When Poopy cracked open the shell of his egg and pushed his wet
little head full of sticky feathers out into the morning, the first thing he noticed
wasn't the bright light of the Mediterranean summer sun, but the salty ocean breeze that blew though the branches of the olive tree his mother had
built their nest in. He took a deep breath and filled his tiny lungs with
storm, his heart pounding, then he tore open his eyes and there it was: the
world. Blue sky. Blue water. A touch of gray and dark green. He was raised by
the sea.
From the nests in the trees around him he heard the occasional cheeping
of other youngsters, but two weeks went by before his mother let him out of the
nest to go play with his friends. They couldn’t wait to fly down to the harbor, steal breadcrumbs from the tables of the boardwalk cafés and take a look at the mighty tall ships.
I met Poopy the bird sailor on the aft deck of the
legendary Sea Cloud, half way between Mallorca and Ibiza. He was sitting in the
rigging, chirping and chatting, watching the
windjammer's crew set sails and tweeted his bird commands at them. Then he
looked at me. A bold and curious look. He squinted his eyes, fluffed up his
feathers, and flew over. And then we were friends.
