“Pelican Pete” was the Runner Up in Pelican’s second Flash Fiction competition of 2024.
By Mae Joy
The Perth sky was scattered with shimmering formations of gulls in the early morning light. Embracing the morning crispness, Pelican Pete was asleep on a light post on Canning Bridge, head resting on his folded back feathers. He was the only pelican on the bridge that morning – a rare sight. The metal tree-like posts were typically claimed for convenience by tired pelicans who didn’t need to fish in the morning. But Pelican Pete liked the light posts for the view of the sunrise each morning.
Pelican Pete’s mother had always told him he was too preoccupied with the sky – how would he provide for his future nest while making shapes in the clouds? It was the favorite question discussed amongst the mother pelicans, including his own. He remembered her repeated shallow reassurances. You’ll be okay, she had said after his near-miss with a Coles truck on the Kwinana freeway. You’ll be okay, she had said after his father smacked him on the head after dropping an easy catch. You’ll be okay, she had said as he had flapped his angry wings and left home forever.
Every sunrise since was reassuring Pelican Pete that he had made the right decision in leaving home, and now the sunrise over Canning Bridge became the most treasured part of his day. He knew the routine well – the golden egg-like sun got fished from the horizon hills by a halo of down-like clouds to bring a new day. A new day of fishing, his dad would have corrected him. But not anymore, neither of his parent’s wanted anything to do with him.
Pelican Pete readjusted his frozen wings and turned his attention to the quiet horizon, a fine black line outlining the boundary between the land and the open sky. The coming sunrise wouldn’t be his first, but it would be his first one alone – where was everybody? Pelican Pete was thoughtful for a moment. Was today the peak of the spring swell? He had heard mutterings amongst the flock while frolicking for salty pippies in the ancient waters of Point Walter. Amongst them was Pelican Carl.
Pelican Carl was old and wise, but more importantly he understood the ocean and river waters like no one else. Or so Pelican Pete believed; other pelicans believed him to be a crazy old bird full of stories, including Pelican Pete’s father. He had warned younger Pelican Pete that old Pelican Carl was as wise as mud crab lost in the Lancelin sand dunes. But still Pelican Pete liked Pelican Carl. They had spent many dawns together on Canning Bridge, sharing the wonder of the dawn colors. Pelican Carl had told
Pelican Pete quietly that the ocean would bring the biggest swell of the spring soon, and would bring lots of fish – herring, sardines, minnow, mullet, sheepshead. The thought had made Pelican Pete dizzy.
It must be this morning, Pelican Pete concluded, shaking the dew off his white feathers. I can still make the catch, he assured himself. He crooked his feathered neck to peer westward, in the direction of Leighton Beach. He knew his family would be there, fighting for a speck of herring. Uncles against Aunties, cousins against siblings, all of them against Pelican Pete. The ‘family’ unit would be put on hold until everyone returned to the Swan River with full stomachs and de-escalated temperaments. Pelican Pete preferred the slow pace of the world above him. The drifting whisps in the sky that could tell stories of a thousand years in a single moment. When Pelican Pete had recounted some of the stories to his parents, he was sent to scout the fishing boats as a punishment.
Pelican Pete returned his steady gaze to the Mundaring hills and felt the bitter memory ebbing away. The sun’s warm fingers were beginning to embrace Western Australia; a gold vein to the Goldfields, a stream of summer barley to the Wheatbelt, and for Pelican Pete, proof that there was more to life than fishing. Before him was the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen!
The entanglement of hues, so vivid and striking, and yet so gentle and simple. As simple as the ocean meeting the warm sand at twilight, as gentle as the peppermint trees brushing against the deep blue expanse above Perth. Streaks of joyful pinks and mellow purples melted into soft blues the color of shallow salty pools filled with basking mullet. The sun’s halo was as red as the blooming callistemon brushes; the clouds had golden bellies below royal turrets of fluff. The Swan River reflected the blooming sky perfectly in its glass-like waters. The new day was in no rush, and neither were the clouds, domesticated gum trees nor Pelican Pete sitting alone on Canning Bridge. A gentle breeze greeted him atop the light post and brought a taste of the warmth to come with a hint of eucalyptus.
Pelican Pete opened his wings to their full span, exposing his empty belly to the beauty of the dawn sky. All intentions he had to join the morning fishing routine were gone. Long gone, his parent’s criticism dissolving in the golden sky before him and falling to the black highway below.
A ruffling broke Pelican Pete’s trance, and he noticed he was not alone after all. Pelican Carl was behind him. He was on an identical light post, patiently sitting, patiently watching. His wizened eyes reflected the twirling colors, and the wind caressed his aged feathers. He blinked knowingly at Pelican Pete and calmly fell into the wind – an exercise in trust. He was caught and glided away from Canning Bridge, following the wind, listening to the newly hatched sun and the whispering ocean.
Pelican Pete needed no further instruction, no further direction, no further destination. Blinking his thanks to the sky for such a performance, he closed his watery eyes and fell, knowing he would be caught. And would be better than okay.