Birdmen of Alcatraz

I knew the moment that seagull crapped on my father, we were in for a long day.

So, maybe the fact that the Spanish referred to San Franciscos Alcatraz Island as Pelican Island should have been our first clue. Because where pelicans fly, seagulls are sure to follow. And truth be told, had I seen it coming, I would have tried to stop it. Add to this, the witnesses (there were many), all of which only made the situation far more traumatic. This is why, when my father and I decided to tour the historic island, choosing not to heed the warning signs we had been given, we had no one to blame but ourselves.

Now allow me, if you will, to further preface the rest of this story by saying that to imply my father was vain would be a gross understatement. Its true! Carly Simon could have created no less than three full-length records, wailing about his hair alone. His hair, his posture, his walk, his stance, his clothes, his entire image, all meticulously groomed and prearranged for maximum presentation. Overall-appearance was important to my father. Although he would never admit it, how he was perceived physically ranked tops on the priority scale for him, in particular, his hair. What had once been a dense cropping of dark, wavy locks in his younger years had now been reduced to a sparse, meager few remains of a dozen or so filaments. Filaments which he attended to with the utmost of care and nurturing, as he was determined to keep these last dozen or so holdouts in check. How was he to accomplish this? By squirting enough hairspray on his scalp each morning after showering to weld steel. It was the equivalent of using spray on cement. When he had finished preparing for the day, his few hairsthose few precious hairswere able to withstand a category-5 hurricane without budging. It was his attempt to save his personal Amazon Rainforest atop his scalp.

Anyway, back to Alcatraz, and oh yes, the seagullsthose damn seagulls. As I mentioned, my father and I visited there some time ago. We ferried over from the mainland of San Francisco with about 40 or so other passengers eager to visit the prison and walk the grounds, attempting to squeeze in all the touristy things we could while in the city. Once on the island, we were led from the dock toward the Visitors Center, for a quick orientation and our list of Dos and Donts from one of the Park employees. We gathered en mass outside in the staging area, my father and I nudging our way to the front of the crowd for an acoustical advantage.

As the Ranger began speaking from under the safety of the buildings awning, I glanced up and spotted three seagulls perched on the building overhang, about 35 feet above. They sat still and quiet, looking down as if eavesdropping on the conversation below.

Now its important to note that the seagull is a relatively large bird, as winged creatures go. They have a large wingspan and a healthy size beak, which is perfect for the rather sizeable portions of food they consume, feeding on fish, bread, popcorn, discarded food, and anything else they might find edible. Pure scavengers are the seagulls. All of this resulting in, of course, liberal-size droppings.

so be careful. They care not where they relieve themselves, the Ranger chuckled.

What? I wasnt listening, who doesnt care where they relieve themselves?

The Rangers words still hung in the air, when one the seagulls sprang from the ledge, taking to flight. And down it flowed, a waterfall of winged excrement. Down, as if in slow motion. 20 feet10 feetBulls Eyesquarely atop my fathers head! To make matters worse, the hard-shelled coating of hairspray created a slide effect. The poop skidded like a smooth stone traveling over an ice-covered pond, continuing downward, leaving a trail of bird residue nearly a foot down his back. (I dont know why many birds choose to do their business in mid-flight. All other animals I know of, including humans, prefer to remain stationary. Maybe its to further enhance the hit and run effect. Whatever the reason, their aim is unparalleled in the animal kingdom.)

Knowing how proud a man my father was, and sensing his tremendous embarrassment, or perhaps in spite of it, I was unable to contain my amusement. I was not alone. Neither could the other 40-plus souls in the crowd, as laughter and guffawing reverberated throughout. I could see the back of my fathers neck, that which was not covered in gull crap, turning a bright, fiery red, as he stood rigid with shock and humiliation.

As an added insult to his injury, the Park Ranger looked my dad in the eyes, smiled calmly and said, Heads up there, Sir. Obviously, the Ranger had seen this happen before. And after this comment, my father was inconsolable.

He grabbed my arm tightly, moving close in an attempt to shield himself from the laughing eyes of the crowd (misery do love company, ya know?), his teeth clenched, a steely look in his eyes as we shuffled off to the public restrooms, where we could escape the crowd to clean up and waitand waitand wait. Not until my father was certain our ferry crowd had gone on with the tour were we to leave. His reasoning? This would enable us to blend in with a new boatload of visitors who were unaware of his recent humiliation.

After nearly 45-minutes had elapsed in the bathroom, I had had enough. I was not going to spend my day hiding out in the malodorous public toilet of Alcatraz Island, scraping seagull crap off my fathers paisley sports shirt.