Guests on the Shore

Seagulls and I have never really managed to coexist peacefully. For reasons I still can’t explain, they seem to find me irresistible, as if I’m quietly broadcasting some secret gull-summoning signal. I’ve had a couple of memorable encounters with them over the years, the kind that make you glance up at the sky a little more cautiously afterward. And no, it’s not because I provoke them. I don’t chase them, shoo them away, or steal their fries. I hold no grudges against seagulls whatsoever.

In fact, I admire them. I love watching them glide effortlessly through the open air, riding invisible currents with an ease that feels almost poetic. Their calls—sharp, wild, and unmistakably coastal—add a certain character to the atmosphere, like nature’s own soundtrack. Still, despite my appreciation, there is an unspoken tension between us. They circle, I notice. I walk, they linger. It’s a curious, one-sided relationship where I remain a respectful observer… and they remain suspiciously interested.

It was one of those classic summer Sundays at the beach. The kind that feels timeless. The sun was high and unapologetic, beating down with that familiar Florida coastal intensity that makes the sand almost too hot to stand on for long. It was about noon, the hour when the ocean sparkles brightest, and hunger sneaks up without warning. We had come prepared, armed with sandwiches made from a mixture of cheese and Spam, wrapped carefully and tucked away like small treasures, along with refreshments and other goods.

I remember pulling a sandwich out, grateful for the shade of an umbrella and the promise of food. The first bite was barely finished when I sensed movement. Something quick and bold. Before I could react, a seagull swooped down with startling precision and snipped a piece of my sandwich right out of my hands. It happened so fast it almost felt rehearsed, as though the bird had been watching me the entire time, waiting for that exact moment of vulnerability.

Seagulls are like that. They are not timid, nor are they polite. They are confident creatures, fully aware that beaches belong to them just as much as they do to us, perhaps more. To a seagull, a human holding food is not a person enjoying a meal but an opportunity, a walking buffet that simply hasn’t figured out the rules yet.

As the bird flew off with its prize, I sat there stunned, sandwich lighter and ego slightly bruised. Around me, the beach carried on as usual: waves crashing, children laughing, towels flapping in the breeze. Yet I had just been reminded of an unspoken truth: at the beach, we are guests, while the seagulls are seasoned locals.

This wasn’t my only memorable encounter with them, either. On another visit to the shore, I learned just how fearless they truly are. I was walking along the coastline, lost in thought, when a seagull flew so close to me that it actually smacked my head. Not brushed past. Not grazed. Smacked. It felt deliberate, as if the bird was asserting dominance or reminding me to stay aware of my surroundings.

It didn’t leave a bruise or any lasting damage, but the impact was dramatic enough to snap me straight back to reality. One second, I was minding my own business, peacefully existing, and the next—whack—I was rudely yanked out of my thoughts as if the universe itself had reached down and hit the reset button. It was the kind of smack that doesn’t hurt so much as it offends, leaving you standing there stunned, blinking, and silently asking, “Did that really just happen to me?”

I remember laughing afterward, a soft, helpless kind of laugh that bubbled up before I could stop it—partly out of pure disbelief, and partly because there was absolutely no sensible response available to me. I mean, what else could I do? Stand there and demand an explanation? File a formal complaint? You can’t exactly argue with a seagull. There’s no reasoning with a creature that answers only to the wind, the waves, and the distant promise of unattended snacks.

So I laughed, because laughter felt like the most dignified option left. It smoothed over the absurdity of the moment and turned it into a story rather than a grievance. In that instant, the seagull had already moved on—probably bragging to its friends—while I was left behind, shaking my head, amused and oddly humbled by the fact that I’d just lost a silent, one-sided encounter with a bird.

Seagulls have earned a reputation as beach bullies, but there’s something oddly admirable about them. They are clever, observant, and incredibly adaptive. They’ve learned our habits, our routines, and our weaknesses—especially when food is involved. A crinkling wrapper or the faint smell of a sandwich is all it takes to summon them from nowhere. One moment the sky is clear, and the next you are surrounded by watchful eyes and expectant cries.

In many ways, seagulls are part of the full beach experience. They are woven into the memory as much as the salt air and sunburned skin. They add unpredictability, a reminder that nature doesn’t always stay politely in the background. Sometimes it swoops in, steals your lunch, or taps you on the head just to make its presence known.

Years later, I don’t remember every detail of those beach days—the exact conversations, the music playing, or the towels we sat on. But I remember the seagull stealing my sandwich. I remember the thump of wings against my head. Those moments linger because they are funny, humbling, and uniquely human experiences shared with creatures that refuse to be ignored.

At the beach, you learn many lessons: bring sunscreen, watch the tide, and never underestimate a seagull.