Walking the Bird Beat
By Ashraya Gupta

“Are we Plover 2 or Plover 3?”

“I think we’re Plover 3. Did they say Plover 3?”

Taryn Martinez and Theresa Watts say these words over the static of their handheld radio. The two college students are on their way to Smith Point Beach, driving a large, dusty Land Rover with the words “Endangered Species Protection Program” emblazoned across the side. It’s a Friday morning and they’re on Plover Patrol, working with Suffolk County Parks and the Fire Island National Seashore to recover Atlantic Coast piping plover populations.

Piping plovers were declared a federally endangered species in the mid-80s, as their delicate beach habitat became increasingly threatened by shoreline commercialization. Since then, due to recovery efforts and zoning laws, they’ve made their way to the threatened list. In New York, however, these small beach-dwelling birds are still endangered. Human population on the beach, combined with the proliferation of feral cats and other predators, continues to threaten their fragile existence.

Prior to becoming plover stewards, neither Martinez nor Watts was particularly attached to the piping plover cause. But they both express a desire to have a positive impact on their environment. Martinez is a junior at Brown University, studying environmental science and hoping to focus on sustainable development. Watts attends SUNY Plattsburgh; she’s studying to become a nurse. Once accepted for the position, they were trained to dig trenches, repair fencing, and collect data.

Everything seems to rhyme or alliterate for these two plover stewards: they call one of their coworkers “Plover Pete,” they have Plover Parties, they drive a Plover Rover. Martinez calls it “one of the ways we amuse ourselves.” And sometimes they have to—Plover Patrol isn’t always easy.

Everyday, they make their way across at least five miles of beach, squinting to spot the tiny birds in the hot sand. And then there are the detractors.

As we pull on to William Floyd Parkway, Martinez recalls one particularly vehement opponent. He’d pulled up to her while she was walking along the beach and politely asked if she was one of the people putting signs up about the birds. Martinez, expecting some sort of thank you, replied yes. Leaning out of the window, the man said, “Well you can go to hell,” and drove away.

Many people don’t see the point of sacrificing their own use of the beach for a bird that appears to give us very little in return. But the piping plover is integral to maintaining our beach ecosystem. Protecting piping plovers may also help other rare species, such as terns and skimmers.

Plovers are small, reaching less than seven inches when fully mature. One usually hears them before seeing them; they’re named for their plaintive call. They winter along the southern or Mexican coast, sometimes reaching the Caribbean. In early spring, they return to the north, often to the same nesting grounds. Their nests are delicate: small, shallow, barely discernible indentations in the sand. But they’re resourceful birds—intelligent, quick, well-camouflaged.

When we reach the beach, Martinez and Watts quickly hop out of the Plover Rover and begin releasing air from the wheels. They’re efficient about it, tackling one side each. As they wait for the tire pressure to go down, they discuss the route they’ll take. They have about 12 nests to cover.

Plovers mate in late March or early April; the eggs are laid in June. About 25 days after a full nest is laid, usually about three or four eggs, the chicks hatch. A month after that, they fledge, beginning to fly.

During the past week, Plover Patrol has been especially exciting: the chicks have just been born. Some are learning to fly. Martinez laughs as she explains how to their progress: run straight at a chick until, hopefully, it takes off.

The chicks are tiny, barely the size of a chicken egg. They run bow-legged across the beach, sometimes tumbling into wells caused by footprints. Martinez points out the fast-moving black specks, and using her binoculars, counts how many she finds.

Some of the nests have yet to hatch. The parents attempt to divert attention away from the nest; one bird pretends to incubate, "false sitting," while the other flutters and falls over, feigning a broken wing.

Around some of the more vulnerable nests, the stewards have built plover exclosures, wire cages to keep out predators. They’re only allowed ten minutes to build each structure; it’s imperative to not overly disturb the birds, if they do so, the nest may be abandoned.

Though abandonment rates are quite high among plovers, the birds also show a certain resilience. During a storm two weeks ago, one nest was washed away by the high tide. The mother rolled the eggs back to the nest and the eggs, exposed to cold seawater for over two hours, miraculously hatched.

Martinez actually saw a chick hatch on July 4. Quickly, she took a picture with her camera phone. The grainy photograph shows a small, sticky ball of fluff next to a yet-to-be hatched sibling. The chick appears almost unbelievably fragile. But plover chicks can skitter around the beach on their own within minutes of being born, as soon as their feathers are dry.

After that, however, the birds continue to face the risks of the territory: unleashed dogs, beach driving, and everything else that comes with living alongside humans still make survival difficult. But human contact doesn’t have to be harmful: the efforts of the Endangered Species Protection Program prove that daily