18 May (207 days on island)
It dawned grey, windy and rainy today. There was such a mist of drizzle over the island that I could not see the reef to the south-east which I normally can see from my bedroom window. I could see plumes spraying into the air from the breakers though, which always tells me the swell out there is significant. I quickly ran over to the main house to grab my coffee, getting my bare legs wet in the process as I didn’t want to get my clothes damp. I then snuggled back into bed at around 7.15am to start writing to you. This entry has taken me awhile to write.
The weather matches my heart today – dark and heavy. It is my last weekend on Hōlanikū, and I leave the island in 2 days. I will save my truly reflective thoughts on the totality of the season for the final entry I will write on the boat, once I have had time to read through my extensive diaries of the season. Since the first day on the ship sailing from Honolulu, I have spent at least one hour writing per day, but usually closer to 2 hours per day. I have often stayed up by candlelight and headlight during the season to do this, long after others have gone to sleep, because I wanted to have an unbroken, detailed record of everything that happened here. On top of this, I write and put together the weekly blog for a few hours per weekend. Whilst I have learned to paint with pigment out here courtesy of Tlell, my primary creative medium is still painting with words.
This past week saw us start and finish the albatross chick count. This was done slightly earlier than normal this season given the timing of the crew swap, as to save the incoming crew from having to do it literally as the first thing they did their season. This would be a big ask of newcomers for many reasons: their lack of knowledge of the layout/terrain of the island and its GRAs (some of the people coming do not have experience with burrows/burrowing seabird terrain); not knowing the GPS devices yet; some of the volunteers possibly not being able to tell the difference between LAAL (Laysan albatross) and BFAL (Black-footed albatross); not being accustomed to the intensity of the work/terrain; having to deal with the burrows, which are ubiquitous throughout the island, making any job more difficult and overwhelming for anyone; and some of the GRAs being invaded by sooty terns, which make moving around very difficult and a danger to the birds. It must be done carefully, whilst still running the risk of falling through burrows, and indeed we really try to avoid walking through sooty nesting areas. But during the count, we still had to do this on occasion.
All this to say, we took care of the chick count before they arrived, to make things easier for them. I had a bit of a pit in my stomach before starting the count because of how absolutely brutal the albatross nest count was at the start of the season. This took over a week, and I remember spending hours and hours in single GRAs battling through naupaka, being repeatedly bitten by adult albatross as I attempted to move, falling into innumerable burrows, and developing carpal tunnel in my right wrist from overuse with the paint stick (an injury which has remained with me all through the season; most mornings in the week see me wake up with my right hand at varying levels of numbness depending on what I did the day before). I’ve just gotten on with work regardless of the pain in my hand and wrist, but the thought of going through all of this again was daunting. However the chick count this week was much easier than the nest count. There are fewer birds than nests; and far fewer of them in the thick naupaka sections. Together we got it done in just over 3 days. We counted approximately 21,000 Laysan albatross nests, marking a 55% success rate for that species, and 1500 black-footed albatross nests, marking a 50% success rate, between egg and now – this is quite good. Of course, not all the chicks I counted will fledge – but most of them probably will. So, I am happy to report that the chick count is done, and that I got to say goodbye to many, many of the albatross chick cohort who were hatched in my season.
The end of the count marked the end of our last big work project on island for this season, and all that was left to do now was to prepare to leave. Loose preparations for this had already been ongoing for weeks, such as deep cleaning parts of the house/cleaning up camp, tidying up data collected this season, sharing photos of the season with KAC, bleaching water jugs and treating freshwater tanks, tidying up the work shed, etc. So we are well prepared to leave now. We started moving down some of our trash buckets to the pier, along with bulkier items which need to be moved off island like pallet tubs and old boat motors. On Friday I went down the runway with Tlell to get the canycom powered wheelbarrow to bring it back to camp for offload day. It will be useful to move some of the particularly heavy items like batteries and propane tanks from the beach to camp. Although it took awhile to start the canycom, we figured it out, and trundled it back to camp. It was deafening, and the albatross and birds looked at it in horror and confusion as it went past. I felt guilty and like I was betraying them somehow. It felt wrong to shatter the natural soundscape of the island, one I had grown so profoundly used to, with the sound of an engine. Though I reminded myself that once, planes – whole planes – took off and landed from this runway, probably killing countless birds in the process and over the years. The alien smell of gasoline and oil wafted up into my nose, making it wrinkle, my breath catching in my throat. I felt now, again, before I’d even left the island, that I was being reminded of the chasm that separated humans from other animals: our ability to make, to use, machines – both a blessing and a terrible curse. ‘Prepare yourself’, the machine seemed to taunt me. ‘The peace you knew here cannot last. You belong to another world – to my world. One of metal and noise’. But is this really the case? My mind is often preoccupied with thoughts of where I belong. I have long known my path does not lie with that of most people. Holaniku has cemented that knowledge in me.
What else can I relate to you? We had some remarkable sunsets this week. One in particular stands out. I laid myself down on the sand, eye almost at sea level, to watch this one. The sky was almost devoid of clouds barring a few tendrils that were turning a pale blue shadow, then violet, then mauve-grey, as the sun descended. The lagoon was flat and calm, and seemed somehow to hold the bright yellows and oranges of sunset along with the deep ultramarine blue of the encroaching night sky behind and above us. As the sun – a great, round ball of flame that I could not look at directly – sunk slowly towards the horizon, it became reflected on the surface of the ocean like a pool of liquid light. As it finally began melting into the sea, it turned green for several seconds right before it disappeared from my view. The feeling, or conception, of being on an immense rotating planet, orbiting an even more impossibly massive star, is only reachable by me when I watch sunsets and sunrises, moonrises and moonsets. But I seek it out because of the important perspective these moments bestow. After the sun had left us, the horizon grew redder and redder, the sky above a deeper and deeper inky blue. Albatross, black silhouettes on aquiline wings, still flew across my field of vision occasionally. I felt incredibly fortunate to be here, at the ends of the earth, watching these daily and nightly spectacles. But I felt a heaviness with the knowledge of my imminent departure, a heaviness which also stemmed from an increasing urgency I felt to move forward in seabird protection, conservation. This is a burden I carry every day, as one of my biggest fears is to leave this earth having not made a difference to their lives, their experience of this planet, their protection. I feel it is my duty.
This week I also observed an incredible moonrise that same night after the sunset. I walked back from the main house to the bunkhouse once darkness had settled over the island, and wondered to myself where the moon was. I had a rough body knowledge of when the moonrises and moonsets were, and what stage the moon was in, because how could you not out here? But I had lost track of time and I wasn’t exactly sure about the moonrise time. I looked at the stars all around – it looked almost like the star dome of the early season again. Surreal. Still, something told me the moon would come soon, and that it would be special. I listened to this intuition, and a few minutes later as I was brushing my teeth, I saw a pale glow on the horizon to the east. Knowing what was coming, I scrambled up the latter to the cistern roof, and a few seconds later, the moon, large and orange, began to materialise out of the ocean. It was so clear and seemed so close – the best one I have seen all season. I was alone on the cistern roof, and as I watched, the starlight melted away in the face of the moonlight which was spreading, reaching, across the sky. The high seas themselves to the east were so calm that the moon seemed almost perfectly reflected there too, almost like it looked in the lagoon on a calm day. As it rose, the moon gradually turned more silver than a burnt orange, and all became awash in a silvery light. The white breasts, necks and heads of the albatross glowed in the fields beneath me, and as I watched, innumerable nunulu (Bonin petrel) and u’au kani (wedge-tailed shearwater) silhouettes crossed the moon. I stood there mesmerised, entranced, and became even more lost in the moment when it occurred to me that the light I was feeling on my face was in fact reflected from the sun I had just watched go down over the western horizon a few hours previously. Moments like these, like all those moments I’d spent watching the age-old courtship rituals of the albatross, felt primal – like I was tapping into something I knew deep in my cerebrum but could not explain. This place had a habit of feeling… timeless, or even.. no, more like you were looking at time itself. Like you were being allowed to see another dimension, one that has become hidden from us humans, corrupted, through our increasing, determined, and self-inflicted conceptual separation from the natural world and its rhythms. We lose so much through this separation, including vital perspectives, such as that on time. We are not immortal, we are not exceptions – we follow the same rules as everyone else on this planet, and well we would do to remember it. As I stood there watching the moon rise, knowing my time here was coming to an end, it also occurred to me how, just like sand in an hourglass, you can see time passing most clearly when you have the least of it left.
This week I thought and saw much. As I do every week here, but this week felt more.. poignant. I watched white terns feeding their young tiny, silver fish; I watched them perch on the laundry line above my head as I hung up my laundry, watched the sunlight sparkle in their eyes as they looked down at me. Saw how the cobalt blue of their bill matched that of the sky during golden hour. Watched noddies dance in the red glow of sunset, watched them flash their orange tongues at each other, point their heads up to the sky, and then carefully down at their feet. Watched albatross chicks take their last breaths, and watched others receive life-giving meals from exhausted parents. Watched ka’upu parents point their heads at the sky and scream in excitement at seeing their chicks. Watched monk seal mothers and pups on the beach, pups suckling contentedly. Their shadows, long and blue, stretched out to touch those of the albatross chicks nearby, who stood their lonely oceanside vigil, waiting, waiting, to grow the flight feathers that would mark their final transformation into beings of the sea and air and free them from terrestrial shackles. I watched sunrises and sunsets. I watched Christmas shearwater feathers glint a burnished bronze in the slanting light of the morning sun. Watched nunulu (Bonin petrel) chicks take their first hesitating walks out of their burrows. Watched sharks, rays and sea turtles move by in slow procession along the shoreline. Stared into the telescopic eyes of a Nazca booby who landed only a few feet above my head, watched its pupils dilate and constrict as it stared directly into my eyes in turn. Watched albatross trail their primaries along the azure lagoon, the epitome of control and precision. Watched curlews flying and calling hauntingly over a blue lagoon. Watched aeroplane stretches that made me laugh out loud with delight. Watched ka’upu flying beneath me as I stood on the pier shed roof, and saw their shadows on the sand under the turquoise waters. Watched ‘iwa (frigatebird) mantle feathers gleam iridescent blue and green in the blinding midday sun. Watched albatross chicks stretch out their long, long wings and attempt to take a run and jump into the air. They fell – but they got right back up again, preened themselves, and tried again. There are lessons and messages everywhere here, about resilience, determination, dedication, love, intuition, vision. But your heart needs to be open to hear them.
The ship sails here as I write, to take me away from this place and all my treasured bird companions. But perhaps I can comfort myself in knowing that though I may leave this place, this place, and these birds, will never leave me. Indeed it is only by leaving this place now that I can enter into a role on a larger stage to help protect it and its sister islands, those magical seabird life-cradles, around the world. But perhaps I will yet return to Hōlanikū one sunny day.
It is time to say goodbye.
Aloha,
Isabelle Beaudoin