Above and Beyond the Call of Duty

Seagulls are about the most irritating birds known to mankind.

Back in the mid-1970's I spent four years in U.S. Coast Guard...most of that time was spent doing search and rescue stuff at the Umpqua River Lifeboat Station out of Winchester Bay, Oregon.  Two and half years into that mission an opportunity arose where I could become part of the very first ANT Team...(Aides to Navigation Team)...operating out of Charleston, Oregon.  After some pondering, in 1976 I decided to take the offer and within a few weeks I mustered away from Winchester Bay and settled into my new job of helping build and establish this new concept of an aides to navigation team.  As best as I can make out, I may have been the very first person selected for this team...or at the very least one of first two...We eventually ended up with a crew of about six.

ANT Coos Bay Station

This new ANT team was responsible for all the navigational aides for over a 200 mile stretch along the Oregon coast from Depoe Bay to Brookings and included maintenance of an array of lights, ranges, buoys, beacons, small boat warning indicators, and most fun of all...three lighthouses.  It required a lot of travel and I even spent two weeks at Governors Island in New York City at the CG Training center for some in depth technical training on exactly how to maintain all that high tech gadgetry.  Unfortunately, one thing they did not train us for was how to deal with seagulls.

There was this time we had to change out the batteries for a channel marker light/beacon in the middle of, if I remember correctly, the Newport estuary about a hundred miles or so up the coast from Charleston.  This was no easy task as this particular light was located well out into the channel atop a 40 foot tall flat bed tower.  These batteries were about the same size and weight as a large car battery but only produced 1.5 volts as opposed to 12 volts.  Because of their size and low voltage, they retained a long service life, but had to be hooked up in a series so as generate enough voltage to the work the beacon light.  Each light as I remember took around 8 or 9 of these batteries.

Well, we had to haul all that stuff up the coast along with our Monarch service boat, then load it all, and motor a couple miles out to the tower.  There were three of us assigned to this particular task on that day.  Our plan was for two of us, me and one of the other guys, to climb to the platform 40 feet above the water and lower a rope.  The third member was to then tie off each battery, one at a time, and we would then pull them up by hand.  They were quite heavy by the way and it was a difficult chore to do this eight or nine times.

Well, as we began our climb to the top we noticed an unusually large number of seagulls gathering around us...circling and squawking.  When we reached the top we discovered a pair of juvenile gulls sitting on a nest atop the battery box.  I never thought about it before then, but I guess I never knew seagulls built nests like that...even so, it was quite large as were the juvenile gulls.  They were about the goofiest looking things I've ever seen...all fluffed up and dirty gray in color.

Apparently momma gull and poppa gull didn't take kindly to us being there and they began to dive bomb us with very menacing swoops coming quite close to our heads.  It sounds funny, but it was actually quite dangerous being so high up on a small platform one could easily lose balance and take a tumble, plus once we started hauling those heavy batteries up, we could not let go of the rope without placing our partner below in jeopardy.  When we got too close to the nest, they would attack us even more...and the hundreds of other gulls swarming around us made for one very loud and precarious situation.

The only way we could haul the batteries up was for one guy to stand guard and wave his coat at the attacking seagulls to keep them at bay.  In time we finally did get all the batteries up to the platform...only now we had to replace the old ones.  No easy task as the nest was on top of the box...and the two juvenile gulls got rather agitated once we approached them and began to strike out at us if we got to close and momma and poppa got even more agitated.

Apparently gulls are protected by some federal law or something for some reason...I can't imagine why...there are millions of them...about half of which by then were swarming around us...and they were not to be injured or molested...but we had to change out those batteries or this rather important navigational aide would go dead in a matter of days.  We radioed the Newport Coast Guard station and informed them of our situation.

After the laughter at the Newport Station died down, we were told to move the nest without disturbing the juvenile gulls as best as we could.  Now we were laughing as they clearly didn't understand the situation as we were experiencing it.  Oh well...not for us to wonder why...but for us to do or die...or some cliche-ish thing like that anyway.

By this time our third crew member had climbed up to see what all the fuss was about.  And being the highly trained Coast Guard sailors we were, we formulated a plan.  While one stood guard and waved a coat at any attacking gulls from the air, the other two were to slowing slide the nest off the box...it did not go well.

Mom and pop gull got really agitated which only further agitated the little gulls in the nest and they began to strike out at us...they got sharp little beaks...and they started to flap around like the devil was after them.  Both fell off the nest, one flopping around so violently, he fell off the platform and landed in the water 40 feet below...so much for the not to be molested thing.  The other ended up sulking in a corner...which suited us just fine.

We hurriedly disconnected the old batteries...reconnected the new set and tested the hook up...all the while being protected by the flailing coat overhead.  With that completed...our third member climbed back down to the boat, and we lowered...one by one...the old batteries.  We replaced the nest and captured the one remaining juvenile gull by throwing the coat over him and replaced him back in the nest.  Then came the scariest part of the ordeal...we had to climb back down that tower all the while having hundreds of gulls swarming and diving at us. Having successfully completed that maneuver, we made a hasty retreat.

I've always thought we should have been rewarded some kind of medal or something for performance under fire above and beyond the call of duty for what we went through...at least some kind of commendation for valor.  Alas, all we got were mere chuckles, chortles, and down right laughter once we returned to home base and relived the events of the day with the rest of our crew....Oh...and by the way...that one juvenile who fell off the platform...he was last seen swimming away none the worse for the wear...I'm sure he fathered many dozens of other obnoxious seagulls in his days...telling them all about the time he had to fight off those two legged intruders who threatened his home...I bet he even got a medal for it.

Keith

When You Can't Get Out

Just finished up a photography workshop a couple weeks ago and it went pretty well with some help from our local photography club.  Had about 25 people participate plus 5 or six from the club who helped out with some technical support...much appreciated as well.

Similar to what I am suffering thru.  Mine are more Prevalent along the side and ribs

A few days later I noticed some pain in my side...it felt like I had either strained something or had been kicked in the ribs...neither of which had any basis for having occurred.  The pain progressively grew worse over the next few days and by the next Monday morning I was hurting pretty badly.  By that evening I noticed a rash developing along my ribs and middle part of the left side on the back.  Shingles...that was my first assumption which was verified the next morning at the clinic. Shingles are caused by the chicken pox virus that most of us get when we are kids.  It lies dormant in the nerve cells for decades sometimes and then get trigger when your immune system gets compromised for some reason.  When they surface the rash or blisters follow the nerve lines that radiate from the spine and wrap around to the front.  The result is  a very painful experience with not only the burning from the blisters and rash, but severe pain deeper down in the tissue and nerve paths.  This causes that kicked in the ribs feeling. Shingles can cause a lot of problems if not care for properly, plus you can pass chicken pox to anyone who has not had them, which would not be a good thing. For the rest of the week they grew progressively worse and more painful...so much so I had to stay home and try to work from home...it was a hopeless cause.

In order to control the pain I had to take some powerful medication which produced numerous side effects like dizziness, wooziness, sleepiness, and assorted other complications too numerous to list.  It was bad enough to suffer through the effects of the ailment, but what really hurt was seeing these amazing mornings go to waste because I just was unable to get out.  Some of the best morning light yet for the season with fog and hazy mist hanging in the air and the first light of day being filtered through this mixture.  Man it really hurt in more ways than one.

But, I suppose that is the way life goes...you win some and you lose some.  This week I lost, but there will but there will be other morning like these to come and I hope to make up for lost time.  I am still hurting from this out break, but they are starting to subside some now and hopefully in another week or so I'll be well enough to get out and enjoy these marvelous Kentucky mornings.

Keith

Buster

Recently a friend of mine had to put to sleep a very dear pet dog.  She was visibly upset at having had to do such a thing as she and her family were very attached to this little dog.  It brought back memories of my own from some years ago now when I faced a similar situation.  The only difference was my little dog graced our home for only three days...but those three days were as trying as any I've ever had to face.  Here is the story I wrote shortly after having to endure a very difficult situation.

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I must be getting softhearted in my old age, because what transpired over that Labor Day weekend stirred emotions I thought long ago dormant. It was a tough lesson to endure, but one learned only by gazing through sorrowful windows into the lives of the most innocent.


I named him Buster, a fine looking Brittany pup, with his floppy ears and freckles across his muzzle. He was plump and fuzzy, bright-eyed and clumsy like most puppies with paws too large for his body. My wife and kids fell in love with him right away. Complete with hunting genetics, the odds were excellent he would become a fine birddog and hunting companion.


I picked him up in Tulsa on Saturday, the first day of Labor Day weekend. He appeared unsure of himself on the two hour drive to my home in Edmond, Oklahoma. By the time we arrived, his puppy nature took over and he started to survey his new surroundings. 


Our other dog Sadie, a mixed breed of gentle temperament, wasn’t quite sure what to make of this intruder, but she quickly adjusted and accepted Buster as a new playmate.


The next morning was opening day of dove season. My brother Ken, and long time hunting partner Rocky, made the drive over and were eager to try out my new dove location. That evening as they admired the new pup, I beamed with pride like a new dad.


We left early the next morning figuring we would return well before noon, so I didn’t worry too much about Buster having run of the house. My wife, who was still in Tulsa, was not happy about that after she found out Buster had left a few calling cards...oops.


Not long after returning from our morning hunt, I realized Buster wasn’t showing the spunk of the day before. I thought it was just a reaction to the vaccinations. I tried calling our veterinarian, but getting hold of him was difficult on a holiday weekend. I wasn’t all that worried and by that evening he was acting like most puppies, romping and stomping and playing with the kids. We had a little fun that evening after I discovered one of the doves taken that afternoon was still alive, so I hid it in the flower garden and called Buster over. His hunting instinct kicked in and he became extremely birdie with his stubby tail buzzing with excitement as he worked his head from side to side trying to lock in on the scent.


He slept without a peep that night on an old pair of my pajama bottoms he took a liking to, and when I awoke the next morning he was sitting beside my bed looking up at me floppy-eared and wide-eyed. We made a quick run outside and he did his business. He was obviously a fast learner. By mid-morning things began to change. He started to vomit and his diarrhea became more pronounced. I noticed some blood in his stool and immediately called our veterinarian. He told me to give him Pedialyte every hour or so in small amounts and not to feed him anything, then bring him in the next morning.


It was a long, difficult night. I slept beside him, so I could monitor his activities was my excuse, when in reality I was worried about the little feller. Hour by hour his symptoms worsened and by the time the veterinarian saw him, Buster was seriously ill. It didn’t take long for a diagnosis. Parvovirus; a serious infection that attacks the lining of the intestines. Buster had more than likely contracted the virus the week before I picked him up, but the symptoms only became prevalent a day or so later, but he was not yet in critical condition, so there was a chance, slim as it was, that he would recover. After an I/V of glucose and a shot of penicillin to combat secondary infections, we took him home with the hope he would show some improvement by morning.


That evening as I lay beside him and stroked his neck and shoulder, my heart ached each time his emaciated sides would heave. He was so helpless and so frail and was so sick. I wanted to make it all go away, but could do nothing except give him fluids a tablespoon at a time and gently pet his now painfully thin shoulders. As he lay on that old pair of pajamas, I extended my arm along his side. He lifted his head and placed it across my hand as though he found comfort in knowing I was there. By 4:00 AM he took a turn for the worse and began to vomit more regularly and his stools became a stream of blood. My heartache turned into heartbreak. We rushed him to the veterinarian the next morning and right away he said it did not look good. Further treatment would only prolong his suffering, and as difficult as it was, we all knew what had to be done.


As the veterinarian shaved a patch on Buster’s forearm to expose a blood vessel for the injection that would end his suffering, Buster lifted his head one final time and looked at us with hollow, but trusting eyes, not comprehending what was about to happen. I gently stroked his back and scratched his ears just before his last breath left him. It was a hard moment. My wife sobbed out loud as we left the room, and I discovered that growing softhearted in my old age is not such a bad thing, and I unashamedly broke down, fighting back the lump in my throat and wiping blurry images from my eyes.


That nine week old runt of a puppy captured my heart like nothing else could, and to watch him suffer stabbed at my emotions exposing a softness and compassion I never knew existed. Maybe it was because he was a puppy with that unbridled exuberance found only in innocence, or maybe it happened during those few hours before he fell ill when he pounced and romped, and stole forever any ability to look upon him as anything but a family member.


Our life together could be measured in hours, but what I learned from him will influence the rest of my life. Through all of his suffering, he never once whimpered. Through all of the discomfort, he took it in stride and demonstrated through hurting eyes that he still trusted us. Maybe it was because he did trust us that somehow we felt in our hearts that we failed him. Many things in life are difficult to deal with, but such a thought adds additional weight to painful memories that even time will find difficult to remove.


I left his tiny body in a grave surrounded by late summer wildflowers that were caressed by a gentle breeze rolling across the Oklahoma prairie. It was a quiet, peaceful place where we would have hunted had he lived.


Through his courage, I learned a great deal about myself. Through his suffering, I understand, more clearly now, about the bond between a hunter and his dog, a bond forged by adversity and tempered with grief. My two sons learned a valuable lesson as well, one about trust, loyalty and compassion, and that some lessons in life are difficult. 


Another bird dog will come my way someday, and with him, a lifetime of memories, but only one little pup named Buster will retain that special memory. As difficult as some memories are, good things often come from them, like rekindling dormant emotions and growing softhearted in the face of misfortune. By experiencing such things, I am no longer an ordinary person poor of spirit, but a transformed individual rich in understanding.



Keith R. Bridgman