A Swan Story: Things Aren’t Always As They Seem

Editor’s Note: OMP resident Dave Murphy tells a story about his 94-year-old neighbor and an incident in East Bay involving an amorous swan. Are swan condoms found in the health and beauty aisle or the poultry section? Read on. And if you have an Old Mission Story to tell, write it up and send it to me, [email protected]. Could be a treasured memory, a photo from an old photo album, or perhaps something that happened this week. -jb)

As I gazed at East Bay and pondered the changes among neighbors in our 35 years in this location, the battles over shoreline regulation, wineries, dark night skies, traffic, and so much more, a memory came to mind of simpler times. I documented the occurrence in my journal the day it occurred, so I can attest to the accuracy of what follows…

A rapid knocking at our front door occurred the Saturday before Easter some years ago. It was 94-year-old Cornelia, a neighbor we’d looked after since our move-in date decades earlier. She was in a full-blown panic, reporting that a swan was entangled with the rope to a white float in the water where it marked a mooring spot for a neighbor’s boat. The swan desperately needed help. Cornelia urgently waved me outdoors to accompany her.

I hastened to the rescue. It would be difficult. The water was chest deep in the location of the float. The bay temperature was 33 degrees according to the morning’s paper. It was my habit to check the water temperature because I kayaked year-round if the bay wasn’t frozen. But it didn’t matter how cold the water was. Like Cornelia, I’m an animal lover. I wasn’t going to let this poor swan suffer or die, so I was ready to wade in, knowing the giant bird would try to take my head off even as I attempted to help it.

Cornelia and I arrived at the small bluff above the beach. There was the white float. There was the swan. But I was confused. The swan didn’t seem to be struggling. It was circling the float, nudging it. I saw the line from the anchor rising to the white mooring buoy. I observed the feet of the swan moving freely. No tangling was apparent. But conjoining appeared imminent.

The swan nuzzled the float with intention. The float played hard to get. The swan dipped its head repeatedly, appearing surprised and frustrated when he’d come up for air. I have few talents, but I’m told that I’m reasonably empathetic. I tried to imagine the swan’s motivation.

He – and perhaps it was a false assumption that the giant bird was a he, but I somehow felt strongly about my guess – appeared to be checking out the white floating object for, um, perhaps … romantic intentions? He had no luck with locating a lady swan head above or below the surface. Perhaps he was thinking that it was an unusual case of bad timing: he’d go under precisely when she’d come up? But the consistency of the ill timing was becoming vexing for this amorous boy. Eye contact is clearly important to intimacy, even among giant waterfowl.

Mr. Swan studied the float. My nautical skills are weak, but I’m pretty sure such floats have an opening through which the line to the anchor runs. He was particularly interested in that opening. His intentions grew clearer, at least to me. Cornelia was not seeing what I was seeing. She repeatedly showed distress, asking for the cause of my delay in plunging into the icy water. When was I going to act? Clearly this couldn’t continue! Cornelia pleaded that I do something.

I informed her that I didn’t have a condom immediately available; therefore, I didn’t know if I had much to offer Mr. Swan. Plus, even then, I was past breeding age, so if I ran back to the house, I was out of luck with prophylactics. The nearest pharmacy or grocery store was at least ten minutes away. By the time I’d change clothes to be presentable, drive to the store, look for swan condoms (are they found in the health and beauty aisle or the poultry section?), make the purchase and likely have to explain the reason to the clerk, drive back, attempt to put the condom on the swan, he’d almost certainly have moved along or put up quite a fuss.

Cornelia had trouble grasping my reasoning. Must have been a generational thing.

Thankfully, the swan provided visual evidence to my neighbor. Mr. Swan extended his majestic wings like a set of colossal fans. I believe in swan vernacular, it’s called busking. He rose above the water, exposing his large and free of entwinement webbed feet. Cornelia gleefully said, “Oh, he’s not wrapped up in the rope!”

Right, Cornelia. Then Mr. Swan did something that I really didn’t want to share with my 94-year-old neighbor: he mounted the headless swan, repeatedly, engaging in an act that even Cornelia could readily discern. Swan porn. Right there on East Bay on Easter Saturday. Swans are barbarians.

Trumpeter swans are native to our waters, but invasive mute swans are more common. I’ve learned to distinguish the closely related birds by the coloration of the bills and curve of the necks. But in this case, I didn’t need the visual distinctions. If this had been a trumpeter swan, based on his actions, I’d have heard something audible as he completed his efforts. No, this was definitely a mute swan.

Cornelia now understood the happenings. The grin on her face was a bit much. I was profoundly uncomfortable.

Then, without so much as a hug or cigarette, the swan and his companion drifted apart. That kind of thing just happens in these sorts of star-crossed relationships.

Cornelia returned to her house, much less agitated than when she knocked at my door. Even at age 94, she’d learned something that day. Perhaps it wasn’t so much a lesson as it was a reminder: Stay calm. Pay attention. Things aren’t always as they seem. Don’t rush to judgement without all the facts. And usually, the truth finds a way to reveal itself.

– Dave Murphy

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