WHY BIRDERS GO TO SEA

writer and photographer BRONWYN SCANLON

It's a bit mad. I'll be the first to admit it. The sea is churning, the boat rises and falls, shakes and shudders, birders shuffle about and form an impenetrable wall of backs and backpacks. Spray bursts across the deck, seabirds rocket past, and the light changes constantly. These are not ideal conditions for photography, yet I am feverish with excitement.

I'm a seasoned birder, but out on the water, I'm green – though thankfully not seasick, the bane of many a punter determined to make a pelagic trip. Oceanic birds are new to me, like the Salvin's albatross, Wilson's storm petrel and long-tailed jaeger that spend much of their lives at sea on the wing, covering boundless distances, returning to land to breed.

On board the Pauletta, we are a motley crew (a mix of ages, genders, and origins) united by zeal, wonder and a deep respect for birds that wander the ocean. Pelagic trips debunk myths about birdos being meek souls. This gang of locals, mainlanders and international birdwatchers is plucky, spirited, and intrepid. We rise before dawn, ride out sometimes in wild conditions, leaving land and its forests in our wake.

From Eaglehawk Neck's Pirates Bay jetty, we take to the Tasman Sea, humming alongside the Tasman Peninsula/turrakana cliffs, doused in early morning yellow light. We pass Chevron Rock and circumnavigate New Zealand fur seals hauled out on the Hippolyte Rocks. On the precipice, white-bellied sea eagles track our loop.

Land retreats as we motor south-east toward the continental shelf break, where pelagic creatures congregate – a world-renowned spot for its high species diversity, including sub-Antarctic and subtropical birds.

Pauletta's skipper can navigate a big swell, a vital skill. On one return trip, I felt like we were on a surfboard riding the face of a three-metre wave. “The boat is solid. It hasn't gone down yet,” says Paul Brooks, trip coordinator and UTAS Zoology major, reassuringly.

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If the forecast is for hazardous conditions, the boat does not venture out. If the weather turns unexpectedly nasty, the boat heads home. Ideal conditions are windy, because the birds we like to see are more active, but the windier it gets, the more likely it is to get rough. There's an upper limit. A blue sky helps for clear viewing. But rain and leaden skies are not unheard of. A freak wave broke over the back of the boat once, killing cameras and making some people reluctant to go out again. Birders take tumbles occasionally – lugging a big lens on big seas, even if blunted by TravaCalm sea sickness pills, is not as easy as you think.

Seasons matter to birders. In winter, Paul Brooks says, “when sub-Antarctic breeding species come north, we like good southerlies”. A few good days of south, south-east or south-west winds carry birds like the sooty albatross, blue petrel and Antarctic prion towards our waters. Easterlies are good in spring and early summer because “birds migrate from the Pacific back through the Southern Ocean and use the Tasman Sea”. A few days of easterlies might bring pterodroma petrels (like Gould's, Cook's and mottled petrels) closer to the east coast of Tasmania. “It's a bit quicksilver. You never really know what you're going to get.”

Encounters occur with cetaceans: short-beaked common dolphins; humpback, southern right and long-finned pilot whales; orca, and more. Flying fish, leatherback turtles and massive sunfish are spotted. Birders face mako sharks, white sharks and ridiculous numbers of jellyfish. Flightless pelagic birds like little penguins and fiordland penguins pop up. Strange passerines like the spangled drongo – a vagrant to Tasmania – astonish birdwatchers when seen out here.

Now, at the prow, Brooks scans the sky. Clad lightly (compared to the rest of us bundled in beanies, thermals, and waterproof pants), he is lithe as he crosses the deck in a baseball cap with a Canadian goose badge. He has completed more than 100 pelagic trips. Each is a mini-epic. Initially, he was drawn by a new horizon of birds in the Tasman Sea, expanding his knowledge and experience. And he likes being out on the water, including the edge of danger.

“You're out in the open and far from land. It's a different kind of wilderness,” he confides. “You see an albatross fly by about a metre away, and it's almost a spiritual experience.”

He is speaking to the converted.

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The chance of sighting a rare species is a lure. Even for veteran pelagic birders like Brooks, elusive species exist such as the endangered Amsterdam albatross (which breeds in the southern Indian Ocean on Amsterdam Island), the New Zealand storm petrel (once considered extinct but found breeding), and the Kerguelen petrel.

Brooks has a keen eye. On my first trip, he identified a speck in the distance as we rose and fell on a big swell, and I clung to a pole – a common diving petrel. I asked how (the hell) he knew. He said, “It looks like a flying potato.” A swollen-bellied bird with short wings is forever etched in my brain.

Many birds look similar and fly and dip at high speeds. The minutiae that distinguishes birds can be hard to divine. Brooks draws on a mind map built over time, moving from broad to finer details, to identify birds swiftly. He starts with more common birds, stock birds such as the shy albatross, and measures other birds against their size. Short-tailed shearwaters provide a point of comparison for smaller birds. Flight style is important. And then there's plumage. The underwing of an albatross may help identification before its facial features and bill colour come into view. Images shot on cameras aid the process, and field guides are handy.

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When we hit 200 fathoms, we've hit the shelf break. Upwelling about the continental shelf creates an area of high productivity – plenty of phytoplankton, zooplankton and fish – things birds and mammals feed on.

Twitter and raucous exhilaration are all around us as we bump for hours across the sea. The engine cuts, and we drift. The mood changes. Quiet descends.

A wandering albatross drifts into view. From a distance it is white, as it draws closer fine black wavy lines on the breast, neck and upper back become visible. The bill, a yellowish-pink. It arcs about the boat on rigid wings spanning 3.5 metres. It is a beauty, the biggest albatross. I look into its dark eye and am humbled. Its flight appears effortless, harnessing the forces of gravity and wind in a process known as dynamic soaring. Researchers recorded one travelling 6,000km in 12 days.

A light-mantled sooty albatross sails close port side and disappears toward the south. A Buller's albatross, with its stunning yellow-edged black bill, appears. A white-fronted tern dives overhead. A Wilson's storm petrel dances across the surface. There's no way around it, the seabirds' presence and knowledge of the vast distances across the oceans they've travelled exacts awe.

A deckhand tosses burley – chicken skins – overboard to create a slick to attract bigger birds. The tube-nosed albatross' olfactory system can pick up the smell 20km away.

Soon, we are surrounded by giants.

Shy albatross land on the surface and seize burley with their huge yellow-tipped beaks. Australia's only endemic albatross species nest exclusively on three small islands off the coast of Tasmania. They can swim to depths greater than seven metres. At the stern, two Gibson's albatross bob and fend off the shy and Buller's albatrosses while uttering seldom-heard vocalisations.

Indian yellow-nosed albatross, black-browed albatross, cape petrel, white-headed petrel and southern giant petrel all put in heart-stopping appearances.

Data collected monthly on Eaglehawk Neck pelagic trips is shared with the eBird database (available online), where it is easily extractable for research. It indicates trends and provides insights into seasonal variations and unexpected bird sightings.

Some observations are captivating. A readable number spotted on a banded bird is the catalyst for detective work. In late May 2024, visiting Taiwanese birdwatchers noticed a wandering albatross wearing a band. The number was sent to the Australian Bird and Bat Banding Scheme. It turned out the wandering albatross researchers had banded it as a nestling on Macquarie Island in 1980, making it about 44 years old. It had already had 12 chicks in its lifetime, one of the most successful breeders.

A southern royal albatross sighted on the same trip had a radio transmitter glued to its back. Follow-up revealed the transmitter had been put on the albatross two years prior on Campbell Island/Motu Ihupuku in the New Zealand sub-Antarctic.

Fifteen (of the 19) albatross species in Australian waters are globally threatened. Industrial fishing, drilling for oil and gas, pollution, and warming oceans increase pressure on their survival. Marine protected areas, such as the expanded zone around sub-Antarctic Macquarie Island, offer hope.

. . .

Across a wave's trough we see the Tasman Peninsula, closer now as we head for dock. Pauletta rocks and rolls and thumps sideways. We buckle down and hold tight. A green wave carries us home. I suck in the salty air. Albatross glide through my brain. Being a birdo never felt so brilliant.■

Bronwyn Scanlon is a Tasmanian writer and photographer who is inspired by the state’s untamed landscapes and birdlife. She has published stories, poetry, magazine articles, art catalogue essays and staged a short play – in Australia, the US and Denmark. She also documents raptor releases for the Kettering Raptor Refuge.