Little Pied Cormorant

Yesterday morning I carted my kayak down to the Maylands Yacht Club. The lockdown was in effect and the space was mostly empty, which was reassuring. A woman walked the beach with a toddler. On the jetty a young-forties couple embraced and kissed.

I launched the kayak and paddled west, downstream. A south-westerly breeze sent an endless sequence of tiny waves against the bow. I pulled my cap down to deflect the spray of water. I’ve kayaked most mornings for the last six months – a morning ritual that brings me back from the dead.

Starboard side, I passed Bardon Park and a small private jetty, heading south now, following a bend in the river. The wetland area is all warm light and flowing reeds, merging into a swamp paperbark woodland. Some 20-metres away at the bank of an inlet I noticed a Little Pied Cormorant on a tree branch with something in its beak – most probably a fish. The bird was repeatedly tossing its head back, trying to swallow the object, but it didn't seem to be going down. Behind this scene, watching from an opening in the wetland scrub, stood a man with a bushy moustache and dark eyes.

‘Is the bird okay!?’ I called out.

The man’s eyes found me and he shook his head.

‘It has a fish stuck in his beak!’ he called back.

I turned my kayak and paddled in for a closer look. The cormorant was clearly distressed and I could see a silver fish, probably a herring, protruding from its open beak. I drifted closer and the bird jumped from the branch into the water and swam under some branches. Then I saw the line and realised that the fish in the bird’s neck was connected to a fishing line. It ran from the cormorant’s beak, around its head, to somewhere beneath the water. As the bird moved, the line wrapped tighter, pulling its beak open. I reached out and held the line. The bird thrashed its wings and looked back in terror.

‘The bird’s caught in fishing line,’ I said, turning to the man. ‘Do you have anything I can use to cut it?’

The man shook his head.

I thought for a moment. ‘A friend lives nearby. I can get some scissors and come back.’

The man nodded. ‘Okay.’

I turned the kayak and paddled swiftly down to the Banks Reserve, stepping off my tiny vessel and lifting it onto the beach. I jogged north up the Tony Di Scerni pathway before leaving the path to hike to my friends’ Steve and Jazz’s house. They've recently occupied an 80s beige-brick patio apartment with a river view. Steve’s car was parked in the driveway.

‘Steve! Jazz! Wake up!’ I banged with my fist on their security door.

I waited. And then I banged some more.

‘Steve! You home!?’

‘Yo!’

I looked up to find Steve squinting down at me from his balcony.

‘There’s a bird with a fish stuck in its beak!’

Steve stepped back inside and reappeared at the front door, rubbing his eyes.

‘Sorry, this bird is caught up in fishing line down by the river and I need to borrow some scissors to cut the line.’

‘No, that’s all good.’ Steve said. ‘We need to help animals.’

Steve fixed his door open and walked back inside. I socially distanced at the front. I met Steve 30 years ago. He’s always been a tall, kind recluse.

‘Hang on a sec.’ Steve said, and went for a piss.

Inside, Steve’s two giant cats prowled the floor. The toilet door opened and Steve walked out, passing into another room.

‘I’ll get you a towel to hold the bird.’

Steve came back to the door with a knife, scissors, and a towel.

‘Great, thanks.’ I said.

‘Do you want some help?’

‘Yeah! Some help would be good actually!’

‘I’ll meet you down there. I’ve just got to put on a T-shirt and stuff.'

‘Okay, when you get down to the path turn left and you’ll see me through the trees.’

I jogged back down to the reserve. The couple from the Maylands jetty were standing on the beach beside my kayak, still hugging and kissing. I climbed into the kayak and paddled back upriver. As I neared the inlet I ran over how to manage the task: to cover the bird with the towel, to cut the line, to secure the bird, to not risk it flying away with a fishing hook in its throat, to calm the bird, to untangle the line, to dislodge the fishing hook. Jesus, how the fuck would that be?

I imagined the Little Pied Cormorant, the fish and myself getting tangled and snagged before sinking to a watery grave.

I saw the dead branches where I’d left the bird and drifted into the inlet. Another Little Pied Cormorant was now perched on the paper tree, restoring order. I didn’t see the troubled cormorant. I paddled in closer and looked down through the surface of the water. Had it sunk? I didn’t see it. Was I in the wrong section of the river? I paddled back out and turned the kayak. No, it was the right spot. I paddled back to the paper tree and drifted beside the new cormorant. It turned its head back and forth as though mimicking my search. Was it the same cormorant?

Perhaps the guy with the moustache had saved it, taken it, eaten it? I had no fucking idea.

I paddled back to the shore and found Steve walking the pathway.

‘Hey!’

Steve saw me and approached as I parked my kayak.

‘It wasn’t there.’

Steve raised his hands.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Someone must have saved it while I was gone.’

‘Oh well,’ Steve said. ‘Did you want to come up for a coffee?

‘Um,’ I said, looking down the river. ‘I might keep going in the kayak.’

‘That’s what I would do if I had a kayak here.’

‘I have a spare. Do you want to come for a kayak?’

‘No, I have to go to work.’

‘Okay, well.’ I handed Steve back his towel, his knife, his scissors. ‘Thanks for the help.’

‘Anytime.’

I said goodbye and launched my kayak, paddling downriver to the Matagarup Bridge, before turning back. Eventually, I passed Mardalup Park and saw the couple a third time. They were holding hands, kissing, and taking a selfie. A sign under them in large red letters read: NO MOORING. I paddled on.

I made my way back upriver toward home. The tide carried me and the paddling was easier. I passed through the wetlands and just before Bardon Park, port side, my field of view opened to a woman sitting gracefully, sunning her bare legs, on a log near the river’s edge.

I smiled briefly as I paddled past. The woman smiled back and gave a small wave.

‘How’s self-isolation treating you!?’ I asked.

‘Oh yeah, bit of an adjustment.’ She laughed. ‘Not too bad.’

‘Make the most of it.’

‘Look at you!’ She said, gesturing with a wave at the kayak.

‘Yeah, pretty fun.’

‘Have a good one.’

‘You too.’

I passed by Bardon Park and the chop picked up. The waves carried me speedily back toward the yacht club. On the beach a boy and his grey-haired dad stood flying a kite styled as a WW2 British fighter plane. The kite soared before plummeting to the ground. The boy screamed and the old man laughed.