Birdy Dancing
Birds Overheard: Issue 1
If you ever find yourself hunched over social media, surveying the wreckage of your friends’ marriages as they smolder beneath their digital facades; and you wonder whether love exists at all, or if it’s just a cynical illusion spun, like cotton candy, in a Disney boardroom to extract profit from the youth; and, waking from your reverie, you notice it’s almost five in the morning, then cast your phone aside, grab your binoculars, and hit the road toward Escondido. Here, on Lake Hodges, you’ll find a lovebird that can refresh even the most jaded heart: the Western Grebe.
To witness a grebe’s domestic life, you must drive west on Via Rancho Parkway and turn left on Lake Drive before parking along Hodges’ northwest shore, preferably in the romantic mist of a February dawn. As you tiptoe through the tules, you’ll hear an eerie creaking punctuated by bursts of rapid splashes. This is a telltale sign that the grebes are up to one of their most spectacular behaviors: the rush.
Unlike most humans, grebes thoroughly vet their romantic partners before getting attached. Having locked eyes, the birds draw together, mirroring each other’s head tosses as they approach. They pause, and then by unspoken consensus, they rear up and dash side by side across the water before diving into the lake. It’s the avian equivalent of Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey’s famous lift in Dirty Dancing, and it must feel great, because as soon as they pop back up, the grebes immediately begin strutting around like they just celebrated their 25th anniversary.
“Fine, the sex is good,” you might think to yourself. “So what? They barely know each other. Is there any hope that this will last?” Fear not, reader — while the rush establishes chemistry, grebes have also perfected a test of commitment: the weed dance. To understand this ritual, we must first consider the grebe’s approach to architecture. They build their nests from dead plants and attach them to partially submerged reeds, creating floating platforms which shelter their eggs and keep them cool. Both nest construction and egg-guarding are demanding tasks shared equally between partners (grebes are feminists), so it’s essential for each to ensure their lover will put the work in before things get serious.
The weed dance begins during nesting season and often follows a rush. One partner will emerge with a weed in its bill, signaling interest in settling down. If the feelings are mutual, the other will dive and reappear with a weed of its own. Then, something incredible happens: the grebes intertwine their necks, rise out of the water, and circle each other in an aquatic waltz. Return a few weeks later, and you’ll likely find them perched on a glistening nest, guarding their shellbound offspring from nosy neighbors.
The zenith of a grebe’s devotion begins when their eggs hatch. The chicks require constant feeding, so for weeks, the parents take turns diving for fish. While one hunts, the other shuttles their babies around on its back, a safeguard against opportunistic carp. Although chicks begin to fly after ten weeks, they’ve been observed to linger with their parents long after they fledge. When the last one paddles off, the parents shake hands and part ways. Perhaps love will bring them together again next breeding season, or perhaps they’ll find a different mate; for these serially monogamous waterfowl, each partnership is a separate chapter propelled by shared goals.
Do grebes remember past loves? When they separate, do they smile ruefully (to whatever extent their lipless bills are capable) as they imagine how things could have been? It’s impossible to say. The only certainty is that come February, if you wander down to the shore of Lake Hodges on a misty morning, you’ll hear the patter of webbed feet rushing across the water — the sound of beginning again.
Birds Overheard is a column and linocut series published in Mail Mag, a monthly zine by Burn All Books.
