The migration

On cue, every year, the migration occurs.

When the last humpback breaches the waves and the final tail slaps the water, it begins.

And the warmer it gets, the more they come.

Hands shade squinting eyes as the adult homo sapiens squeeze out of SUVs carrying surfboards and kayaks. The young are camouflaged behind bulging bags, pillows and doonas.

Bottles of sunscreen, moisturiser, and sunburn treatments line the shelves, while bright blue, yellow, and red plastic buckets and shovels peek through shop windows, ready for the onslaught.

Clustered in groups of two and three, the grey ones eye the arrivals with interest and mutter to each other as they watch parents, crying babies in tow, search for their next meal.

Sniffing the air, the newcomers catch the scent of cooking oil and flock to a small crowd that spills onto the pavement, clutching tiny paper tickets as they wait, jostling to stay out of the sun.

A young male, whose bare chest is adorned with bold tattoos designed to draw attention like coloured feathers, leaps to his feet in response to ‘Number 56’ and returns to his mate, a sun-kissed female in a black bikini top and tiny shorts.

Hungry eyes follow his progress as the woman rushes to his side to protect their precious cargo. Lugging towering bags of fish and chips and juggling milkshakes, the pair stride away, returning to the beach and the rest of the tribe.

Cries of happiness greet the pair, and the group quickly tear open bags and pass around the shakes.

All the while, squawking gulls circle like mini vultures.

The youngest of the humans, an adolescent female, teases the birds before tossing a chip to the sand. One lucky gull swoops in and takes the prize. The tattooed male, the self-appointed chief, rebukes the teenager, but it’s too late. The damage is done.

They have shown their weakness. All they can do is try to withstand the attack.

The gulls move in formation and edge closer to the group, which has huddled together to protect its meal.

With military precision, the birds run a distraction and diversion manoeuvre. Two gulls hop onto a towel beside the chastised teenager. In unison, they advance, heads low, flapping their wings and crying for food.

‘Get out. Go,’ yells the chief’s mate, shooing at the intruders. As the rest of the tribe watches the exchange, four gulls zoom in and escape to the air with half a piece of battered fish and mouthfuls of chips.

The gulls land twenty metres away. In seconds, they are joined by the rest of the flock, and the noise of the battle attracts a golden Labrador running along the water’s edge. Barking and tail wagging, he races into the melee and scatters the birds before scoffing what’s left of the stolen booty.

Ignoring the call of the human chasing it, the dog races along the beach, as angry gulls flee in its wake, and runs toward another tribe before leaping into the air and catching a fluffy missile in its mouth.

‘Howzat?’ is met with boos and cheers as the Labrador returns to its human and drops a wet ball at his feet.

‘Sorry, mate,’ a red-faced middle-aged man pants as he picks up the slobbery tennis ball and tosses it back to the tribe, who are engaged in a traditional game of skill and luck – beach cricket.

‘Anytime your dog wants to be in slips, let us know,’ laughs a muscular male in board shorts and singlet top as another man brandishing a wooden bat argues with a third, older male that he’s still in the game.

‘What do you think, Mags?’ the elder man asks a mother who’s observing the interaction while dragging a crawling baby back to the protection of a small shelter.

‘It was a great catch, but not out. The dog isn’t part of the team,’ she declares as she yanks a piece of seaweed from her offspring’s hand before it eats it.

 ‘Told ya,’ the man with the bat proclaims before resuming his position in front of three sticks.

The male with the ball steams down the sand and releases it, aiming at the head of the man with the bat. With a resounding crack, the ball sails into the air.

A pair of young adults, dressed in yellow and red, with binoculars in hand and whistles around their necks, follow it as it skids to a stop at their feet.

‘Sorry, mate,’ apologises the muscular male bowler as he reaches down to collect the ball.

‘All good,’ the female replies before returning her gaze to the ocean, where a small crowd is crammed between two flags. Humans are floating in the waves, bobbing up and down like corks or laughing and diving under the water.

The flags are the safety zone. The least dangerous place for homo sapiens to swim. Telltale calm sections of the water hide currents ready to trap and drag the unwary out to sea.

‘Any dramas today?’ he asks as he brushes sand off the yellow surface of the ball.

‘Pretty quiet,’ she replies, continuing her watch, ‘that’s how we like it.’

As if to prove her wrong, a child’s cry rips through the air. A mother rushes to her squealing daughter, who’s holding her arms and stumbling from the surf.

The yellow and red watchers motion for the mother to bring the child to them and she carries the squealing youngster to their tent.

‘Mummy, it hurts. Stings,’ she sobs.

Lying the child on a towel, the watchers quickly inspect the young one’s body before squirting a strong-smelling, clear liquid over the child’s legs and arms.

‘It’ll stop in a little while,’ the female watcher reassures the distraught mother.

‘Blue bottles,’ the male watcher concludes. ‘The wind’s picked up, bringing them into shore,’ he tells them. ‘I’ll update the board,’ he says to his partner.

As he leans down to scribble on the blackboard, he gazes over the ocean where dark clouds threaten. A crack of thunder shakes the ground beneath his feet as lightning flashes in the sky.

The female watcher grabs the whistle and blows, the sound drowned out by a longer, louder growl of thunder. Rushing to the shoreline, she calls and waves to the swimmers to get out of the water.

As the humans emerge, the wind gusts and bucks like a wild thing.

Sun shelters collapse on top of squealing families, while others chase runaway umbrellas that soar into the sky like multi-coloured, lumpy balloons.

Further down the beach, the chief with bold tattoos gathers the tribe’s towels as his mate leads the rest of the group to the car park.

Splat! Racing across the sand, he feels something soft and squishy land on his shoulder then drip down his back.

One of the gulls has bombed him. The runny, white excrement adds a dash of colour to the intricate black markings he’s so proud of displaying.

‘Bloody bird,’ he cries, waving his arms in the air as the gull swoops away, spinning and banking on the blustery wind, its mission complete.

Back at the flags, when the storm has passed and as the sun starts to set, the watchers pack their gear away.

But they’ll be back tomorrow to resume their summer vigil once more.