A wonderful bird is the pelican.

His bill will hold more than his belly can.

Dixon Lancer Merritt, 1910

MY TIME WITH Morgan did not end with a dramatic flight over the ocean into the sunset, as I envisioned. Instead, with a splash off a sunny dock on a canal, with a bunch of people I never met, but whose interest and conc ern matched my own, she began her life anew. Betcha never held a pelican. Betcha probably never even wanted to hold a pelican.

“How did you ever get it down?” “I pulled the tree over.” That’s how Morgan’s story begins. One day in early February, while driving down Lighthouse Road on the way to the visitor center at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge, I spotted a pelican in a tree. Of course, you usually find this formerly threatened species on a beach or in the water, not six miles inland at the edge of a flatwoods forest. We backed up. The pelican cast a wary glance our way, but made no move.

Morgan gets ready to launch to freedom. Long, thick vines hanging from the 12 ft. tall sapling made a handy tool to pull the young, flexible tree over until the struggling pelican lost its balance and toppled in clumsy flight to the roadside not far away. The bird was weak, but lively enough to take off flapping down the road. No time to consider possible consequences. I lunged, and the hissing frantic bird was too weak to put up much of a fight. With its wings folded close to its body and held close to my own, and my hand wrapped tightly around its 11 inch knife-sharp beak, we squeezed into the pickup and rode to a wildlife rehab center, about 12 miles away.

What was wrong with this bird? Perhaps the persistent cold weather was the culprit. Fish that inhabit the shallows move to deeper, warmer waters, leaving young birds such as this pelican with a food shortage. If cold weather persists, immature birds separated from their parents can starve to death. Under stress, pelicans regurgitate their food, and this bird had nothing to share in my lap, so starvation seemed a possibility.

Judging by the size of the bill, shorter in length than a male’s, this was a female. Her beautiful marble-sized eye stared into mine. I whispered to her, willing her to live. Her fishy stench filled the cab of the truck. I told her that she would be all right, that she could not die, that she would grow up to be beautiful and strong. She was trembling. She would struggle, then relax, but still she trembled. I named her Morgan.

The Florida Wild Mammal Association is located on private property. Christine Beatty runs the rehab program on donations and grants, and has in her care a River Otter, Black Vultures, a dog or two, several deer, a flying squirrel, hawks, owls, other pelicans and plenty of other critters in various degrees of wellness.

Amid this predominantly wild menagerie, Morgan entered intensive care for a month, then was transferred to a larger pen with two other immature pelicans for a second month. During that time, I visited at least twice a week, taking cut-up apples to Frosty, the old blind white pony, and watching Morgan from afar. The fewer people in her space, the easier the transition would be. Animals were at this rehab center for a variety of reasons: they were shot, hit by cars, twisted and maimed by tangles of fishing line, poisoned by lead, mangled by cats or dogs. Each was housed with its own kind in well-built and wellmaintained large cages, protected from the scrutiny of other species by careful location of the pens.

The annoying cold weather persisted through March. Finally the long-awaited day arrived, warm and sunny, in early April. We crated four immature Brown Pelicans and took them in my car to a private house and dock a few miles away. Crate doors open, Morgan and her buddies flew out onto the water and swam around, then flew down the canal first one way, then the other, then back. We tossed fish to them, and within seconds, the freedom-lovers were joined by noisy Laughing Gulls and three adult Brown Pelicans. Initially intimidated by the older birds’ aggressive behavior, the youngsters were soon holding their own and snagging a fish or two.

Hopefully, Morgan is hanging around the dock a while longer, taking handouts from local fishermen. But then, out there somewhere, someday, I hope she is free and wild, effortlessly skimming the water, plunge-diving for her dinner, and having a grand old life. She won’t remember me, but I’ll never forget her.