Damn Seagulls

There was a time during the 80’s where we would vacation in the summer in Coco beach Florida. We would stand in a little hotel where we could see the space shuttle launch from the cape.  One rainy weekend,  during a canceled launch,  Dad and I went to a small strip mall near the beach to get some snacks. I remember inside Florida convenient stores the AC was always on arctic setting, the loudspeakers played country-pop, and the snacks were different to what we were used to. 

We took our time trying to choose our “Florida favorite.” A couple of 80’s pop hits later we left the store, me with a Twix and a fruit punch, and dad with a bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers. Snacks in hand we made our way to the beach.  Playing in the sand on that overcast day just after the rain there were many seagulls out, I assume looking for small crabs.  A small group of seagulls, curious and used to humans, landed within a few feet of us.  Almost just as curious, dad threw them a goldfish cracker. The seagull with seemingly no instinct for self-preservation, gobbled the snack like Pac-Man.  He tosses a couple more,  they disappeared just as quickly. 

The gulls, now getting excited, calling over their birdy friends in loud honking, seagull dinner rush, began to circle overhead. Dad gave me some fish and I started tossing the crackers in the air. We watched them compete for the next toss, swooping low, changing direction mid-flight, diving and cutting each other off to get the goods. I wondered if seagulls even knew what cheese flavor is? The deeper we dug into the bag the more seagulls seemed to appear until the view above us looked to be more birds than sky.  

We got down to the last goldfish. I threw one and dad threw one, feeling like rogue zookeepers doing nature a solid. Dad started to fold the bag the way he does, and … wait ” one last fish”  He dumps it, along with a few leftover crumbs into his lowered palm for the toss, raises it rapidly and releases. As it heads skyward, another seagull perhaps, grateful for the free lunch, decides to return the snack, fully digested and with the aid of gravity. Splat! the mess hits the shoulder dad’s army green undershirt. “Ewwww!!" we broke out laughing, as he looked up trying to find the exact culprit. Ahhhh another gift from the sky, just misses. Realizing what we’ve set in motion we ran towards the mall as Dad chased me, threatening to wipe some of his newly decorated T-shirt on me.  Later that year I was in Ocean City, Maryland, and came across one of the gag stores… the kind with Beer- holding construction helmets, and "I'm with stoopid t-Shirts." I saw the perfect Fathers Day gift; this black and white Trucker hat with amazingly sculpted, fake digested goldfish and the words “Damn Seagulls” printed on its face. 

Score. 

Dad proudly took this gift and wore it often, as disgusting as it was. I loved the fact that he rocked it to cookouts.

Jimmy Sobers