Seagull Coming in Hot
I was working on a project in Perth, Western Australia. This was my first time in the country, on the continent, and in that particular hemisphere so I was excited and scared at the same time. Aren't most of the poisonous things in the world in Australia? I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. No, it was DEADLY. The seven most deadly animals in the world live in Australia. Yikes. That might not even be true, but you can see now how quickly these things can gain momentum.
Since I was staying in a bungalow by myself for three weeks (it was cheaper for the company than staying in a hotel room for that long), I immediately purchased a giant can of insect spray and carried it with me from room to room. The only intruder I ever encountered was a cricket, but from what I can remember that thing was enormous. Like something from the jurassic period. Or Alabama. And I may have let out a chord-like keen of distress as I released half of the can's contents on the unfortunate guy but at the time I was convinced he was chasing me and I panicked.
Not to mention, some coworker thought that sending me a photo of a Huntsman spider before I started the project was a good idea (side note - I'm not sure whether "Huntsman" should be capitalized but I'm afraid to look it up because I know Google is going to include an image and I don't need a refresher). I was so paranoid that I'd head for the front door one morning and there it would be - standing unnaturally on the back of the front door with more legs than a living thing should have - staring at me. Trapping me in my bungalow. I'd have had to have done something embarrassing like call for backup and arrive late because there's no way I'd have gone anywhere near that door. And sadly I wouldn't have been able to keep my eyes off of it either, because what if I turned away and suddenly it disappeared? It would have been at large in my living space and I wouldn't have been able to sleep for the rest of my stay.
Thankfully, I never saw a Huntsman in person. I did mention my unease once to the customer and the response I received only made things worse.
"You're afraid of the Huntsman?" he said, in his Australian laden British accent. For some reason, none of the people on the customer's project team were native Australians. "They aren't even poisonous," he scoffed.
"When a spider is the size of my face, I don't really care if it is poisonous or not," I replied. I'm sure I also shivered because an image of the photo sent by my wretched coworker (and burned on the backs of my eyeballs) came to mind.
"Oh, well, they can be a menace I suppose. They like to settle in tight, cozy spaces. So sometimes you'll flip down the sun visor in your car while you're driving and one will simply fall into your lap."
Oh. My. God. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head, they were so wide, and shifted from one face to another pleading for someone to crack a smile that said "he's just messing with you, ha ha ha". But all I saw was acknowledgement and a resignation toward the fact of the matter. Well, isn't that just dandy? Now I'd have to take the insect spray into the car as well and probably blind myself in a moment of hysteria and then be eaten by the Huntsman.
To avoid such a tragic and dramatic demise, I developed a routine. First, open the driver-side door, flip down the visor and jump back in case anything fell out. Second, reach across the driver seat and flip down the passenger visor for good measure, promptly backing out of the car in case anything fell out. Only when both steps were completed without incident would I get into the car and drive anywhere. I didn't have a plan for the occasion when a spider actually fell out of the visor and disappeared into the car so thank goodness that never happened or I'd probably still be in Perth. Marooned.
Consequently, I did a good deal of walking when possible and after having stumbled upon Swan River in my rambling, made it a frequent destination. On a sunny Saturday morning, I set out with the objective of reaching the river by a different route than the more efficient trek I used on weekday evenings so I headed in the general direction of the water and turned down streets I hadn't yet explored. The closer I got to the river, the larger the houses and lots became in the neighborhoods. Some were just being constructed, others were well established with thick vegetation draping the fences, and electronic gates guarding the driveway entrances. Not caring one bit about how I might appear to the classy elite who dwelled within, I gawked and snapped photos and continued on my way.
Finally, there was an entrance to a park along the river from one of the culs-de-sac and I gladly stepped through to the open space and glittering water. Walking along the water's edge, the lofty mansions loomed behind me and I ignored them as I searched for photo opportunities. The sky was a dreamy blue, the sand a bright white-yellow, and I came upon a dark, porous clump of rock on the beach that jutted into the water and served as a nice contrast both in color and texture. The Perth skyline was directly across the river - a nice backdrop. And while it might not turn out to be the greatest photo it would serve as a catalyst for memories of my walks. I hunkered down into a squat, my backside resting on the heels of my feet, and began to frame up my shot. With focus set on the rock in the foreground and the other components of the composition set, I had just begun to squeeze my finger to close the shutter when I felt a whoosh over my head and a FLAP-FLAP-FLAP that became alarmingly louder with each successive beat.
Naturally, I was startled out of my squat and plopped down on my bottom in the sand. Having had my sight set through the viewfinder a moment before, I was disoriented and stared straight ahead at the rock I'd been capturing. Nothing seemed amiss. Then I caught a bit of movement to my right and turned my head to find a seagull pacing about a foot away from me. I was miffed.
"Seriously, you didn't see me?" I demanded in a tone that clearly said I knew for a fact he had seen me and just chose to come in for his botched landing anyway. For goodness' sake, I'd been sitting there for several minutes lining up that shot and I wasn't wearing anything remotely camouflage-worthy.
"Practically landing on someone's head is rude, you know. You dumb bird." Harrumph. Unfazed by my lecture, the gull continued pacing and eventually wandered off on foot. I climbed back up onto my haunches and reset my shot. It wasn't until much later when I was reviewing the captured photos that I realized just how perfect that seagull's trajectory, proximity, and timing had turned out to be. Instead of a mediocre memento, I had a once-in-a-lifetime photograph.
Since I was staying in a bungalow by myself for three weeks (it was cheaper for the company than staying in a hotel room for that long), I immediately purchased a giant can of insect spray and carried it with me from room to room. The only intruder I ever encountered was a cricket, but from what I can remember that thing was enormous. Like something from the jurassic period. Or Alabama. And I may have let out a chord-like keen of distress as I released half of the can's contents on the unfortunate guy but at the time I was convinced he was chasing me and I panicked.
Not to mention, some coworker thought that sending me a photo of a Huntsman spider before I started the project was a good idea (side note - I'm not sure whether "Huntsman" should be capitalized but I'm afraid to look it up because I know Google is going to include an image and I don't need a refresher). I was so paranoid that I'd head for the front door one morning and there it would be - standing unnaturally on the back of the front door with more legs than a living thing should have - staring at me. Trapping me in my bungalow. I'd have had to have done something embarrassing like call for backup and arrive late because there's no way I'd have gone anywhere near that door. And sadly I wouldn't have been able to keep my eyes off of it either, because what if I turned away and suddenly it disappeared? It would have been at large in my living space and I wouldn't have been able to sleep for the rest of my stay.
Thankfully, I never saw a Huntsman in person. I did mention my unease once to the customer and the response I received only made things worse.
"You're afraid of the Huntsman?" he said, in his Australian laden British accent. For some reason, none of the people on the customer's project team were native Australians. "They aren't even poisonous," he scoffed.
"When a spider is the size of my face, I don't really care if it is poisonous or not," I replied. I'm sure I also shivered because an image of the photo sent by my wretched coworker (and burned on the backs of my eyeballs) came to mind.
"Oh, well, they can be a menace I suppose. They like to settle in tight, cozy spaces. So sometimes you'll flip down the sun visor in your car while you're driving and one will simply fall into your lap."
Oh. My. God. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head, they were so wide, and shifted from one face to another pleading for someone to crack a smile that said "he's just messing with you, ha ha ha". But all I saw was acknowledgement and a resignation toward the fact of the matter. Well, isn't that just dandy? Now I'd have to take the insect spray into the car as well and probably blind myself in a moment of hysteria and then be eaten by the Huntsman.
To avoid such a tragic and dramatic demise, I developed a routine. First, open the driver-side door, flip down the visor and jump back in case anything fell out. Second, reach across the driver seat and flip down the passenger visor for good measure, promptly backing out of the car in case anything fell out. Only when both steps were completed without incident would I get into the car and drive anywhere. I didn't have a plan for the occasion when a spider actually fell out of the visor and disappeared into the car so thank goodness that never happened or I'd probably still be in Perth. Marooned.
Consequently, I did a good deal of walking when possible and after having stumbled upon Swan River in my rambling, made it a frequent destination. On a sunny Saturday morning, I set out with the objective of reaching the river by a different route than the more efficient trek I used on weekday evenings so I headed in the general direction of the water and turned down streets I hadn't yet explored. The closer I got to the river, the larger the houses and lots became in the neighborhoods. Some were just being constructed, others were well established with thick vegetation draping the fences, and electronic gates guarding the driveway entrances. Not caring one bit about how I might appear to the classy elite who dwelled within, I gawked and snapped photos and continued on my way.
Finally, there was an entrance to a park along the river from one of the culs-de-sac and I gladly stepped through to the open space and glittering water. Walking along the water's edge, the lofty mansions loomed behind me and I ignored them as I searched for photo opportunities. The sky was a dreamy blue, the sand a bright white-yellow, and I came upon a dark, porous clump of rock on the beach that jutted into the water and served as a nice contrast both in color and texture. The Perth skyline was directly across the river - a nice backdrop. And while it might not turn out to be the greatest photo it would serve as a catalyst for memories of my walks. I hunkered down into a squat, my backside resting on the heels of my feet, and began to frame up my shot. With focus set on the rock in the foreground and the other components of the composition set, I had just begun to squeeze my finger to close the shutter when I felt a whoosh over my head and a FLAP-FLAP-FLAP that became alarmingly louder with each successive beat.
Naturally, I was startled out of my squat and plopped down on my bottom in the sand. Having had my sight set through the viewfinder a moment before, I was disoriented and stared straight ahead at the rock I'd been capturing. Nothing seemed amiss. Then I caught a bit of movement to my right and turned my head to find a seagull pacing about a foot away from me. I was miffed.
"Seriously, you didn't see me?" I demanded in a tone that clearly said I knew for a fact he had seen me and just chose to come in for his botched landing anyway. For goodness' sake, I'd been sitting there for several minutes lining up that shot and I wasn't wearing anything remotely camouflage-worthy.
"Practically landing on someone's head is rude, you know. You dumb bird." Harrumph. Unfazed by my lecture, the gull continued pacing and eventually wandered off on foot. I climbed back up onto my haunches and reset my shot. It wasn't until much later when I was reviewing the captured photos that I realized just how perfect that seagull's trajectory, proximity, and timing had turned out to be. Instead of a mediocre memento, I had a once-in-a-lifetime photograph.
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