In 2018, after one too many Chicago winters, I convinced myself I’d found the answer: San Diego. Sunshine, beaches and palm trees seemed like a pretty compelling argument.
As it turned out, I never quite found my footing there.
One place that didn’t disappoint, though, was Coronado. There was something about the Hotel del Coronado and that stretch of beach that kept pulling me back. I didn’t own a car, so getting across the long bridge meant a trolley ride, a bus ride and a little patience, but every trip felt worth it.
One bright February day, I decided a beach and a picnic sounded like a great idea.
I stopped at Ralphs to buy the makings of a pretty respectable lunch: Chicken. Avocado. Cheese. Mustard.
Tucked neatly inside some good bread and protected by foil.
I also packed a Coke Zero and a Ziploc bag of Baked Lays, grabbed my paperback and headed for the Del.
It was a little chilly and a little windy when I arrived, but the sun felt warm on my face. The beach was nearly empty. I pulled on a sweatshirt, spread out my towel, congratulated myself on an excellent plan, opened my book, unwrapped my sandwich…
THWAK.
Something slammed into my arm, knocking my lunch into the sand.
Standing in front of me was a seagull with an expression that could only be described as…
“Do you have something you’d like to say?”
For one irrational second, I stared at the beautiful slice of avocado lying in the sand and actually wondered whether it was salvageable.
The gull solved that dilemma for me.
He calmly walked over, inspected the crime scene, and began eating it.
The cheese.
The avocado.
The…CHICKEN.
(My unexpected National Geographic moment of learning that seagulls are cannibals.)
Only one of us had lunch that day.
Once my irritation settled, I decided to rescue what was left of my carefully planned afternoon. After all, I had my soda and consolation chips plus I’d already made the trek out there. Surely I could still enjoy my book.
That’s when I noticed my finger.
Apparently, during the initial assault, Mr. Seagull had managed to nick it with his beak. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was bleeding enough that I wandered into the hotel lobby to wash it off. The kind woman at reception handed me a Band-Aid, which should have been the end of the story.
But, alas…it was not.
Because I had Google.
“Can you get rabies from a bird?”
No.
Cool. Crisis over.
Except Google apparently decided “let’s show her what you can get from a bird”.
Suddenly I was learning about a man in the UK, a beak attack, a serious infection, and a potential loss of an extremity.
There went my zen.
My inner Anxious Duck kicked in: “DID THIS BIRD GIVE ME A DISEASE? IS IT ALREADY COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS? WILL “ATTACKED BY BIRD” BE HOW I’M REMEMBERED?” (If you’ve met Anxious, you’ll understand.)
So, rather than enjoying the rest of my afternoon, I packed everything up, rode the bus back to the mainland and headed to urgent care, where I received quite the funny look when I explained what brought me in.
The doctor was very kind and understandably unfamiliar with seagull assault protocol. Google was once again consulted and she decided a tetanus shot was in order.
The whole thing was so ridiculous, I’ve gotten mileage out of that story for years, always describing him as “that jerkface seagull”.
But maybe that isn’t fair. I try really hard in both business and personal worlds to put myself in the other person’s shoes, to understand where they’re coming from. Should I extend the same courtesy to that thieving bird?
We all tend to be the hero in our own stories.
Mine goes something like: “I was innocently minding my own business when my carefully packed lunch was stolen, I lost my peaceful beach day, and somehow ended up at urgent care.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Seagull has probably spent the last several years telling his flock about the afternoon some thoughtful human traveled all the way to Coronado to deliver him a gourmet treat.
Both things can be true.
I only wish he’d at least left me the avocado.