In Tampa, Relax by the Shore and Save It, Too

As the sun beat hotter and the sweat levees threatened to break, I started dreaming of that first plunge. Arcing dive. Cool splash. Floating, floating . . . "Where's the Tapping Lady?" hollered one of the helpers.

Back to reality, back to work.

For the remainder of the morning, I beat down inflatable balls determined to rise to the top of the domes, which were freshly filled with wet concrete. I didn't quite understand the mechanics of my assignment, blindly hammering this, there, now. But I was satisfied knowing that my little taps would contribute to the overall health of the bay. "The estuary is the best it's been in years," Sutton said. "There's no way we could do all of these projects without volunteers."

The birds at Suncoast Seabird Sanctuary in Indian Shores, where I volunteered my second day, showed their appreciation by dropping a little present on my shoulder. But splats are to be expected at the largest wild-bird hospital in the country.

I checked in at the small gift shop and was promptly asked if my service was court mandated. Uh, no -- do I need to steal a car to help out? I soon learned that sanctuary volunteers fall into one of three categories: altruistic types, students who need community service credit and minor felons on parole who must clean dirty bird cages to amend their actions. That day, there was me and another helper who was working off 100 court-ordered hours for growing marijuana in his home.

The rehabilitation center helps as many as 10,000 birds a year, many injured by fishing lures and boats. The numbers spike between April and July, which is birthing season. During this period, the site is overwhelmed with impaired baby birds, an average of 20 to 30 per day. However, because I lacked bottle training, I was relegated to grounds work.

For some reason, carrying a garden tool gives you an air of authority, and I was soon helping visitors and their wounded birds find the necessary care. The first emergency case involved a tiny bird, the victim of a crow attack, lying limply in an orange soda box. Unfortunately, it was DOA. Soon after, a sprightly young girl in cowboy boots arrived with her father, who was toting a cat carrier. Inside was another crow-battered bird determined to see another day. The prognosis looked good.

Halfway through my stint, I joined some staff members on the beach to seek out injured birds and tempt them with buckets of raw fish. As we tossed the fish onto the sand, flocks of pelicans and terns encircled us. Many had the ankle bands of former patients, but we did not see any birds pierced with hooks or wrapped up in lines. It was a bust for us but a feast for them.

The next beach foray was more successful. A great blue heron had suffered an eight-inch laceration and, now healed, was ready to be released into the wild. After being deposited on a dune, the bird froze for a few moments before gingerly testing its wings and taking baby steps on its stick-thin legs. Then, with a dramatic sweep of feathers, it flew off, a graceful silhouette returning to its place in the skies.

* * *

On Pinellas Peninsula, you can basically throw a shell anywhere from your car window and hit a beach. My shell landed on the coveted sands of Fort DeSoto and Treasure Island, a barrier isle on the west side.

At the state park, I set the pace on inertia. For hours, my biggest exertion was flipping from front to back. However, when I finally took a look around, I realized that I could still be helpful.

According to signs, I could assist researchers by calling in fish kills and sawfish sightings, or I could take action by removing hooks from pelicans. (A placard diagrammed how.) I could accomplish so much without having to sit up any higher than a 30-degree angle.

Of course, this did not preclude me from closing my eyes and basking in the Florida sun. The only difference was that when I heard a bird call or a fish flop, I'd open my eyes a crack.