Robyn Williams: Last weekend my Sunday was
made by two visitors: elegant, somehow very serene and easygoing, and
exquisitely beautiful. They strayed for brunch, then after 20 minutes,
disappeared.
I'm talking about a pair of King Parrots. Deep
green and pillar-box red, quite plump actually, and delightful to watch, on the
deck.
Yes, I do my birdwatching in comfort, and take
pleasure in fairly common species.
Sue Taylor, on the other hand, is a specialist,
and puts herself right on the line in her quest for sightings, or on the boat,
in this case. Very brave.
Sue.
Sue Taylor: The official Australian bird
list includes nine species of albatross. This is a very conservative assessment.
Most ornithologists agree that there are more than nine different albatrosses
found in Australian waters, perhaps as many as fifteen. Of course twitchers
(like me) want species to be split, so they can accumulate more ticks. However,
while the official list includes just nine species, that is all honest twitchers
can count. And, being honest, let me assure you that seeing all nine species is
quite hard enough. Most people find that the first seven are relatively easy.
Then they are left for years wondering how they'll ever tick the last two -- for
most twitchers these are the light-mantled sooty albatross and the grey-headed
albatross. Both these albatrosses breed on various sub-Antarctic islands and do
not normally venture close to the Australian mainland. To make things even
harder, usually only immature grey-headed albatross are seen in Australian
waters, and these are easily mistaken for immature black-browed albatross. To
see either light-mantled sooty or grey-headed albatrosses, twitchers usually
have to embark on somewhat daunting sea journeys.
Last winter I did just that. I joined nine other
brave souls aboard a 20-metre yacht called Blizzard to travel south
from Hobart into the Southern Ocean. We were away three rough days and three
sleepless nights, and it was probably the most uncomfortable three days of my
life.
In my attempt to see all of the 93 seabirds on the
Australian list, I've been in turbulent seas before. We had a difficult crossing
from Geraldton to the Abrolhos, where I ticked the lesser noddy.
I've been out on the Southern Ocean before in
winter, several times from Eaglehawk Neck. They were just day trips. On one
notable occasion (the day I saw my first grey petrel) everyone on board was
seasick except me. Even the crew were seasick. Once, many years ago, when
pelagics used to go out from Portland, in Victoria, one woman was so sick she
lay on the deck all day and we stepped over her. She was shaken back to life
when we returned to shore and the organiser wanted her money. On my very first
pelagic out from Eden, one woman was so ill she vowed she'd never get onto a
small boat again, and as far as I know, she hasn't.
Some unfortunate people are seasick in very
moderate conditions. The summer before last I did a pelagic out of Southport on
the Gold Coast in search of Tahiti petrels. It was a very successful day. We saw
lots of Tahiti petrels. The sea was very calm, yet two people were seasick and
two others managed to fall over. Not overboard, just onto the deck of the moving
boat. But no-one damaged their binoculars or their cameras, so that's all right.
I have only ever been on an overnight pelagic
bird-watching trip once before. I went out from Ulladulla, in New South Wales in
April 2008, hoping to see Gould's petrel. We saw dozens. I saw my first one
before breakfast on the first day, and identified it. We also saw a black
petrel, a kermadec petrel and some white-bellied storm-petrels -- all lifers for
me. I also met some wonderful people. It was a very successful trip.
It was a big steel ship, the MV Banks, 31
metres long. A former Navy survey vessel, it accommodated 15 birders as well as
the captain, his crew, our tour leader and his wife. There was plenty of room to
move about comfortably and adequate handrails to cling to as you did. Not so on
the little yacht, Blizzard.
Until my recent trip on Blizzard, I've always been
the one person on the boat who's never succumbed to seasickness. However, this
trip in search of light-mantled sooties and grey-headed albatross -- three days
and three nights on the Southern Ocean in winter, got the better of me. For the
first time in my life, I was miserably, embarrassingly, publicly seasick. In my
defence I should say that the seas were very rough. And let me assure you, it
was worth it. Sadly, I dipped on grey-headed albatross. But I had excellent
views of light-mantled sooties and they are truly beautiful birds, well worth
all the angst and the discomfort.
I saw other birds too, that were new for me: three
species of prion and a lovely blue petrel.
Blizzard had been out the week before
with another group of seabirders. The weather was kind, the sea was calm; the
yacht travelled 190 nautical miles south of Hobart. They had gone to a sea mount
(literally a mountain under the sea) where different depths, currents and water
temperatures mean different marine life and different seabirds.
That lucky group of birders reported seeing
thousands of prions: Antarctic and broad-billed and probably others. They also
saw immature grey-headed albatross, lucky people. Word of their success spread
and we set off with great expectations.
Apart from the captain and crew, we had ten
birders on board. I was the only female birder and also the least competent,
although I was not the youngest by a long way. Amongst our number we had
Australia's two top birders: Mike Carter and Rohan Clarke -- always reassuring
to have experts on hand.
In contrast with the week before, when we were
about to set out, the weather was not kind. We had been scheduled to leave at
5pm on Saturday. We sat around in Hobart for 48 hours, waiting for the wind to
abate, getting more and more frustrated, more anxious that we'd run out of time,
that we wouldn't get far enough out to sea, that we wouldn't see all the birds
that the previous week's lucky group had been treated to. The yacht had been
chartered until 5pm on Thursday. If we were to get anywhere near where the
others had had their spectacular sightings of prions, we had to leave.
The Captain listened to the Bureau of Meteorology
forecasts and refused to go out to sea. He was not a birder: he did not
understand the allure of those prions. He was adamant. He was not taking a small
yacht out to the ocean in 30 knot winds. He would sail down the coast to
Southport where we would shelter overnight and be ready for an early start
tomorrow morning. Nothing anyone could say would persuade him otherwise.
And so it was. Tuesday morning saw us setting out
to sea, at last. We all wore safety harnesses, which the captain said were not
on properly unless they were uncomfortable. We could attach the harness to
various points on the boat, or on to lifelines which ran down each side of the
yacht, enabling us to walk around on deck. The harnesses were heavy and
uncomfortable. The captain need have no fear of that. The clips were stiff and
difficult to operate, even when your fingers were not cold and wet. And when the
harnesses became wet, they were even heavier and more uncomfortable.
Normally on pelagics, seabirds are attracted by
burleigh, which is any sort of meat or fish enhanced with the smelliest possible
fish oil. This does wonders for anyone on board who's feeling a little queasy.
Seabirds can smell it from vast distances and obediently come and land on the
water right beside the boat, and pose for all the photographers present. This is
what happened on the Blizzard the week before I was on it. I know. I've
seen the photos.
No bird landed beside the Blizzard on the
three days I was on the yacht. It was too rough.
So Tuesday was wet and uncomfortable and
bird-less. I was seasick because my safety harness meant I couldn't get at my
Travalcalm in my jacket pocket. But far worse than any distress or embarrassment
that this might have caused, was the knowledge that the weather was still a bit
rough, meaning we were making very slow progress and we may not make it to the
sea mount. As time progressed and the little yacht was buffeted by wind and
waves, we each silently dreaded having to face the fact that time had run out;
we'd have to turn back and we'd barely seen a bird.
A new dawn often brings renewed hope. On Wednesday
morning as I staggered from my heaving bunk, someone on deck yelled
'Light-mantled sooty'.
It is not possible to run on a pitching yacht, but
I travelled as fast as my tottering legs allowed and, breaking all the captain's
rules, reached the cockpit without donning my safety harness. I didn't need
binoculars (which is just as well, because while others managed, I found it
tantamount to impossible to get binoculars to my eyes, and to focus with one
hand, while hanging on with the other, and the object I'm trying to focus on is
flying in and out of sight as waves surge and the boat lurches). In any case, I
didn't need binoculars. That magnificent light sooty albatross flew right over
my head. For me the trip had been worthwhile. Others, I knew, wanted the
spectacle of thousands of prions. But I was sated with my light-mantled sooty.
No-one told me to go below and put on my safety
harness, so I didn't. A little later, I was standing beside our tour leader when
he saw a fiordland penguin in the water. I glimpsed a white blob swimming just
below the surface and I fancy it had a yellow crest. No twitcher could possibly
count such a blur. Our tour leader celebrated loudly. He'd been the only one to
see the penguin. We all congratulated him, those of us who'd previously seen
fiordland penguins even meant it.
Then someone yelled 'Prion'. Prions are difficult
birds to identify. You know that they're prions because they're small, blue-grey
birds with a dark 'M' on their backs, but precisely which sort of prion is hard
to say. Even if they weren't flying fast and we weren't on a moving boat, they'd
still be difficult to identify. We had two great advantages: we had a first-rank
photographer and we had Australia's two top birders with us. We watched a bird.
It was photographed and identified. This is how I ticked Antarctic and Salvin's
prions.
We saw a few prions. Nothing like the thousands
that had been reported further out to sea. We travelled 120 nautical miles
south, south-east of Hobart. I have no doubt that if we could have gone further,
we would have seen greater numbers of birds.
Then someone called out, 'Broad-billed prion!' and
everyone concentrated hard. These birds are aptly named. They are the biggest
prion and they do have visibly very broad bills. That is, if you can see the
bill on the bird whizzing past in the distance. Our bird was considerate and we
all managed to see its bill.
That broad-billed prion was Mike Carter's 811th
Australian bird. We all congratulated him heartily, knowing that such a feat was
well beyond most of us.
I was sorry I didn't see grey-headed albatrosses.
But, for me, the light-mantled sooty albatross made the trip (and all its
indignities) worthwhile. The broad-billed prion might be rarer. This just might
have been the only opportunity I'll ever have of confidently saying that I've
seen Antarctic and Salvin's prions, but for me, the light-mantled sooty
albatross won the day. Such a beautiful bird.
Robyn Williams: Just like my King Parrots.
But would you go to such lengths to spot a new
species? And what about scoring 811? Sue Taylor setting the standards (she's now
well over 600 -- the species I mean) and she lives in Melbourne.
Next week, how to make a diamond: Professor James
Rabeau from Macquarie University with some tips. I'm Robyn Williams.
http://www.abc.net.au/rn/ockhamsrazor/stories/2010/2949028.htm
