Soaring with Seagulls in Chincoteague, Virgina
Foamy waves lap at my bare feet as I walk along a stretch of coastline. Below, the sand glistens brightly with a thousand jewels. I watch the tumultuous toss and turn of the ocean as the pale turquoise water sifts through the debris of uprooted sea wrack, littered pebbles, and bits of shell and marine insect. Then, with a silent roar, the sea would hurl all of these back onto the shore, where the rocks neatly sort themselves by size. I begin to pick up my pace and run, my arms spreading out wide as they morph into a seagull’s white wings. I see the bird swoop, its belly skimming the edge of the water as it dips. As the bird disappears into the horizon, another movement catches my sight. Horses, of assorted brown, black, white, and gray, their tails glossy, legs lean and muscular, and their pelts sleek, gallop from their homes in the trees, as if challenging the shoreline, sending up a spray of sand and air. I sit down, content. Here, the sky was the limit, the horizon the end. Nothing could be heard but the never ending sea, and the occasional cawing of the sea birds as they flew away, shrouded by mist. Here, all was serene and I had no burdens. I was free.
The first thing that stuck out to me about the wildlife reserve was that it stank, just like a skunk. Turns out, the huge mud puddle in front of the visitor’s center is actually a human waste treatment plant. I wrinkle my nose in disgust and attempt to stop myself from visualizing what else could lurk in such a seemingly harmless pond of dirt. So, to ease the scent from our nostrils, I follow my family into the visitor’s center building. What really captivates my attention immediately were photographs (wait, no, closer observations reveal that they are drawings and paintings!) of ducks- some flying, some resting, some in awkward positions. I marvel at one, whose ruffled black and white feathers were rendered so soft that I could almost touch it, while I admire another for the fine nuances of phthalocyanine green and ultramarine blue that created a marbled appearance in the duck’s patches of fur. What really astonishes me, however, is that these young painters were only a few years older than me (imagine, painting a photorealistic duck at age fifteen!). I vow that one day I would join the ranks of these talented artists.
Besides uttering the word “wow”, I was speechless once I place my feet in the lush woodland. Mighty oaks, maples, and evergreens stretch above us into the clouds. The leaves piece together a deep green sky, streaks of light falling through cracks in the branches, illuminating the wildlife below it. Now and then a fallen tree blocks our path, and I had a delusion that we were in the majestic redwood forests of California. We emerge in a clearing at the flank of the Chesapeake Bay, a gentle breeze rippling the fabric of the water. A heron perches on the receding waves, and I look down just in time to see a pair of mallards gracefully gliding along. I steal a glance beside me and my jaw dropped. Lines of photographers had stampeded the little bridge we were standing on, absorbing in the entire scene through their clickey-eyed cameras. Then it hit me. Why did I forget to bring my watercolor brushes and sketchbook? I thought to myself miserably.
About the Author: Adele Peng is an avid photographer, artist, and biologist “in training”. She is currently in rising seventh grade in Oakton, Virginia, and writes passionately. During the summer, she often visits China and Canada, and enjoys exploring the East Coast with her family.
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