penguin

One day we follow the windy edge of ultramarine waters of Estrecho de Magallanes near Punta Arenas in Chile and come upon a King penguin grooming his black tail feathers on a narrow beach. A large bird of the sea, alone, not reproducing in some huge clamoring colony of other Kings on a windswept sub-Antarctic island? What is he doing here?

Calmly, with cars swooshing by on a nearby road and a chorus of village mongrels over the hill making themselves known to other dogs, he is cleaning and smoothing his feathers to keep them fluffy and his body warm. Perhaps he lost his mate and, unable to breed this year, went on a swimabout? Or maybe he entered the Strait of Magellan because it still harbors enough fish, so depleted elsewhere by overfishing? There is a hidden story about his solo presence here but we are not sure what it means.

John vaults over a sea wall and slowly approaches the bird. The King, hard-wired for not fearing land predators since they do not look like leopard seals or killer whales, is undisturbed and relaxed. He does all the familiar things we observed while watching his kin on South Georgia Island. He scratches his head. Checks both long flippers with his bill. Grooms his chest feathers. Rests on his heels, with black toes gently upturned.

And then he quietly settles among beautiful round rocks of the beach and simply falls asleep. John stretches alongside the bird and admires his fine feathers, black, silver and white. He studies tangerine hues of the bold swoosh marking the small head and the lemony yellow bib on the chest. And it is all unpredictable and lovely.

©Yva Momatiuk