Beak and Bill

Beak and Bill sat on the end of a dock at Lake Padden. The morning was cool, and a light fog drifted across the surface of the water.

The two met every morning during fishing season and sometimes out of season. It was not only a place to catch fish and banter the latest gossip, but it was also a place to sit quietly to let one’s mind drift before the busyness of the day began.

Both fishermen were very good at their craft, and it could be said that there was a fair amount of competition between the two.

“Slow morning today,” said Bill, watching the tip of his pole and his bobber for any sign of a nibble.

“Yeah. I don’t know. It could be because the water it too warm. They’re staying on the bottom,” Beak remarked. “What did you bring to eat today?”

Bill walked over to his cooler and looked inside.

“Well, it looks like the wife packed me a tuna sandwich, some chips, a package of Oreos, and a soda. Oh, and would you like a pickle?”

“Well, the tuna sounds better, but I’ll take a pickle. Want a frog?” Beak asked.

Nobody ever thought it odd to see Bill the man and Beak the immature Blue Heron standing at the end of the same dock day after day. They were, people supposed, just fishing buddies who liked to be left alone. Try to join them and Bill would stare out at the lake non-communicative. Beak would spread his long wings and fly out to a submerged log in the lily pads. These two were a non-social bunch.

As it turned out, Beak and Bill were close to the same age in their respective species years. Neither was extremely physically fit, as a matter of fact, exercise was the last thing that would cross their minds.

A canvasback duck shot over their heads and landed on the surface of the lake about 50 yards away.

“Wow, did you see that? That duck was moving!” Bill said.

“You know,” said Beak, eyeing the canvasback, “flying at 72 miles per hour is overrated. I can really enjoy the scenery more at 25. By the way, did you hear that Norman was shot yesterday?”

“Norman?”

“The three-point buck,” Beak clarified.

“Did a dumb-dumb hit him?” Bill asked.

“Well, that’s a little harsh,” said Beak, “but I’m sure he wasn’t the brightest hunter in the woods.”

Beak stood upright, arched his back, and stretched out his wings. He was about 53 inches from his feet to the top of his head and his wings spread 75 inches tip to tip. He let out a loud warble.

“Rough night at the rookery?” Bill asked.

“It’s a madhouse. The wife and I built the standard HOA approved nest. The same  basic style as the rest of the families. Do you think the HOA would allow for the larger eagle nests? No! It just ticks me off. We’ve got this little thing, barely big enough for the wife and three kids. I’ve got to find an empty nest somewhere else to sleep each night.”

“My whole life consists of eating enough fish and frogs each day so I can go home and regurgitate and feed the kids. Say, if you aren’t going to eat that tuna sandwich, toss it over here.”

“Sheesh buddy, I didn’t know your homelife situation. Here, have the sandwich and my bottle of salmon eggs.”

Bill carried them over and laid them on the dock next to the bird.

“Thanks. Could you take off the plastic wrap?” Beak asked.

Bill walked back and sat on the bench. He began singing a song he had obviously made up. It had a Country melody. It started out softly . . .

“I’ve got Heron my legs and Heron my chest, but I’ve got no Heron my head.”

He repeated this three times, each time a little louder until Beak let out a loud warble, “Listen funny boy, do you think that’s the first time I’ve heard that? Cripes, everybody’s a comedian these days.”

“You got any Tylenol in that lunch box? My head is killing me. I think I got a bad frog.”

“Hold on.” Bill rummaged through the cooler, found the bottle, and put two in his hand. He walked over to Beak with the pills.

“Really?” Beak asked sarcastically. “Put them on the dock. If I strike those things out of your hand, my beak will go right through your palm.”

Bill laid them on the dock surface and Beak pecked them off. Then dipping his bill into the lake, he took up some water and swallowed them. He shook his head rapidly.

“I’ve always had a problem with pills,” he said.

Just then Bill’s bobber disappeared under the surface and the tip of his pole began shaking viciously.

“Hey, hey, you’ve got a big one!” Beak shouted.

Bill ran to the pole and picked it up. The tip bowed to the water’s surface.

“It’s a monster,” he yelled.

“Keep the line taught! Reel it in slow. Don’t horse it.!” Beak coached.

“I have caught a fish before. This isn’t my first circus, you know.”

“Loosen the drag! It’s going to break your line.”

“I’ve got to reach my net.” Bill gasped. This was obviously more exercise than he had done in a long time. “I can almost see it at the surface.”

“Don’t worry buddy. I am the net. Just get it close to the dock.”

Bill battled the fish for a minute more and as it tired, the fish surfaced, and he pulled it closer to the dock.

“Closer, closer, almost . . .”

Suddenly Beak’s head and neck shot forward like an arrow, his beak spearing the flopping fish. He pulled his head back and landed the fish on the dock.

“Get the hook out, man. Remove the hook.” Beak mumbled through his closed beak.

Bill grabbed the hook and pulled it free from the flapping fish.

“I’ve got to get a picture of this. It’s got to be a record for Lake Padden. Hold it while I get my phone out of the cooler.

“You got it buddy,” said Beak .

As Bill searched frantically through the cooler for his phone, Beak lifted the mighty fish high into the air, opened his beak wide and slid the fish into his throat.

Bill, finding the phone, spun around to see his trophy fish slowly sliding down the long neck of the Heron.

“I’ve got Heron my legs and Heron my chest, but I am the Heron, and I got the fish. See you tomorrow, Bill. The family says thanks.

With that, he spread his wide wings and took to the air . . . at only 25 mph of course. He did like to enjoy the scenery.

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