Genovesa Island
Our last day in the islands. My last day for a while as well, but I’ll definitely be back. I am aware of how fortunate I am, in that I can say this. Today on Genovesa Island brought this message home to me loud and clear. The sky was blue with wisps of clouds and frigates and boobies peppered the air. Red gular pouches bounced below frigate throats as they wheeled and free-dived and soared in the thermals. Most displaying males have chosen a favorite bush by now, with occasionally several males sharing a few square feet. Fierce competition for the female frigates flying overhead caused frenzied warbling and shimmying down below. Whenever a cocked feminine head or beady eye turned in their direction, no matter how far above, the reaction was immediate.
Nazca boobies are more advanced than the great frigatebirds in their reproductive cycle. A young hatchling of hours or a day old, sleeps in preparation of the fight for survival which will be his in just a few months.
Genovesa is an island that requires all of our senses. The hollow hooting of male frigates intermixes with the clicks and rattles of the swallow-tailed gulls as they meet and greet their mates or chicks. A juvenile frigate whines earnestly to gain the sympathy of its parent nearby. A lava gull sounds off the alarm to another in their inimitable style, scarlet mouths open, ending in a faded hiccup and upward beak tilt. The smell of bird guano occasionally wafts in on the breeze, or is it that musty odor of petrel feathers? Salt on my tongue from the 82-degree water I have just lolled about in, face to the sky to absorb the warmth of the sun (for a short moment). I have to place my feet down gingerly at the water’s edge, to cross over the band of accumulated coral and shells fragments left by the receding tide. I put my hand down on a warm block of lava to feel the depth of age and endurance of this island.
Our last day in the islands. My last day for a while as well, but I’ll definitely be back. I am aware of how fortunate I am, in that I can say this. Today on Genovesa Island brought this message home to me loud and clear. The sky was blue with wisps of clouds and frigates and boobies peppered the air. Red gular pouches bounced below frigate throats as they wheeled and free-dived and soared in the thermals. Most displaying males have chosen a favorite bush by now, with occasionally several males sharing a few square feet. Fierce competition for the female frigates flying overhead caused frenzied warbling and shimmying down below. Whenever a cocked feminine head or beady eye turned in their direction, no matter how far above, the reaction was immediate.
Nazca boobies are more advanced than the great frigatebirds in their reproductive cycle. A young hatchling of hours or a day old, sleeps in preparation of the fight for survival which will be his in just a few months.
Genovesa is an island that requires all of our senses. The hollow hooting of male frigates intermixes with the clicks and rattles of the swallow-tailed gulls as they meet and greet their mates or chicks. A juvenile frigate whines earnestly to gain the sympathy of its parent nearby. A lava gull sounds off the alarm to another in their inimitable style, scarlet mouths open, ending in a faded hiccup and upward beak tilt. The smell of bird guano occasionally wafts in on the breeze, or is it that musty odor of petrel feathers? Salt on my tongue from the 82-degree water I have just lolled about in, face to the sky to absorb the warmth of the sun (for a short moment). I have to place my feet down gingerly at the water’s edge, to cross over the band of accumulated coral and shells fragments left by the receding tide. I put my hand down on a warm block of lava to feel the depth of age and endurance of this island.
