The Enemy Above

Ya Mutha Nature

That’s it. I’ve joined the Dark Side. I have had it, and I don’t mean with all the acquaintances of ours who decided Deb and I had sailed around the world to experience the embracing serenity of Mother Ocean. What we did was cruise the well-worn thoroughfare that is the Intracoastal Waterway, the liquid version of I-95, on a quest for warmer weather and cheaper beer.

No, I’m talking about all this wondrous natural life about us. If you want to check it out, it’s all there in high definition on the Discovery Channel, and if you keep your butt comfortably planted in front of the plasma screen you’ll be less likely to get it bit by one of the network stars.

Many of the villains are obvious ones. I despise mosquitoes, and I’d be willing to bring down the entire global ecosystem to annihilate every last one of them, by any means. I don’t care if the creature's life cycle is somehow inextricably linked to that of the cuddly Panda. Ling Ling can go take a flying leap onto a sharpened bamboo stick. I say bring back DDT, and hose down the planet.

The above goes double for no-see-ums, which you can damn well see just fine as they swarm in on an evening backlit by the setting sun, converging on Paradise to act out a chapter from the Old Testament. And below the waterline lies the demonic barnacle, which species has left me with permanent scars on my arms, new testament to the fact that guys who clean boat bottoms aren’t charging near enough for their work.

But these are just the obvious enemies. Far more insidious are the ones we greet with open affection. Indeed, we have protected these menaces with the strong arm of the Constitution, and built them homes to atone for their aggrieved status.

I’m talking about the osprey. This “noble” raptor, this poster pet for man’s eco-transgressions. This shitting machine, whose limp-wristed soprano whistle proclaims Hey! Hey! Look out below!

After years of living and letting live, one of these SOB’s has decided that our port spreader is his personal cafeteria, and he (maybe she; don’t know and don’t care) has been dismantling menhaden carcasses with disturbing alacrity from up there, drizzling gutted leftovers and then projectile defecating on our sail cover, dodger and deck below. You think it’s funny? Give me your home address. I gotta take a leak.

This creature, often called a fish hawk because it looks like a hawk and shits fish, is apparently washing its meals down with crazy glue, because it takes industrial solvents and a pressure washer to completely remove its festering offal, once the excrement has cured in the sun for a while. This is not a tidy process. No napkin is used, and there is waste aplenty. The osprey appears not to have yet come onboard with mankind's conservation obsession.

There is an industry out there catering to my problem, and I’m about to try out a system that would impale any bird attempting to alight on the booby-trapped perch. No, not really, Mother Teresa. The manufacturer claims the device is completely harmless to avian types. Ask me if I care. In a harbor full of suitable targets, this guy has chosen me alone to torment. Oh yeah. It’s one, maybe two birds, it’s personal, and if one of you out there has the gall to attempt to convince me that osprey play some crucial role in the natural management of bunker populations, seriously, I will crap on your car.

These are not osprey, but they suck too.