The Swan

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh: the giant wings swooped down towards our roof before we could

even see the downy creature who was about to interrupt our early morning routine. Hiram sat

sipping his coffee, the kids were making their lunches for their workday at the landscapers (best

summer job for teens on the island, with flexible hours and great pay), and I was trying to beat

my own high score in my daily online word game.

The small distraction of this daily mental challenge is one of many strategies I’ve adopted to

deal with a sense of overwhelm: just a few minutes not to think about impending financial

disaster, global warming, and the fragility of mental health for today’s youth. Just to name a few.

I barely have time to think about my phobia of birds, but it’s always lurking there in the

background, pending the latest story about an owl sighting in the woods, some unwary runner

with a ponytail being mistaken for prey.

Thump.

“Oh geez, was that a heron?” Hiram exclaimed. The stately blue-grey seabirds, with their harsh

cries and pterodactyl-like appearance, are a not-uncommon feature in the skies above our Gulf

Island home. “It must have hit the chimney or something. I’d better check the yard.”

Sure enough, something was sitting a few feet away from our front door. But it wasn’t a heron.

“Oh-my-god-it’s-the-effin-swan,” Hiram’s words belied his level tone. Not fear, but simple

amazement, his standard response to each of life’s unexpected challenges: equanimity, so

different from my fight-or-flight responses. “OK, let’s stay calm here. Let’s hope it’s not injured.”

The winged denizens of our island--and I view them all with fear and trepidation--include many

herons, ravens, eagles, hawks, robins, jays, and even ring-necked doves: but only one swan. It

lives in the lagoon, which a crumbling causeway separates from the open ocean, a solitary local

representative of its species. Surrounded by merganzers, mallards, and branta canadensis, it

keeps to the water except for occasional forays onto the pedestrian pathway, where it once

attacked my mother as she made her way down to the ferry with a wheeled suitcase. This

stately bird (the same one? note to self, look up how long mute swans live--two or three

decades?!) has been swanning around these waters for at least as long as I’ve lived here, over

twenty years.

It had never been known it to fly, as far as I knew.

Yet fly it had. If only for a few minutes--if that! Had it mistaken our tin roof for a small body of

water, touching down for a quick dip or snack? It seemed unlikely, but who can know the

thoughts of a swan?

Not knowing its gender (how do you sex a swan? things I’m not going to google), Hiram

nonetheless decided to call it Prince Philip. “I’ve got to call it something,” he argued. I can’t just

say, ‘Hey, you!’ to a swan.”

So Prince Philip just sat there, ruffling his feathers and looking about him in what appeared to

be a somewhat confused manner. He seemed highly offended, if his steely eyes and stern

expression were any indication.

“The kids are going to need to get past him to go to work,” I pointed out.

Several animal rescue hotlines were called, none of which opened before 9 AM.

Hiram ventured out onto the front porch. “Morning, Philip,” he said.

Prince Philip looked angry, though he still did not move.

“Hmm,” Hiram mused.

“Known to be aggressive,” I warned.

“Yup.”

Hiram grabbed a large, colourful beach towel from the bathroom and headed out the door.

The swan’s long, white neck stretched above and beyond Hiram’s waist level. Its body was a

beached torpedo of snow-hued feathers, surmounting knobbly pedestal-like legs. A huge and

ominous bird! I was channeling Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” and feeling as if I had a front-

row seat at my own worst nightmare.

Hiram flapped the edges of the towel like giant wings and walked slowly towards the swan. You

could almost read the expression in Prince Philip’s eyes: “What the actual…?”

The bird struggled to its feet and took a few tentative steps away from Hiram.

“Should you consider putting on different shorts?” I suggested. Hiram was in his “nude

gardening” shorts, which were so badly ripped they left nothing to the imagination. “I mean, if

you plan to leave the property. Or if the swan attacks you.”

“No time,” insisted Hiram. “I’ll be fine.”

Down the driveway they went, Prince Philip in the lead, Hiram following as if part of ceremonial

retinue. A neighbour joined him on the road, and I watched the three of them make their way

towards the lagoon, garnering a few looks of wild surmise from early morning commuters

making their way down the road, across the causeway.

Once, just once, the swan tried to take off--but hit the power lines and was down again.

Eventually, Prince Philip waddled down to the lagoon and swam away as if nothing had

happened.

A week later, the swan was back in our yard.

“Towel time,” announced Hiram. “Come on kids. It’s Saturday. You can give me a hand.”

* * *

So here I sit, trying to beat my high score at my word game, drinking my coffee and hoping

Prince Philip makes it back to the lagoon without incident.

Really, you can get used to almost anything.

I am a writer living on Bowen Island, off Canada's West Coast; my recent work has been published in such venues as DarkWinter Literary Magazine, Blank Spaces, and Dreamers Creative Writing. My work fuses elements of memoir and fiction; the attached piece is based on lived experience, and chronicles the very surprising arrival of a swan in my front yard this summer.  Good luck with the Human Narrative project!