 |
| 21:30, the sun is still out, but the penguin's aren't crossing yet. |
It is 10 o’clock in the morning and I am sitting at a bakery in Oamaru.
The sky is kind of blue and the ocean is green, but the weather here is so temperamental,
that I never knew what I’m going to get. I just imbibed a “caramel slice” and I’m
wishing that I didn’t choose to sit outside because the sun is irritating my already
worsening headache and it seems like a long walk to the counter to order a
coffee. It might just be my head, but people are staring at my under eye
circles and unkempt hair that I may or may not have forgotten to tidy up this
morning. But alas, there are some nights that are worth these sluggish
mornings.
Last night was one of them. It began around 9:30pm (21:30, to be
clear), after dinner. I had eaten with two other German girls, both of which
looked exactly like me. Relatively tall, relatively long, blond hair, and blue
eyes. Maybe this was why we got along so well, but it may have been a
coincidence. We finished up our dinner, piled on our scarves and our headwraps
and then set out on the town.
The lights were yellow and the air was relatively chilly for a summer’s
night in December. Every column of every Victorian building was wreathed or lit
with Christmas lights. The limestone towers were exceptionally white at night,
appearing exceptionally tall as the long shadows stretched across the whole
street. Except for our padding footsteps and the ocean gusts, the streets were
quiet.
We knew where we were going. After slipping up to the harbor entrance,
it was almost 10:00pm (22:00, to be clear), and there was a small gathering of
others waiting as we were. The soft shuffling and footsteps were broken by the
sound of a baby crying. I tilted my head. What the hell was that. I hope it
wasn’t a baby. I turned around, looking for a baby. No babies here. Everyone
else was looking around too.
Suddenly, out of the harbor, pops a tiny little head. The head is miniscule
and blue, and attached to a slippery black body with paper thin popsicle stick
wings. It sits on a rock, puffing it’s white belly at us and fluttering it’s
fin wings so fast that it sounds like a hummingbird. It is the first penguin,
crying for it’s mother, trying to make it’s way back to her for food.
Then they start appearing. They all start poking their heads out and
flapping their little wings. Their wings are so small, it’s a miracle they work
in the water, let alone on land. Each of the babies gathers at the top of the
harbor pathway and raises it’s head and puffs it’s chest. Then, without
warning, a swarm of little blue penguins streams across the pathway into the
hills beyond. “Waddle” is an understatement. Penguin legs are so unsuited for
land that their whole body sways with the translocation of a single flipper. Their
bottom is forced back and their puffed chest is forced forward and they appear
as if they are about to fall forward. Among onlookers, there is a collective
sigh of disbelief.
But the penguins are not through yet. They continue to gather at the
side of the harbor, crossing to the hills to join their mother’s in groups of
ten-ish. The crying continues until every last penguin has joined it’s penguin
mom.
 |
| Little blue penguin, sitting on the dock of the bay. |
 |
| Herd of little blue penguins crossing to the hills behind the harbor. |