Beautiful warblers, orioles, kingbirds and numerous other birds I don't recognize lay over on Mustang Island after a long flight across the Gulf from South and Central America. The migration happens in April. Having friends who like to bird watch and friends who scorn bird watching, I have to be more on guard than the birds.

Pressed by a stranger why I am visiting the coast, I carry a sand dollar in my pocket I bought in a shell store in San Francisco 20 years ago to display as my latest find. Pressed by a herder why I visit the coast, I drop my head and mumble, "My German ancestor landed in 1843 close to Port Aransas. My ol' great grandpappy started our lands from the island. The least I can do is spend his birthday down there."

Bird watching caught on at Port Aransas four or five years ago. Rockport and Goose Island up the coast were the original hotspots because of the whooping cranes, but now all the coastal maps designate refuges; local people guide tours free of charge.

Folks wearing binoculars hanging on straps are as common at the post office as on the beach. I was afraid to wear a pair in public for fear someone might ask what kind of bird was perching on a high-line, or bathing by the curb. Instead of going to the inland bird watching spots, I walked every morning and afternoon along the coast to conceal my ignorance.

Shore birds (and I suppose they are residents) feasted on the bugs hiding in the tons and tons of seaweed washing up on the beach. Only competition the gulls and terns had was a city employee running a John Deere grader up and down the beach, scraping the seaweed into piles. On his best days, he probably wasn't behind more than 5000 tons at quitting time. The inexorable forces of the sea are always going to outmatch 12 feet of grader blade powered by a diesel engine.

Shell collectors walked along barefooted between the water's edge and the weeds. Determined mothers herded kids in pink and yellow sun suits through the smelly stuff to wade in the shallows. One morning on the way to the beach, I found a green handled, sponge rubber mop to use as a walking stick and make-do putting iron. The roaring of the sea and brisk winds brought on a deep distraction. I wandered along unaware of time or place. One end of the mop worked at sifting sand in crab holes and the swab portion make a good rake to cover up tracks and push the sand off shells or litter.

Seaward, as I turned down the coast, a gray-headed man paralleled my course, carrying a shell sack but never looking down at the beach. The poor chap suffered pronounced upper torso head and shoulder spasms. We both wore the same color black swimming trunks, fitted slightly below our protruding waistlines.

At the same point, we turned and started back up the beach. He looking straight ahead, the empty plastic bag fluttering in the winds; myself pausing to switch ends of the mob to use for whatever caught my curiosity. Soon I became aware of the crowds fading back on the dunes, the way sharks or stingrays empty an area. Kids stopped wading or building sand castles. Beach chairs and sun shades faced toward land. Mothers wearing extra dark sun glasses took a defiant stance, blew cigarette smoke through their nostrils, and glared at these two strange beachcombers.

Behind us, people moved into the water. Shell gatherers threw sticks to dogs and children played ball and splashed the sea. Next, I noticed when I looked back, if the old gent wasn't trembling too much, he did, too. Slow and clear, the message came, "Monte, you have made a spectacle of yourself again. Those people, those strangers, think you are using the mop to mop up the seaweed, and heavens knows what they think of a shell collector holding his head at the eye level of a brown pelican."

Island law forbids using the old trails going over the dunes as a shortcut to the beach house, but I dropped the mop in a trash barrel and went right on over the top to safety without ever looking back to see what happened to my teammate.

Every time I visit the charming little island, I return refreshed and healed by the sea. Two things, however, are going to change: I am not going to use mops or brooms for walking sticks, and I'll never, never stare at a man with the St. Vitus Dance again without compassion ...

May 18, 2000