At the beach one spring morning, on Florida's Space Coast, I walked across the sand, watching the birds. Sandpipers scampered back and forth at the water's edge, groups moving in unison one way then another. Gulls swooped and screamed, or stood in kaffeeklatsch clusters, gossiping about the terns that stood apart further down the beach. A young ibis flew swiftly across at the water's edge, perhaps late for an appointment at the nearby Space Center. And then a plump brown pelican appeared, flying very low, skimming the waves just offshore.
I watched as it flew past, turned around, and came back across in the other direction. It didn't appear to be fishing, the way pelicans do, dropping from above to make a grand splash. It simply flew back and forth repeatedly, just inches above the water, putting on a show for me and the other birds.
After it had made two or three passes, it was joined by another, chasing closely behind. Then a third appeared, and all three swooped back and forth, chasing each other just a few yards offshore. Back and forth they flew, circling around again and again to zoom past in front of me, showing off. They never dove, never went fishing, never landed, but just kept skimming across the waves, chasing each other in tight formation. It looked for all the world like they were simply playing. Their antics reminded me of little kids chasing each other in a schoolyard. Or me and my wife as young newlyweds chasing each other and laughing like giddy children. Pure foolish antics, with no other purpose than shared fun.
After a few moments, a fourth pelican had joined them in their game of tag, and eventually there were five. They flew foolishly back and forth for several minutes, before turning sharply, still together, and heading further out to sea and eventually out of sight down the coast. There were a few other people scattered along the beach, some fishing, some looking for shells in the sand, but I don't think anyone else noticed the pelicans in their playful romp. I just stood there smiling. It was my late wife's birthday, and I suddenly remembered her telling me about a day she had at work, forty years in the past, as office manager for a condominium in Cocoa Beach, where she could look out her office window and watch the pelicans dive and smack into the water to catch their lunch. Her eyes were smiling as she talked about how comical the brown pelicans were, and how they made her laugh and brightened her work day. I smiled at the memory, and silently wished her happy birthday, as I watched the pelicans fly south toward Cocoa Beach, perhaps to brighten the workday of someone in an office beside the water.
