5 years ago, I went on a kayaking trip with two friends along New Zealand’s Coromandel Peninsula.
It was a week of island hopping, low-lumbar-pain paddling, and friendship.
On the 4th day we met Fiona.
We were about 500 metres from shore, and saw some movement in the distance. We thought it may be a dolphin or a school of fish, but as we approached we saw a blackbird caught in a fishing net.
My friend, Marcus, untangled the bird and placed it on the front of his kayak. It sat perfectly still, as we paddled south down the coastline.
Within 20 minutes, we gave her the name Fiona (we didn’t know how to tell her sex, so we took a gamble).
As we paddled into a secluded bay for the evening, Fiona was still sitting quietly. Unmoving. She showed no sign of being in pain, but her silence was worrying.
The moment we pulled our kayaks up onto the sand, she hopped off and slowly hobbled towards a large coastal rock formation. She nestled into a nook and refused all food. It was like she was winding down and bracing for a long night ahead.
The next morning, when we went to look for her, she was gone.