The seasonal life of a seabird biologist

There is something truly special about seabird islands.

They are incredibly important places ecologically. They provide refuge for nesting birds, they act as “canaries in the coal mine” for climate change, and they cycle nutrients between land and sea.

More than that, seabird islands are windows into a world that humans rarely, if ever, see. According to BirdLife, seabirds comprise some 350 species (about 3.5% of all birds). They are a common sight on our coastlines and for those of us who venture out onto the open water. They have inspired untold myth, legend, superstition, science, and art. As such, it is a rare and special thing to get a glimpse into their personal lives.

One of the student biologists works on constructing a bird blind nearby the Alice Eno Field Station on Great Duck Island, Maine. This building is comprised of an old lighthouse keeper’s home, and acts as both field station and dormitory for visiting scientists and students alike.

My second field season as a scientist, and my first field season working at a remote site without direct access to civilization, was spent on one of these special islands. Three months on a little foot shaped island called Great Duck sparked my career and a lifelong passion for these special places.

Great Duck Island is situated about 10 miles off the pink granite shoreline of Acadia National Park, poking its way into the Gulf of Maine. In the Gulf of Maine alone, a body of water stretching 36,000 square miles from Massachusetts to Nova Scotia, there are roughly 500 of these nesting seabird islands that Great Duck can count among its neighbors. The surrounding cold water providing a wealth of food for seabirds, seals, fish, and whales.

The 220-acre island supports nesting gull and eider species, and sports some of the largest known breeding populations of Leach’s Storm Petrels (one of my favorite creatures) and Black Guillemots in the lower 48 states. Co-owned by the Nature Conservancy and the College of the Atlantic, students and professors have spent over 20 years studying the birds that congregate there to breed during Maine’s fleeting summer months, creating a valuable snapshot of seabirds in the Gulf. It was during one of these yearly field seasons that I got my chance to explore the island firsthand.

An adult Herring Gull (Larus argentatus) returns to its nesting site with fresh material to construct its new nest.

We arrived via boat, launching a bright orange zodiac from the side of the college’s small research vessel. Battling crashing waves, we made landfall on a seaweed and barnacle covered boat ramp that had been used by generations of students and would remain our only reliable lifeline to food and fresh water for the entire summer.

Hauling our crates and backpacks through spruce forest, dodging petrel burrows hidden in the twisting roots and moss, we eventually broke out to open field. Great Duck’s southern end is mostly unforested, with large open fields ending in a rocky berm and 60-foot-high lighthouse (equipped with foghorn). These fields make perfect nesting habitat for Herring Gulls, Black-backed Gulls, Common Eiders, and various songbirds. Whereas the rocky berm on the coast houses yet more gulls, and Black Guillemots, whose tiny squeaks can be heard emanating up from within the rocky crevices where they nest.

This open field is only interrupted by the old lighthouse keeper’s quarters (now serving as our field station and dormitory), an old helicopter landing pad, and the cheery wooden outhouse facing out to sea (our “loo with a view”).

This special study we embarked on entailed doing everything by the birds’ schedule. Every morning we were up at sunrise with them, counting who was on the water and land. All day was spent watching the colonies for activity, banding chicks for identification, or marking nests across the whole of the island. Every night was spent being lulled to sleep by the crashing waves, ever present foghorn, cackling of petrels heading out to sea, and squawks of gulls returned home for the night.

Foggy and stormy days are not an uncommon occurrence, as a thick bank of fog blankets the field station. The dense spruce forest at the island’s heart just visible at the end of a well-worn trail.

And yet, despite the constant cacophony, a sort of calm settles about the place. Not just to the routine, but also to the presence of the neighbors. Generations of seabirds have nested here, and there are thousands of lives transpiring all around at every moment. Some lives just hatching who may have a good 40 years at sea ahead of them, some ending in the claws of hunting Bald Eagles and Peregrine Falcons, and some re-uniting after months spent apart to re-establish a decades long bond (many seabirds mate for life).

All of this activity seems to match the pitched energy of the crashing ocean on granite shores, making it perfectly clear that these birds couldn’t be anywhere else because they are their islands. It’s not difficult to understand the mythology that they inspire. As a scientist, it wasn’t difficult for them to leave a lasting mark on me either.

After one spends a few seasons on seabird islands, the winters become time spent dreaming of avian neighbors, and counting the days until spring comes again. After even such a short time in such a special place it’s hard to imagine being anywhere else, because a little part of you becomes the island too.

A Savannah Sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis) collects insects for its hungry young. The remote nature of these islands make them an ideal nursery for many songbird species as well as seabirds.

NOTE: The seabird colony on this island is studied and protected by the biologists and biologists-in-training who call it home during the summer months. All birds are handled by trained professionals, and only when necessary. Please do not ever enter a seabird colony or pick up wild birds without guidance and permission from a professional.