By Judy Powell

Recently married, Ray and I spent the fall and winter of 1975-76 living in Main Brook, Newfoundland. We knew it was probably the only chance I would have to meet his folks, as they were elderly and had never left the island. I was looking forward to meeting them and getting a glimpse into the life that had shaped Ray. Although, I had never visited the island I also had roots there, as my maternal grandfather had been born and raised in Tilt Cove and his father and grandfather in Burgeo. So, it was wonderful to have the opportunity to spend some time in this place of which I had heard so much.

One sunny winter’s day Ray and I decided to go “across the country” – local vernacular for driving across the northern peninsula from one coast to the other, about 40 miles. We had a few errands to run there, picking up a few things unavailable in Main Brook. About four inches of fresh snow lay on the ground from a blustery storm the night before. Now it was calm and clear, the snow was pristine, no other vehicles having yet left their mark. However, we began to notice an odd little track parallel to us on the right shoulder. It seemed to be two small prints accompanied by two more, about four inches out to the side. Both tracks were not precise but dragged somewhat through the snow before disappearing and then repeating. Ray and I were intrigued. What could have made such tracks?

It was not long before the ensuing guessing game came to an end. Rounding a corner at least a mile or maybe two from where we first noticed the tracks, we came upon a little creature still bravely beating its lonely path. It looked like a miniature penguin, definitely a bird of some sort.

Stopping ahead of the little bird, Ray was able to gently scoop it up. He identified it then as a dovekie, locally known as a bullbird. It was quite calm in Ray’s hands, no doubt glad for the rest. It is a seabird, seldom seen inland. It must have been blown off course and onto the land during the previous evening’s storm. It cannot take off from land, only from the water. Yet this brave soul was exhausting himself by trying. The strange track had been made by his little wings trying to achieve lift.

The least we could do would be to give the little fella a ride to the coast. There should be some open water where a river enters the ocean a few miles north of our junction. The dovekie settled in quite happily on the truck’s transom underneath the heater and contentedly groomed himself during the journey. When he was satisfied that all signs of his recent exertions had been removed, he rested—confident it seemed, that we were going to help him out. After all, he had done his best—now it was our turn.

Arriving at the river, we were relieved to find there was indeed some open water. Gently removing our new friend from the truck, Ray set him carefully in the water. We said goodbye and good luck and stood back to see if he really was going to be okay.

Well, we were not disappointed. What a show he put on for us! First he dived and washed and splashed, seeming to somersault with joy. Then, the moment we had been waiting for—he took off into the air—no problem at all! We clapped at his accomplishment. In return, he gave us encore after encore—diving into the water, taking off again, doing a few loop-the-loops, dive-bombing us and generally giving us the performance of a lifetime. Ray and I laughed and laughed.

Eventually, the dovekie dipped his wings one last time and headed out to sea. We waved and watched until we could no longer see him.

Every time I am feeling a little defeated by the tribulations of this life, I remember the spirit of that little hitchhiker. He had faith that everything was going to be okay. He did everything he could to help himself but, he also knew when to accept help, and wow—did he know how to celebrate and give thanks!