“I don’t think I can do another one,” I said. Before I could stop them, tears were spilling down my cheeks. Olivia hugged me. She was crying too. “It’s just so awful seeing them this way,” I sobbed.
She nodded and snuffled, wiping her nose. “But we have to keep going. They need us. They’ll die without our help,” she said.
I took a deep, wobbly breath and tried to stop crying. “I know.” Suddenly anger swept over me, as fresh as the tears had been. “Who’s responsible for this? That’s what I want to know! These pelicans were just living their lives, swimming and fishing and flying, and all of a sudden, they’re poisoned. Who did it? Who?”
By the end, I was practically yelling. I didn’t know why I was shouting at Olivia. It wasn’t her fault. She just happened to be standing there.
“It was two tankers that crashed into each other,” Olivia said. “You remember what Mr. Hauser said.”
“Yeah, but somebody owns those tankers. We should find out whose fault it was,” I said. “Companies pay to clean up oil after spills. Whoever did it this time is going to pay to help these birds and the beach and all the other animals they’ve hurt or killed.”
Olivia nodded. “I know. I feel the same way. But that will have to wait. There are more birds coming off the vans. Come on.”
* * *
The rest of the day was a blur of oiled pelicans, dog crates, bird bands, plywood, chain-link, buckets of fish, buckets of soap, and hoses. Mom and Dad and Abby and Mr. Hauser were everywhere, directing volunteers, showing vans where to park, banding birds as they were brought in.
Quietly, volunteers started a pile at the very edge of the property, behind the office: birds that had died on the journey from the beach. They had to be examined and counted too. All the numbers needed to be reported to the state Department of Wildlife and Fisheries.
By early afternoon our hands were greasy and stained brown. My hair was a mess, and Olivia had brown streaks on her cheeks from where she’d pushed her hair back. But we didn’t stop working. We couldn’t stop—there were too many birds. I kept walking past the pen where we’d put that very first pelican. I was already thinking of him as ours.
“Olivia,” I said, when we both stopped to rest outside his pen for a minute. “I think this guy deserves a name.”
“You know what Abby always says …” Olivia began.
“I know, I know! ‘Don’t name them, you’ll get too attached, they’re wild animals, not pets,’” I repeated, quoting Abby. “But …”
I crouched down by the wire mesh and looked at the pelican. Abby had banded him number 563. He gazed back at me calmly. Birds can’t show distress on their face, like mammals. They don’t have facial expressions. But I could feel his desperation anyway.
“Pellie,” Olivia said suddenly.
“What?” I looked up at her.
“Pellie. His name is Pellie.” She stared at him. “And I don’t care if we get attached. I want to get attached.”
I nodded. “I like that. Pellie it is.”
Finally the rush of birds slowed. As the sun was setting in a blaze of rose and gold, the last van slammed its doors and drove off, its taillights glinting as it disappeared up the driveway.The volunteers would all be back, bright and early, but the first day was finished.
“Whew.” Mom exhaled as she sank down on an overturned bucket. She leaned over and rubbed her face. “What a day.”
We all sat around her, covered in feathers and oil. The birds were quiet in their pens, a true sign of how sick they were. If they’d been healthy they would have been causing quite a ruckus, I knew. No one said much of anything. I felt flattened by the sight of all the sick birds and hopeless at the thought of how many more were still out there.
“Come on, everyone!” a cheerful voice interrupted. I looked up to see Mr. Hauser holding a tray with six steaming mugs balanced on it. “I hope you don’t mind me taking over your kitchen briefly. I didn’t want to disturb you.” He handed around the mugs.
“Mmm,” Mom inhaled. “Sassafras tea! Where did you get it? It’s not from around here.”
“No indeed.” Mr. Hauser took a noisy sip of his. “I’m not from Charleston originally. My family is from West Virginia, and my mother regularly sends me packets of roots she’s collected around our house. Ginseng too.”
I inhaled the sweet, licorice-smelling steam and took a long sip. The scalding liquid burned a little path of fire right to my belly. “Mmm,” I echoed.
“I thought we could all use a little pick-me-up,” Mr. Hauser continued. “I know the first day after a spill is hard. You can’t help but feel knocked down. I always do. But I’ve seen a lot of spills, folks. These first few days are critical. And we’re making progress. We saved dozens of birds today, and we’ll save more tomorrow. We can be proud of that.”
I looked around at Mom, Dad, Abby, and Olivia, all sipping their mugs of hot tea, resting, getting strong for tomorrow, and I saw small smiles creeping over their faces too. Mr. Hauser was right. We couldn’t let ourselves get discouraged yet. Not when we’d done so much—and there was still so much left to do.
Chapter 4
When I opened my eyes the next morning and saw the fresh South Carolina sunshine washing over my walls, I threw my covers off so hard they fell onto the floor. Today was a new day, which meant there were new birds to help. I pulled on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and washed my face in cold water until my cheeks glowed.
In the kitchen, I found Mom making eggs and sausage. She set the steaming plateful in front of me. “I’m glad you’re up,” she said. “I heard from Chris Hauser early this morning. The Department of Wildlife and Fisheries is sending about fifty volunteers, all trained in oiled-bird rehabilitation. And we’ll be accepting vans of birds all day. The sanctuary will be full by the end of the day, so we’re all going to need our strength.”
“Are we going to be taking in any of the birds permanently?” I pulled a stack of toast toward me and slathered butter on the first two slices.
Mom shook her head. “We’re full. They’ll either be released or sent to another facility further up the coast.”
“Got it.” I scarfed down the eggs and sausage, slammed a glass of milk, and was down the steps with my toast before Mom had even sat down.
Olivia must have eaten faster than I had, because she was already waiting at the entrance to the tent when I arrived. Her face was excited. “Pellie ate three fish!” she called as soon as she saw me.
“Yes!” I cheered, peering into his pen. He sat in the same position as the day before, looking miserable. But he was alive, and he’d eaten. That was something.
“And he had some water, so Abby says he’s strong enough to be washed,” Olivia said.
“How long have you been down here?” I asked, following her into the tent.
“Since dawn,” she answered over her shoulder. “That’s when they showed up too.”
“Who’s th—” I started to ask. But then I stopped in astonishment.
The tent was buzzing with activity. At least fifty people in matching blue T-shirts were filling tubs with water—some soapy, some clean—laying out brushes and swabs, and organizing stacks of towels.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Olivia asked happily.
“The trained volunteers!” I said. “Yes! This is exactly what we need!”
“Are you girls the resident experts?” someone asked behind us.
I turned around. A no-nonsense looking woman stood behind us, holding an oiled pelican in her arms. Her hair was cut short, and her arms and hands looked strong and tanned.
“I don’t know if we’re experts, but we live here,” I said. “I’m Elsa, and this is Olivia. Can we help?”
“Just what I was going to ask,” the woman said, leading us over to one of the soapy tubs. “I want to show you girls how to wash the birds, so you can do the
next one on your own. I’m Katie, by the way. I’m heading up the group of volunteers sent over by the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries.”
“Are you a volunteer too?” I asked.
Katie nodded. “I am,” she said. “I’ve been specially trained in cleaning oiled birds and other animals. My husband and I kayak year-round, so I’ve seen the devastation that oil spills can cause. I started volunteering with the washing squad five years ago, after I retired from teaching.”
She set the pelican down on a towel and examined his leg band. “This one is number 563. Elsa, can you note that on his form?” She pointed to a clipboard resting nearby.
“That’s Pellie!” Olivia exclaimed.
“You know this bird?” Katie asked.
I nodded. “We found him on the beach. We’re kind of rooting for him.”
Katie laughed. “Me too. Well, Pellie is a young male, about a year old. He’s swallowed some oil—enough to make him sick but not enough to kill him.”
She showed Olivia how to hold Pellie’s body firmly on the towel, with his feet tucked underneath him and one hand on either side to hold down his powerful wings. “We don’t want him flapping around and hurting himself,” she explained. She opened his huge beak. The skin of the pouch below his beak stretched like a finely pleated accordion.
“Abby has already washed out his mouth, so he doesn’t swallow more oil. But I’ll give it a thorough pass again,” Katie continued. She vigorously wiped Pellie’s tongue and the inside of his beak with a torn-up towel square. “Now we’ll get him in the water and get him cleaned up.”
“Is washing him going to be hard on him?” I asked, remembering what Mr. Hauser had said about the washing process being like a marathon.
Katie nodded. “It’s an unnatural process for a wild animal. He’s being closely handled by humans—manhandled, really. That’s one reason why it’s so stressful. He won’t like it, but it’s a necessity. We have to get the oil off his feathers.” She picked up Pellie and plunged him in a plastic tub of soapy water so he was submerged up to the bottom of his neck. “We use regular dish liquid to wash them,” she said over the sound of Pellie splashing. “It’s made to cut oil, which is just what we need. Elsa, you hold Pellie’s body. Olivia, you hold his beak.” She moved us into position. “And I’ll scrub.”
“Now, you girls know why oil is so dangerous to bird feathers, right?” Katie asked, as she rubbed Pellie’s chest and stomach.
“Ah …” I looked at Olivia. I knew that oil was dangerous to birds, but it occurred to me that I didn’t know exactly why.
“Bird feathers are perfectly arranged so that they overlap each other, like shingles on a house,” Katie explained. “Each feather has little barbs that interlock with each other to create a seal. The pelicans—and all other birds—have what is basically a waterproof shell around their bodies twenty-four seven. They’re warm and dry on the inside, because their feathers keep water and cold air on the outside.” She carefully stretched out one of Pellie’s massive wings. “You wash now, Elsa, OK? I’ll hold.”
I dipped a towel square into the soapy water and carefully rubbed the long, beautiful feathers. The oil came off in brown droplets.
“Birds spend all sorts of time every day preening—that’s cleaning and arranging their feathers—to maintain that waterproof seal,” Katie went on. She stretched out Pellie’s other wing and nodded at me to wash it.
“But the oil messes all that up,” Olivia said, sounding like she was guessing a little.
“Right.” Katie folded Pellie’s other wing back up and massaged soapy water up his neck. “Oil mats the feathers. The little barbs get separated, the feathers get disarranged, and poof! The waterproof seal is gone. The bird is without his warm coat. He’ll die pretty quickly of cold.”
I shuddered. What a terrible way to die. I didn’t even want to think about that happening.
Katie finished Pellie’s neck. He was warm under my hands, but I could feel the tension in his body. He was terrified.
Moving quickly but carefully, Katie washed Pellie’s head. She used a soapy Q-tip to clean every trace of oil out of his eyes and the nostrils at the top of his beak. Then she wrapped him up firmly in a dry towel.
“He’s done!” she announced. “Now he needs to rest, dry out, and preen his feathers back into place.”
Olivia lifted Pellie’s body in her arms, and I gently held his beak closed. He was still in my arms, and I could sense how exhausted he was from the washing.
We made our way between the tubs and carried him gently to the rehab pens for washed birds. Katie pointed out which pen to put him in. There were already three other cleaned birds in there. I hoped Pellie wouldn’t feel so scared with the other pelicans around.
“Get well,” I whispered to Pellie.
Soon they’d drop the white curtain across the opening, and we wouldn’t be allowed to see him anymore.
I told myself that was for the best, and it really was. These were wild birds, not pets. It would be even more dangerous for them if they started getting used to humans. They needed to stay away for their own good.
But it didn’t mean I wasn’t sad that we’d only get to see him with a curtain in the way.
“Will he be released soon?” Olivia asked Katie.
“He has to show us he can eat live fish first,” Katie replied. “These birds have had a terrible shock. Their bodies have been badly damaged by the oil. Sometimes they just can’t recover. If Pellie can’t eat live fish, he won’t be able to survive on his own.”
“Well, if he can’t, he can stay at Seaside Sanctuary,” I said stubbornly. “We have pelicans here.”
But I knew as well as Olivia did that we were at capacity with our pelicans. Mom had already made it clear that we wouldn’t be taking in any of the oiled birds.
Besides, Pellie should be free. That’s where he’d be happiest. He deserved to spend his days soaring over the ocean, not trapped behind chain-link. If he could just eat. He had to.
He just had to.
Chapter 5
Olivia and I were still in the tent when Mr. Hauser came looking for us. “I’m taking the department’s boat out to search for more oiled birds,” he said. “You girls want to come? I could use some fast muscle behind the net.”
“You catch them in a net?” I asked. “Doesn’t that hurt them?”
Mr. Hauser shook his head. “No, it just restrains them. They can’t move much because of the oil covering them, so there’s no danger they’ll thrash and hurt themselves. Interested in coming along?”
Olivia and I looked at each other. “Sure!” I said. “Let me tell my mom.”
Mom had the office phone pressed against her ear and her cell phone was ringing on the desk, so she just nodded and waved me out of the room when I told her we were going out on the boat with Mr. Hauser. It was clear she had her hands full at the sanctuary.
We crammed ourselves into Mr. Hauser’s truck, which was full of empty pelican crates, bottles, nets, and tools. The seats were covered in oily bird feathers.
Fifteen minutes of bouncing on rutted roads brought us to the beach where we’d first seen Pellie. But it looked different now. Black, stringy goop was washed up on the white sand. The mess stretched down the beach in both directions as far as I could see.
Olivia and I climbed slowly out of the van. Mr. Hauser followed with an armful of white cloth and three nets with long handles.
“Is this the oil?” I asked slowly. It wasn’t liquid like I thought it would be. It was solid and soft when I squatted down to touch it with the tips of my fingers.
“There’s so much of it,” Olivia said, sounding like she might start crying. “It’s ruining the whole beach.”
Mr. Hauser shook out the white cloth he was holding, which turned out to be the kind of zip-up jumpsuit I’d seen hazmat workers wear. “It’s not
just ruining the beach,” he said. “It’s poisoning it. A beach is its own ecosystem, and the oil impacts all the life on it: birds; marine mammals; fish; land mammals; crustaceans like crabs and shellfish; marine plant life like seaweed; and land plant life like grasses.”
Looking at the spoiled white sand, I felt sick. “Is the company responsible going to clean it up?” I demanded angrily. I didn’t mean to snap at Mr. Hauser—I was just so mad. It felt like I needed someone to blame.
He handed me a net. “The state’s been talking to Coastal Oil, the company whose tanker spilled. It turns out the captain of the tanker wasn’t monitoring the sonar. That’s why he collided with the other tanker. Coastal Oil said they’ll pay for the cleanup, but we haven’t seen much action at all. Just promises.”
“That’s awful! There should be workers out here right now, cleaning this up.” I clenched my hands into fists.
“I agree,” Mr. Hauser said. “And I understand your anger. I feel the same way when I see this beautiful, delicate ecosystem being destroyed. But right now, there are still pelicans out there that need our help. Are you girls ready to go in the boat?”
I’d been so focused on the oil—and my anger—that I hadn’t noticed a small, battered motorboat tied up to a dock just down the beach. The words State of South Carolina Department of Wildlife and Fisheries were painted in faded letters on the side. We put on our white jumpsuits and climbed in carefully, stepping around the pelican crates already on board. Then Mr. Hauser fired up the motor and maneuvered us away from the shore.
Soon we were putting slowly along in the water, holding our nets.
“We’re going so slow,” Olivia muttered to me. “Wouldn’t we save more birds if we went a little faster?”
Mr. Hauser overheard. “That’s because we’re looking for the birds. We don’t want to see one and zoom right past it.”
I nodded. That made sense. We scanned the water for pelicans, and within five minutes, we saw one.
Oil-Soaked Wings Page 2
