Sometimes it's best to sit back and let the tide come in

It looked like an unexpected rescue job — an injured bird. The tide was out in Gray's Harbor at Ocean Shores. A chance to search for secrets from the sea. The day before on a beach edging open ocean there'd been a massive tangle of thick weathered rope covered in barnacles and sea foam. If only it could tell its story.

This morning was gray. Gray sky. Gray mudflats. Gray water waiting to seep back in and cover the rippling mud. Lacing up hiking boots I set out along the small secluded beach adjacent to my sister-in-law's home on the harbor.

Had the bird stayed still I might have passed it by. But I was too big and scary for it. The loon hiding in the driftwood — feathers dulled for winter — lunged clumsily for the open dark sand. Gray on gray. Exposed and defenseless. I thought its wing was broken.

My love for loons goes back to Alaska where these unusual birds are paired on every lake — where loons calling across the water sound in dreams. I wasn't about to let an eagle or a dog seek it out while it was alone and calling for help. Staying near I kept watch for predators.

I hollered up to my sister-in-law to phone the local animal rescue. Voices came from the wooden steps leading to the beach — a family bringing their dogs for a run. I warned them against letting their pets loose and they listened.

Ideas flew among us for how to best save the loon. The activity disturbed the bird, and it again tried to drag itself farther out on the mudflats. My sister-in-law found a cardboard box. The woman with the dogs phoned a knowledgeable someone who said to throw a towel over it before placing it in the box.

I worried the box was too small. The woman offered to drive to Dollar General and buy a larger basket. She was gone a long time and the tide crept closer. I thought the injured loon might drown. Reluctantly I gathered the too-tight box and the towel, ready to walk out to the stranded bird.

But then something happened. The loon saw the tide within reach. It heaved itself awkwardly, flopping toward the water. Its struggle was painful to watch. Farther and farther it plunged into the saltwater until I could see it was afloat. After a few moments it stretched and flapped its wings. They seemed to work perfectly.

And waiting at a distance was a second loon. All along the “injured” bird hadn't been alone. The pair floated around like they owned their sea kingdom, at home and graceful, feeding contentedly.

The woman arrived with her basket too late. Thank God. Because we had been about to rescue a creature who did not need rescuing. Possibly injuring it in the process.

I thought I knew loon behavior — that their legs are set too far back on their body to walk on land — but somewhere along the line I lost track of the fact that heavily bodied loons cannot lift in flight from soil. They pick up speed on a long watery “runway.” I assumed the bird was injured because it didn't fly from me. This one knew it'd be fine when the water came close enough. It just had to wait — and I just had to give it space.

Doesn't this happen? This wanting to come to the rescue — be it animals or people or situations. Not for hero status — but from misunderstanding the need for rescue. Sometimes it's best to stand back and wait for the tide to come in.