CATEGORY: SAILING
PHOTO: THE TOWEEA TOWEEA BIRD

In the late afternoons, when we were sailing, we always anchored near land or, rarely, tied up to a dock.  On long summer evenings, especially in the northern part of our watery ramblings, we were serenaded by birds that could only be heard and not seen.  Because of this lack of visual verification, I had no idea what they were so I named them the Toweea Toweea birds, because of the sound they made—although it wasn’t just two twoeeas; it was actually toweea, toweea toweea toweee-e-e from each bird.  In contra distinction to my other favorite bird song, that of the canyon wren who’s call started high and went down the scale, this bird started low and went up.  If it had been just one, it would still have been impressive, but there were seemingly hundreds and they were all singing vespers at once.   The result was toweea, toweea toweea toweee, toweea towee, toweea toweea weea, weea, weea weea weea weea toweea, up and on up endlessly.  

Once when we were out walking in the late afternoon, I caught a glimpse of a secretive bird back in a tangle of brush.  I stood still for a long time until it moved to where I could see it clearly.  Then I went back to the boat and looked it up (I always had a bird book with me).  It was a Swainsons Thrush.  But even though I now know the name of this bird, I still call it the Toweea Toweea bird, since it seems more fitting.  Who was Swainson anyway?