Dan's Papers - May 1, 2009

The fastest way for me to get to work in Bridgehampton from my home in Springs is to drive down Three Mile Harbor Road to Cedar Street, turn right, and then proceed through various back roads to wind up back on the Montauk Highway in Wainscott. It's not any shorter in miles. But it is shorter in time. If I take the other route, which is to go down Three Mile Harbor Road straight into town with a turn right at Town Pond to Wainscott, there are four traffic lights. And there are occasional tie-ups.

These days, however, I am going to Bridgehampton right through town. And the reason is because of an ongoing soap opera that is underway every day at the right turn at Town Pond. I have met a number of people in Springs who are doing the same thing this year. It is quite something.

The stars of this soap opera are two, beautiful, white, mute swans. The supporting cast includes ducks, turtles, children, adults, cars, sea gulls and an occasional goose.

Early this spring, for the second year in a row, the male swan, with the help of his mate, has built an enormous stick and twig nest for her in the shallow water of the southwestern corner of the pond. It is about 10 feet around and about four feet thick. It is within five feet of the shore. Around March first, the female (called a "pen") climbed up onto the nest, laid her eggs and then got on top of them to keep them warm. She will sit up there night and day, week after week and month after month until they hatch in June. She is happily up there today, just a few dozen yards from the Montauk Highway, and less than 10 yards from James Lane, the road that goes behind the pond.

As for the male, the cob, he swims around the nest and he's angry this time of year. He will stay angry until the chicks hatch, and then he will remain angry for a week or two after that. People say, "Isn't that cute? The swan is angry at everybody." But it's no joke. Get too close and you will get pecked. You will get pecked again until you run away. And there is no insurance company that I know that will cover you for injuries suffered from being pecked by a swan you got too close to.

A sign has been put up. PLEASE MAINTAIN A SAFE DISTANCE FROM THE SWANS. THANK YOU, it says. The cob, with his shifty little yellow eyes, runs a tight ship. He has set up an invisible perimeter around the nest. Either you'll figure it out or he'll do it for you.

If the pen is totally focused on staying up there keeping her eggs warm day after day, the cob, dealing with his anger, is not as focused. His concerns include not only protecting her and the eggs and the nest itself, but also gathering food for her. He will take food to her (I haven't actually seen this) and he'll give whatever it is to her beak to beak when it seems safe. What a guy.

The marvelous thing about all of this is just how they have come to exhibit this behavior. They have little tiny heads with little tiny brains in them. People will tell you they are being controlled by their instincts. I think it is more than that. If humans can miniaturize a computer chip to the size of a pin-head, certainly God can give a swan a pin-head brain with great intelligence.

The soap opera is whatever is going on down there that day. I wake up in the morning, get dressed and eagerly get in my car. Traffic could be terrible on Three Mile Harbor Road. I could take the shortcut. But I don't. I've got to see what's going on at Town Pond

She's always up there on the nest. He's all over the place. One day as I drove by he was sitting almost motionless in the center of the pond with his head and neck underwater. Shopping, is what I decided.

Another time, I went by and he was in a really, really bad mood. The ducks and geese that normally swim anywhere they want were conspicuously down at the far end of the pond, giving him a wide berth. He was swimming with his feathers and wings fluffed out, looking twice his usual size.

The next day, a mallard duck was climbing up one side of the nest to see what was what, and it seemed to be just fine with the cob.

And the day after that, the cob was right on the centerline of James Lane, pecking at the tires of a Lincoln Navigator. He not only pecks, he also throws himself at the tires. And he flutters his wings - the span is nearly five feet - and he hops up and down. The driver of the Navigator, a woman, looked out at him in terror and then hastily rolled up the window. She was in quite a state. She was going five miles an hour, fearful of running over the cob. And at the same time, she was terrified of the bird and he knew it. Sometimes he could leap high enough to look in. There she was.

I've seen the cob attack a pick-up truck with a big burly guy with a beard at the wheel, a Ford Mustang with the top down being driven by a guy with sunglasses and a 1967 Caddy being driven by an old man with a white sun hat. They all cross the cob's path slowly - from his perspective I think it's that he's almost got 'em - and then when they think they are clear they pick up speed and drive off.

One day I watched him attack a Hummer. A great meal is what I imagined him thinking. And while he was attacking the Hummer, a Toyota Previa, on its silent electric motor, snuck around the battle scene unscathed. Another day I watched him chase away a man on a bicycle. He pedaled and pedaled as fast as he could.

Whether this is swan instinct or intelligence or just devotion I do not know, but the truth is that he is in every case successful. His mate is up there and so far nobody has gotten her.

I have also driven by and seen him lollygagging a bit. Once I saw him on the grass at the far end of the pond, 50 yards away from her, asleep. Another time, also at the far end of the pond, he allowed himself to be happily distracted by a little boy throwing breadcrumbs in the water. Peck gobble gobble, peck gobble gobble. He alone was doing the chow down. At either time, something could swoop in and, well...

Someday soon, probably in mid-June, the female will proudly hatch five or six eggs and present furry little grey chicks to their dad. Won't that be the day?

After that, they will swim around the pond in a family column, the white drake in the front, the six chicklets in the middle and the white female bringing up the rear. This flotilla will search for food, break up for individual activity from time to time, and then reassemble quickly if something untoward makes its presence.

I'm at home now. It's evening. Tomorrow there will be another adventure at Town Pond, and I eagerly look forward to it.