Chapter 49
In mid-September, the loons leave their baby. It seems abrupt, but of course they have been preparing since the moment she hatched. There’s no stopping it: even the most conscientious of parents eventually take off for the unknown, leaving you to face the mystery of life on your own.
I first see her alone one morning when I am at the dock for an early swim.
With Labor Day behind us, I am wringing what I can out of summer before everything starts to turn crisp.
The loonlet glides past our dock, taking the familiar path that she has swum with her parents so many times.
She looks purposeful, if not quite confident.
After a moment, she stops and reverses direction.
She begins to glide and flap her wings, first slowly and then with increasing intensity, until she is craning her neck and slapping the water with force.
This goes on for yards and yards. I hold my breath, hoping for her to get airborne, but eventually she runs out of energy and flaps to a halt.
After a moment, she tries again, with the same result.
“You can do it,” I whisper. I so desperately want her to survive and make a successful migration. More: I want her to thrive, wherever she ends up.
For the rest of the month, I remain occupied with my father’s care—following his new protocols, administering his new meds, keeping him fed and comfortable and clean, but I am equally fixated on the baby loon.
I track her movements; I celebrate when she eats; I relax when I see her dive with skill; I cheer when she practices her takeoff; and I worry if I don’t spot her for a day or two.
And then one day, at the end of September, I don’t see her anymore.
I suppose anything could have happened—it is the wilderness, after all.
But I choose to believe she has finally launched and is charting her course south, following her instincts and catching all the right currents. I believe hers is a success story.