Of grackles, starlings, and lighthouses

A visit to Pigeon Point Lighthouse in Pescadero, California

Pigeon Point Lighthouse by Stephen Bedase on Unsplash

Awhile back I visited Pigeon Point Light State Park near Pescadero, California, for a writing retreat. This stellar example of lighthouse magic and architecture, a treat to visit and easy to spot from Highway 1 along the coast, located fifty-ish miles south of San Francisco, also has a nice hostel associated with it. Myself, another teacher, and our participants would be staying there talking about writing, learning, and practicing writing techniques. 

This story isn’t about the retreat.

Or about the lighthouse, though I love lighthouses. (Who doesn’t? If you want to know more about the lighthouse, click the link I put in and learn more.)

No, this story is about the birds.

Grackle and Starling sing-a-thon

THE BIRDS.

I arrived a bit early and was killing some time before check-in when I heard a cypress tree. 

Yep, “heard” it loud and clear.

The dense, wind-sculpted bushy conifer planted near the hostel’s motel-like entrance, completely overshadowed in importance by the pure white, enormous lance of the lighthouse in the background, emitted such loud but intricate, piercing melodies that I was caught in the spider silk of what had to be hundreds of hidden birds singing.

(Well. Maybe not hundreds, but they sure SOUNDED like hundreds.)

I couldn’t see the birds at all. Curiosity piqued, I was tempted to give the tree a whack and see what flew out.

I restrained myself and sat on a nearby bench. I spent ten minutes with my eyes closed, sound-bathing in birdsong and wondering about the musicians.

At the check-in counter of the Pigeon Point Hostel I asked, “What kind of birds are those, going at it in the tree outside? They sound amazing!”

“Oh, those are grackles and starlings,” the dreadlocked young woman replied. “They’re kind of a pest because they’re so loud. They hang out in that tree all the time.”

Familiarity breeds contempt as the saying goes, because to me the singing was wild, mesmerizing, uncanny even.

I spotted one of the starlings as I was bringing my bag inside. The bird, a little larger than a common blackbird, stood on the corner of the building. It faced the song tree as if addressing its hidden friends, warbling unabashedly. Dark, covered with white flecks like snowflakes fallen on coal, iridescence shimmered over its wings and throat. Its breast inflated mightily, and the feathers of its throat stood out like a ruff, vibrating with the power of its song.

The starling was altogether charming, though I’d heard people complain of how invasive and vicious to other birds the species could be.

A few minutes later, a grackle emerged from the depths of the cypress. Larger than the starling, about the size of a pigeon, it clung to the edge of the branches, and sang loudly in the direction of the other bird. It’s voice was harsher, and the notes were lower and distinct; the effect was that of a cello addressing a violin. 

Of pigeon-like proportions, jet black but gilded on the wings and throat in turquoise and purple shimmer, this bird with an ugly name was a showstopper. The two engaged in an aggressive and heartfelt sing-off.

A few minutes later at some mysterious signal, the whole flock took wing—spotted starlings swirling into the blue, cloudless sky along with the showy, iridescent grackles, the lot of them singing an avian opera. 

When they’d gone, the wind, filled with the simpler sound of the surf beating on the rocks below the lighthouse, was full of holes.

The next day, after a pleasant morning of teaching and talking about writing, during a break I went back to sit on the “bird bench” near the cypress tree. 

Sure enough, my feathered friends were deep in their impenetrable cover, weaving their intricate tunes. Sitting on the weathered wood bench, surrounded by drought-struck flowers in the lee of the mighty lighthouse and just left of the song tree, I shut my eyes and tuned into my senses.

Smell of dust and sea and geraniums. Feel of salty wind on my skin and sun warm on my hair; hands gripping the splintery wood of the bench. Unearthly sound wrapping around me, tones and chirps so rapid and foreign as to be a clearly spoken language that I felt on the cusp of understanding. 

The birds must be communicating some important commentary, so intricate, trilling, and filled with furbelows was their speech; the notes had a piercing quality, taking over my imagination, almost hypnotic.

I opened my eyes at the intruding noise of approaching humans: a man, woman, a couple of kids. The children were excited and speaking in a tongue I did not recognize, filled with twitters and glottal stops.

It occurred to me then that this was no great discourse—for the people, or for the birds. 

Perhaps the birds were engaged in observation, gossip, a simple excitement about what a balmy day it was: hello! Did you see the way the flag was flapping against the blue, blue sky? Maybe those humans will picnic over in that sandy area with the table and drop some crumbs, and just for today, life will be easy.

And for the family, the same.

“What do you think of the lighthouse? I love lighthouses! They say it has 500,000 bricks. Too bad it’s not fixed from that bad winter and we can’t go inside. Should we eat over in that sandy area…? There’s a table, but there’s no shade, and lunch isn’t for another hour. Let’s drive on and find somewhere with a jungle gym.”

The grackles and starlings would have to hope for crumbs from someone else. Perhaps the lady with the pen and pencil sitting on the bench would drop something...

And so I did, crunching up a handful of chips and sprinkling them around—because everyone deserves a reward for a song well sung.

If you ever have a chance to drive Highway 1 between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, you’ll pass Pigeon Point Light along the way. I highly recommend a stop to explore the stunning headland, maybe stay in the hostel (which has a hot tub overlooking the sea, especially wonderful at night!) And if you have time, walk the cliffs and coves, watch the ocean, and breathe the sea air.

At some point, be sure to pause by the cypress near the hostel’s entrance to listen to the flock of birds there, will you? I promise it’s as riveting as anything played in Carnegie Hall.