I went fishing yesterday. I started out trying to wade fish like I
usually do, but it became apparent rather quickly that was not going to
work. I texted Chris that I was headed out
west to look for a canal on the bay to fish from. She answered rather quickly, “Figured it
would be rough. There’s a storm in the
Gulf!” OK. Thanks for that. She was right, you know.
I ended up in Jamaica Beach near the boat
ramp. Everything was typically quiet, so
I settled in for some expected hardheads and maybe a few croakers. After a while, I happened to glance behind
me. There, standing on one of the little
piers, was a heron. It was kind of a
bluish gray color. Very pretty and
surprisingly close, so I stopped and, moving oh, so carefully, took a
picture.
So, done with my nature appreciation for
the day, I went back to fishing. I soon
had a strange feeling, though. You know
the kind you get when it feels like someone is watching you? Slowly I turned to my right. And there he stood. The heron was within 4 or 5 feet of me. Standing right there on the bulkhead with
me. He didn’t move much. He just watched me fish, looking at me out of
one big old eye. Unnerving, to say the
least. Those “little birdies” are huge
animals. I welcomed him and carried on a
brief, one-sided conversation with him until I was distracted by a tug on the
line, so I focused on reeling in my latest catch. There was a school of sand trout out there. And like most of my catch up to that point,
this one was no exception. I removed the
hook and glanced at my buddy. He had
inched even closer, wanting to celebrate with me, I’m sure. I appreciated his company, so I decided to
share the wealth a bit. I tossed him the
fish.
Instantly he sprang into action. His wings spread out and flapped menacingly. His head reared back like a peacock in full
pose. He jumped from where he was
standing toward the flopping fish, now just about a foot away from me. He missed on the first stab. Yes, stab.
He wasn’t trying to pick it up.
That beak of his was now a lethal weapon. He took more careful aim the second time and
lunged forward with the knife that was his nose. Strike.
The fish was impaled on the beak.
Victorious, the wings folded back in.
He calmly strolled to the other end of the bulkhead and enjoyed his
meal. Frightening, that beak.
And I thought that was that. But he came back, just ambling along the
bulkhead at a casual pace. No
hurries. I grabbed my phone and videoed
his approach. He stopped at his usual
spot next to me and took up his vigil again.
I asked if he enjoyed the whole fish I gave him last time. Didn’t want to encourage wastefulness, you
know. No answer, just that silent stare. I soon caught another small sand trout. This time I got the phone camera ready and
rolling before I tossed it his way. He
was smoother this time. Not quite the
urgency as before. Guess he wasn’t quite
as hungry. And he didn’t stab. This time he just picked it up. The familiar ambling departure was still
there, though.
We sent a copy of the video to Josh, since
he has a history with herons. Kind of a
love-hate relationship. They love to
land on his head. He hates to be within
a mile of them. Yes, that’s another
story. Very funny one, too. He showed the video to Caleb who remarked, “That
goose ate the fish!” I think he was a
little closer to avian accuracy than Cailyn.
She said it was a pigeon.
Goose. Pigeon. Whoever it was, he was a fine fishing buddy.
Psalms 25:8-9 says, “Good and upright is the Lord; therefore he instructs sinners in his
ways. He guides the humble in what is
right and teaches them his way.”
Father, thank you for that close encounter
with one of your creatures. Beautiful
work. Amen.
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