How to Save a Life

It was mid afternoon, hot as dog breath. The Moreau Lake echoed the cloudless sky. No ripples, no defects. I was on my quest to video my feet near the shoreline of the lake when I noticed a disturbance on the water, about thirty feet from shore. What was that? Since Moreau is not known for sea monsters I stared at the wake trying to figure out the commotion.

The poor little guy was drowning! He tried hard to get to shore, but he wasn’t going to make it. He was doomed if help didn't arrive soon. I quickly ran back to Dad who also noticed the flailing victim. "God, why am I carrying so much shit in my pockets," I muttered, tossing keys, camera, pens and a Mike’s Lemonade bottle top into the Saratoga Track give-away chair. Okay, I had been drinking a little, but I wasn't going in over my head. However, I forgot to dump my wallet so I waded into the water with my wallet clenched between my teeth.

It was a small bird. It struggled to keep a float. Since birds are made to fly, I imagined he would float on the surface until completely waterlogged, but as I head out Dad yell, “He went under.” It was just a bob. The little guy was on the surface as I neared.

From reading "Boy’s Life" and my older brother’s Scouting manuals I knew that you should approach a drowning person from the back to prevent being taken under by the panicked victim. I didn’t expect the bird to give much of a fight, but to keep it from further alarm I put my hands under the water before I reached the little guy. I scooped him up without him pecking at my fingers. What was he more scared of - me or drowning?

He was too exhausted to care. I lifted him out of the water. Immediately, he closed his eyes and gave up his fight. I began to wade back to the shore with the drenched bird shivering in my hands. I took him to a sunny spot and watched him breath. He was going to make it, but he needed to dry out, warm up and gain some strength.

After a few minutes he opened his eyes, peeped once and went back to his resting mode. I figured that was "thank you." It certainly wasn’t the bird poop that covered my hand. I waited and watched him begin his recovery.

When I rescued him his wings and tail feathers had been spread eagle. He seemed so broken and fragile. Now he ruffled his wings and tucked them back into position. His tail feathers laid flat and smooth. Each little bit of recovery required rest. He'd peep and close eyes. His crown began to dry. A mat of wet feathers began to lift and fluff, revealing the soft down of a young gold finch.

I suspected it was his first flight. Who teaches a bird not to land in water? It is an experience few learn, never getting a second chance. This guy was luckier than most.

The shivering stopped. He became more alert. Once he turned his head to the lake as if to look at the waters that nearly stole his life. A few more shakes and he seemed nearly perfect, except for a few damp feather near his belly.

And then... he took off to the low branches of a nearby maple. There he adjusted his feathers, and preened a little before flying to higher branches.

That’s how you save a life.