Growing up, I don’t recall my grandfather ever calling my grandmother by her real name. She was always The Kingfish.
“Check with the Kingfish.”
“Ask the Kingfish.”
“Better see what the Kingfish thinks.”
I’d like to think it was a term of endearment… and for family harmony, let’s just stick with that.
So when I told my Kingfish (aka my wife) that I was heading out at 5:30 a.m. to photograph a Belted Kingfisher, she immediately perked up—half in amusement, half in suspicion—at the name. I had to explain there’s no relation. The Kingfish my grandfather referred to was a fish. The Belted Kingfisher is a bird. And a flashy, high-octane bird at that.
If James Bond were a bird, he’d be this guy—sharp suit, deadly aim, and a penchant for dramatic entrances. From a distance, you’ll see them perched over the water, big-headed and crested like they’ve just rolled out of bed yet still manage to look like a GQ cover model. Their long, dagger-like bill says, “I’m all business,” while their coloring says, “I’m also fabulous.”
In a delightful twist of avian fashion norms, the female is actually more decked out than the male—rocking not only the blue breast band but also a rusty-orange sash like she splurged for the “premium accessories” package.
Daily Schedule of a Belted Kingfisher:
- Secure prime fishing real estate—the Narrow River, Narragansett, RI.
- Perch or hover while giving fish the kind of glare that says, “You’re already on the menu.”
- Fold wings, dive like a feathered missile, and hit the water at up to 40 mph.
- Resurface with lunch, give it the ol’ whack against a perch (no table manners here), and swallow it whole.
- Repeat until full… or until that weird human with the camera pushes their luck.
In the air, they cruise at 25–35 mph—always in a straight, purposeful line, like they’re late for a fish appointment. For housing, they’re DIY champions, jackhammering an 8-foot tunnel into a dirt bank to make a chick-friendly hideout.
Their voice? Loud, dry, rattling—pure bird sarcasm. The kind that says, “Yes, I caught that fish. No, you couldn’t have done it better.”
And here’s the real lesson—before I ever showed up with my camera, I’d scouted this stretch of river days earlier, noting exactly where my Belted Kingfisher liked to perch. So when the morning came, I was in the right place at the right time, lens trained and ready.
Moral of the story? Scouting turns luck into certainty. Or, as my grandfather might say, “Check with the Kingfish first.”
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