Town Hall Seattle Science Series
Jul 22, 2026 · 1 hr 4 min · 10 segments
 Try to imagine a world without birds. It's quite a challenge, given that we share the…
David B. WilliamsGuestOne Saturday afternoon in spring, when the sun had finally broken through months of gray Scottish gloom, my wife Anne and I joined some friends for a boat ride.
As the ferry glided towards the ruins, a plump puffin swam alongside our wake, paddling with his feathery wings, looking up with his wide eyes, and crooning a sweet ballad with his orange and black striped beak.
It peeled off as we reached the harbor and dropped anchor, off to catch fish for lunch or maybe charm Taurus and the cruiser behind us.
Time now for us to disembark, and as we did so, the captain shouted out a warning about a decidedly less enchanting bird.
But anyway, think of a thick Scot, Sean Connery saying, don't provoke the gulls, it's their breeding season.
Anne and I heeded the captain's command, as did most of our group, but our friend Dan Goldberg was more cavalier.
A mathematician who builds computer models of glaciers, he's a keen hiker and hill walker when he's not in front of his laptop screen.
He leapt in front of us and bounded onto the path towards the abbey, past the crumbling cloisters, off to the rocky edge of the island where old World War II fortifications blended into the shoreline.
A shriek so shrill that had you been one of the monks marooned on the island centuries ago, you might have thought it was a demon.
"'It got me!' he shouted, his head darting this way and that, looking up and down, left and right, attempting to make sense of what happened, trying to spot his assailant.
After a few moments of calm, he picked himself up off the ground and brushed the dirt from his knees." That was stupid, he said as he realized he'd gotten too close to the goal's chicks.
Shaking his head, he snickered with the self-depreciating confidence of someone who thought they had survived a funny ordeal.
High above, riding thermals of rising air, the mother gull was contemplating her next move.
One Saturday afternoon in spring, when the sun had finally broken through months of gray Scottish gloom, my wife Anne and I joined some friends for a boat ride.
As the ferry glided towards the ruins, a plump puffin swam alongside our wake, paddling with his feathery wings, looking up with his wide eyes, and crooning a sweet ballad with his orange and black striped beak.
It peeled off as we reached the harbor and dropped anchor, off to catch fish for lunch or maybe charm Taurus and the cruiser behind us.
Time now for us to disembark, and as we did so, the captain shouted out a warning about a decidedly less enchanting bird.
But anyway, think of a thick Scot, Sean Connery saying, don't provoke the gulls, it's their breeding season.
Anne and I heeded the captain's command, as did most of our group, but our friend Dan Goldberg was more cavalier.
A mathematician who builds computer models of glaciers, he's a keen hiker and hill walker when he's not in front of his laptop screen.
He leapt in front of us and bounded onto the path towards the abbey, past the crumbling cloisters, off to the rocky edge of the island where old World War II fortifications blended into the shoreline.
A shriek so shrill that had you been one of the monks marooned on the island centuries ago, you might have thought it was a demon.
"'It got me!' he shouted, his head darting this way and that, looking up and down, left and right, attempting to make sense of what happened, trying to spot his assailant.
After a few moments of calm, he picked himself up off the ground and brushed the dirt from his knees." That was stupid, he said as he realized he'd gotten too close to the goal's chicks.
Shaking his head, he snickered with the self-depreciating confidence of someone who thought they had survived a funny ordeal.
High above, riding thermals of rising air, the mother gull was contemplating her next move.
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