"Hey, you…"

I looked up from my sandwich and looked around the marina. I was alone.

"You, buddy, with the sandwich."

I looked around again. The wharf was empty. The sailboats rocked in their berths, assenting to the gentle motion of the bay, they bathed in the breezy warmth of the late spring day. Off shore, a sister boat cut through choppy seas, framed in the backdrop of the island of the pelican; Alcatraz.

"You ever going to update that website?"

"Okay," I looked around again. "Who said that?"

"Who said what," came the reply. A seagull sat on a railing about ten feet away.

I looked directly at the bird. "Who said I should update my website?"

"Well just about everybody, you big dummy. Don’t you read your e-mail?"

I looked around the wharf again. There didn’t appear to be another person in sight. I waited for the "Candid Camera" crew to appear. "Well, yes, I do read my e-mail."

"Then why haven’t you updated your website in a month. What have you been doing, watching television?"

"I’d rather play golf, drink coffee, and listen to Paul Reiser long-distance commercials."

"Not much for television, then, huh?"

"Seems like a waste of time; viewing life, instead of living it."

"’May you live all the days of your life.’"

"Jonathan Swift," I replied. "You’re a particularly well-educated bird."

"How would you know? Do you talk to many gulls?"

Well, I had to admit that it was the rare day that I spoke at length with members of the feathered set. I felt certain that I would be talking to many more birds at the sanitarium when they took me away.

"Are you going to give me some of that sandwich? I just love that sourdough bread."

"It’s chicken," I replied.

"Oh that’s real funny. No thanks."

I put the sandwich away out of respect. I had seen the movie "Alive." I knew how he must feel.

"Thanks," he said. "I owe you one."

"No problem, want a chip?"

And so I sat there on Embarcadero and threw chips to a talking seagull. I knew San Francisco was unusual, even weird. But talking birds pushed the limits of strange. Even in my beloved Arkansas, the hogs don’t answer when the call goes out on those crisp fall Saturday afternoons. Wooo, Pig Sooie, Razorbacks! Occasionally Paula Jones comes scratching at the door, but that’s about it. Talking birds, no.

"How do you know about the website?"

"Cybercafes."

"Of course."

" By the way, how’s the search coming?"

"What search."

"The search for life; the search for the living. You’ve been writing about it since you started the website."

"Well, I was writing about Europe for a while."

"No, you were writing about your search while you were in Europe."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Sure you do. Take that bit you did on attending the English soccer game, for example. That wasn’t so much about the game, as it was about your search for purity; purity in sport. You recoil at the rampant commercialism and hype in American sports; the rock-and-roll fusion of show business, hype, and television. The game is no longer enough, it must be an ‘event,’ a ‘war,’ or a ‘showdown.’ It must be about the personalities, the feuds, the hatreds. Two teams, playing hard together to overcome the opposition is not enough. It doesn’t make for good ratings."

I sat there for a while and thought about his words. Perhaps he was right; the hype on pro basketball had soured me on the game. And yet, I yearn for the great Laker-Celtic series of the 1980s. Surely, they were hyped. I could not remember.

He continued. "Your search is not in vain. You shall learn. You will grow. You will live. But, it is unlikely you will ever find the answers to all of your questions."

"Does anyone," I asked.

"No, they simply give up the search and pretend to know the answers. They accept."

I looked at the bird for a long while. He did not continue.

"They accept what?" I asked.

"They accept."

He continued: "The answers are not important. Remember always the words of Voltaire: ‘Judge a man by his questions, rather than by his answers.’ They will serve you well."

"The search isn’t easy, is it?"

"Wouldn’t be worth a damn if it was."

"I guess I should get moving then, shouldn’t I?"

"Yep. So, will you put my picture on the website?"

"Sure."

"And, you’ll update it a little more?"

"Yes."

"And you’ll never accept?"

"I hope not."

With that the bird nodded, turned, and flew out over the bay. He spread his wings, pointed his body into the wind, and rode the currents ever upward until he was out of sight. Had he turned his body with the wind, he would have plummeted to the earth.

I put the camera back in my backpack, shouldered it, and walked out on to the Embarcadero. I passed an old man with a young child throwing bread to the gulls. "Can birds talk?" She asked the man.

"No, dear."

I looked at her, smiled, and walked into the city.