murre chicks - article by Susan Adele Colletta

written by Susan Adele Colletta

When Inverness resident David Wimpfheimer strolled Limantour Beach recently, he witnessed firsthand the consequences of the current scientific statistics attributed to warming of ocean waters off our coast. It is often difficult to fathom the true nature of such an event without firsthand experience.

After discovering one dead Common Murre chick, David heard the plaintiff cries of another. He found the pathetic sodden creature, bewildered and clumsily walking over the dense sand. The penguin-like seabird was too weak to swim, and was washed to shore.

This tiny individual was evidence that the Pacific upwelling that usually happens in the springtime was overdue. This has created a shortage of nutritious krill, which supplies baby rockfish, which in turn, feeds baby murres.

Researchers have seen the parents of murres try, unsuccessfully, to stuff anchovies three times the size of baby rockfish in the mouths of the hatchlings.

One source reported that nearly three-quarters of the chicks would not survive this year.

A murre’s start in life has potential for failure. Its parents form colonies on the Farallon Islands or sea cliffs, such as the Point Reyes Lighthouse rocks. The rookery is jammed with birds, wing to wing. After many months of separation, the couples renew their courtship, breed and begin their duties as incubators for an average of thirty-two days. They make no nest for the uniquely marked egg that is sheltered between their webbed feet. To counteract the danger of the egg rolling off its small ledge, Mother Nature designed the pear-shaped egg to roll in a circle.

After a couple weeks of shared chick rearing, mom is genetically wired to abandon her duties. The chick cannot fly, so must dramatically fling itself off its precipice into the ocean. The father is in charge of providing sustenance for the chick until it can fly and forage on its own.

The unhatched chick learns to identify their parent’s calls while still within the egg. Now, the beach-wrecked adolescent on Limantour was listening to its fathers’ distinctive language. Their early bond of recognition must have added to their despondency.

David, a biologist and professional naturalist, who has had extensive experience with birds, went over his options for a rescue.

The best course of action was to connect parent with baby. He picked up the vulnerable chick, walked deep into the surf and threw the bird gently toward the father. The chick was short his father by several yards and the pitiful bird washed back in the waves. David tossed the bird again, reuniting the pair.

Farther on down the beach, David heard a second frantic murre father. He located another malnourished chick, floundering in the surf. David repeated the rescue procedure hoping the strong swimmer would grab its young. The frail chick floated back dead.

Minutes later, David found the first chick, lingering by just a whisper. This chick, never to be satiated, found comfort in David’s hands.

Several people on the beach came upon a soaked, fully clothed man tossing helpless birds around like footballs. Suspicious, until educated, they were appreciative of the effort. David, who does not always attach emotion with creatures, and regards lifeless birds as potential teaching tools, was truly saddened. In reality, any mode of rescue would have been futile.

California murres have endured many threats to their survival. Commercial companies collected 12 million eggs from Southeast Farallon Island for the population of San Francisco between 1854 and 1879. This decimated colony copes with oil spills, drowning in gillnets, El Nino events and other human disturbances. Despite the perils, the population of murres had rebounded to over 200,000 by this breeding season.

The Gulf of the Farallones Marine Sanctuary has a volunteer beach watch program, which documents the mortality of seabirds found. Wimpfheimers’ chicks, although a heartrending story, will become part of the thousands of anonymous statistics this year.