead. At first, it looked like a wisp of smoke. Then, as my eyes searched the sky, the wisp grew longer. And longer. And longer still, until I realized it stretched from one end of the sky to the other.
"The Oldsquaws," I thought! They do exist! My pace quickened.
My sneakers pounded the pavement harder than usual, as I was determined not to miss an opportunity to see them. Finally, I stopped, exhausted, my chest heaving and lungs burning from the exertion. I looked down at the pavement, breathing hard. Then I looked up.
First I looked off to the right. "Where are they going?" I thought. "Can I see the front of the pack, like a flying V of Canada Geese?" I could not. I turned to my left, expecting to see the slow birds struggling to keep up. Instead, all I could see was an endless stream of energetically flapping waterfowl. They seemed to rise up from the horizon - welling up from an ocean - fed spring of life. Simply incredible. I strained my ears to hear their trademark call, but was disappointed by the strong wind muffling my hearing. All I had were my eyes. However, my eyesight was more than enough for that day.
In a funny way, these swift - winged commuters of the sky reminded me of humans driving along an interstate highway at rush hour - a seemingly endless stream of life, zipping along through the world, focused on a single purpose - getting somewhere else. Like drivers in the left hand lane, they flapped their wings with an almost unnatural sense of urgency, as if they were late for a social gathering in the sound's chilly waters. Why do they do this, I wondered? Why do they seem so hurried? After a moment, the answer became clear.
They do it because it's what the duck next to them is doing. I laughed when thinking about the start of their afternoon odyssey. Who was the first duck to take off, I wondered? There was no way to know of course - the ducks certainly didn't. Then again, do we know the first driver to enter the Tip O'Neil tunnel in Boston during rush hour? Certainly not. All we know is that the BMW in front of us is going 70 MPH, that the Volvo behind us wants to do the same, and that we had better keep up in order to avoid being rear ended.
That said, there is one difference. For the duck, the daily commute is literally life and death. If they choose to remain idle, they will likely starve. All too often though, I think we drive our cars and live our lives with the same life or death urgency of the Long Tailed Duck's flight. Is this really necessary for us? I think not.
We are lucky in that respect. Unlike the ducks, we can afford to pull over once in a while, to watch the stream of our fellows fly by, while catching our breath. And yet, more often than not, we become so wrapped up in our daily commutes that we forget such luxuries. All of life, it seems, is a race against the clock.
It's important to remember that humans have a choice. It's also unfortunate that much of the time, we force ourselves to forget about it.
