Chapter 4

When I opened my eyes the next morning and saw the fresh South Carolina sunshine washing over my walls, I threw my covers off so hard they fell onto the floor. Today was a new day, which meant there were new birds to help. I pulled on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and washed my face in cold water until my cheeks glowed.

In the kitchen, I found Mom making eggs and sausage. She set the steaming plateful in front of me. “I’m glad you’re up,” she said. “I heard from Chris Hauser early this morning. The Department of Wildlife and Fisheries is sending about fifty volunteers, all trained in oiled-bird rehabilitation. And we’ll be accepting vans of birds all day. The sanctuary will be full by the end of the day, so we’re all going to need our strength.”

“Are we going to be taking in any of the birds permanently?” I pulled a stack of toast toward me and slathered butter on the first two slices.

Mom shook her head. “We’re full. They’ll either be released or sent to another facility further up the coast.”

“Got it.” I scarfed down the eggs and sausage, slammed a glass of milk, and was down the steps with my toast before Mom had even sat down.

Olivia must have eaten faster than I had, because she was already waiting at the entrance to the tent when I arrived. Her face was excited. “Pellie ate three fish!” she called as soon as she saw me.

“Yes!” I cheered, peering into his pen. He sat in the same position as the day before, looking miserable. But he was alive, and he’d eaten. That was something.

“And he had some water, so Abby says he’s strong enough to be washed,” Olivia said.

“How long have you been down here?” I asked, following her into the tent.

“Since dawn,” she answered over her shoulder. “That’s when they showed up too.”

“Who’s th—” I started to ask. But then I stopped in astonishment.

The tent was buzzing with activity. At least fifty people in matching blue T-shirts were filling tubs with water—some soapy, some clean—laying out brushes and swabs, and organizing stacks of towels.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Olivia asked happily.

“The trained volunteers!” I said. “Yes! This is exactly what we need!”

“Are you girls the resident experts?” someone asked behind us.

I turned around. A no-nonsense looking woman stood behind us, holding an oiled pelican in her arms. Her hair was cut short, and her arms and hands looked strong and tanned.

“I don’t know if we’re experts, but we live here,” I said. “I’m Elsa, and this is Olivia. Can we help?”

“Just what I was going to ask,” the woman said, leading us over to one of the soapy tubs. “I want to show you girls how to wash the birds, so you can do the next one on your own. I’m Katie, by the way. I’m heading up the group of volunteers sent over by the Department of Wildlife and Fisheries.”

“Are you a volunteer too?” I asked.

Katie nodded. “I am,” she said. “I’ve been specially trained in cleaning oiled birds and other animals. My husband and I kayak year-round, so I’ve seen the devastation that oil spills can cause. I started volunteering with the washing squad five years ago, after I retired from teaching.”

She set the pelican down on a towel and examined his leg band. “This one is number 563. Elsa, can you note that on his form?” She pointed to a clipboard resting nearby.

“That’s Pellie!” Olivia exclaimed.

“You know this bird?” Katie asked.

I nodded. “We found him on the beach. We’re kind of rooting for him.”

Katie laughed. “Me too. Well, Pellie is a young male, about a year old. He’s swallowed some oil—enough to make him sick but not enough to kill him.”

She showed Olivia how to hold Pellie’s body firmly on the towel, with his feet tucked underneath him and one hand on either side to hold down his powerful wings. “We don’t want him flapping around and hurting himself,” she explained. She opened his huge beak. The skin of the pouch below his beak stretched like a finely pleated accordion.

“Abby has already washed out his mouth, so he doesn’t swallow more oil. But I’ll give it a thorough pass again,” Katie continued. She vigorously wiped Pellie’s tongue and the inside of his beak with a torn-up towel square. “Now we’ll get him in the water and get him cleaned up.”

“Is washing him going to be hard on him?” I asked, remembering what Mr. Hauser had said about the washing process being like a marathon.

Katie nodded. “It’s an unnatural process for a wild animal. He’s being closely handled by humans—manhandled, really. That’s one reason why it’s so stressful. He won’t like it, but it’s a necessity. We have to get the oil off his feathers.” She picked up Pellie and plunged him in a plastic tub of soapy water so he was submerged up to the bottom of his neck. “We use regular dish liquid to wash them,” she said over the sound of Pellie splashing. “It’s made to cut oil, which is just what we need. Elsa, you hold Pellie’s body. Olivia, you hold his beak.” She moved us into position. “And I’ll scrub.”

“Now, you girls know why oil is so dangerous to bird feathers, right?” Katie asked, as she rubbed Pellie’s chest and stomach.

“Ah …” I looked at Olivia. I knew that oil was dangerous to birds, but it occurred to me that I didn’t know exactly why.

“Bird feathers are perfectly arranged so that they overlap each other, like shingles on a house,” Katie explained. “Each feather has little barbs that interlock with each other to create a seal. The pelicans—and all other birds—have what is basically a waterproof shell around their bodies twenty-four seven. They’re warm and dry on the inside, because their feathers keep water and cold air on the outside.” She carefully stretched out one of Pellie’s massive wings. “You wash now, Elsa, OK? I’ll hold.”

I dipped a towel square into the soapy water and carefully rubbed the long, beautiful feathers. The oil came off in brown droplets.

“Birds spend all sorts of time every day preening—that’s cleaning and arranging their feathers—to maintain that waterproof seal,” Katie went on. She stretched out Pellie’s other wing and nodded at me to wash it.

“But the oil messes all that up,” Olivia said, sounding like she was guessing a little.

“Right.” Katie folded Pellie’s other wing back up and massaged soapy water up his neck. “Oil mats the feathers. The little barbs get separated, the feathers get disarranged, and poof! The waterproof seal is gone. The bird is without his warm coat. He’ll die pretty quickly of cold.”

I shuddered. What a terrible way to die. I didn’t even want to think about that happening.

Katie finished Pellie’s neck. He was warm under my hands, but I could feel the tension in his body. He was terrified.

Moving quickly but carefully, Katie washed Pellie’s head. She used a soapy Q-tip to clean every trace of oil out of his eyes and the nostrils at the top of his beak. Then she wrapped him up firmly in a dry towel.

“He’s done!” she announced. “Now he needs to rest, dry out, and preen his feathers back into place.”

Olivia lifted Pellie’s body in her arms, and I gently held his beak closed. He was still in my arms, and I could sense how exhausted he was from the washing.

We made our way between the tubs and carried him gently to the rehab pens for washed birds. Katie pointed out which pen to put him in. There were already three other cleaned birds in there. I hoped Pellie wouldn’t feel so scared with the other pelicans around.

“Get well,” I whispered to Pellie.

Soon they’d drop the white curtain across the opening, and we wouldn’t be allowed to see him anymore.

I told myself that was for the best, and it really was. These were wild birds, not pets. It would be even more dangerous for them if they started getting used to humans. They needed to stay away for their own good.

But it didn’t mean I wasn’t sad that we’d only get to see him with a curtain in the way.

“Will he be released soon?” Olivia asked Katie.

“He has to show us he can eat live fish first,” Katie replied. “These birds have had a terrible shock. Their bodies have been badly damaged by the oil. Sometimes they just can’t recover. If Pellie can’t eat live fish, he won’t be able to survive on his own.”

“Well, if he can’t, he can stay at Seaside Sanctuary,” I said stubbornly. “We have pelicans here.”

But I knew as well as Olivia did that we were at capacity with our pelicans. Mom had already made it clear that we wouldn’t be taking in any of the oiled birds.

Besides, Pellie should be free. That’s where he’d be happiest. He deserved to spend his days soaring over the ocean, not trapped behind chain-link. If he could just eat. He had to.

He just had to.