I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. But I feel bad that any animal has the “common” designation. Take the Common Loon. What’s so common about it?
First of all, this bird looks like it was designed by a committee of artists who couldn’t agree on whether to build a submarine, a violin, or a spy. That dagger bill? Pure Cold War technology. Those red eyes? They glow like the dashboard light that means, You probably should have read the manual.
And this wasn’t even the famous tuxedo version. This was an immature, non-breeding bird—the loon equivalent of showing up in casual Friday attire while everyone else talks about prom photos. No dramatic black-and-white checkerboard. No bow-tie collar. Just tasteful grays and creams, like a sensible Rhode Island winter coat. And yet, even dressed down, the bird looked more dignified than I do at weddings.
Then there’s the voice—although this youngster kept mostly silent. Adult loons are famous for calls that sound like a lonely jazz trumpet or a wolf that took singing lessons from a bagpipe. Nothing “common” about a creature whose soundtrack could headline a Stephen King novel.
This particular loon was working the waters off Galilee like a professional fisherman on performance pay. He’d vanish with a casual shrug, reappear thirty yards away with a fish already halfway down the hatch, and repeat the routine before the local gulls could even put on their theft masks. The gulls circled hopefully—the way teenagers orbit a pizza box—but this bird was running a strict, one-loon, no-sharing operation.
Fun fact: loons can dive more than 200 feet and hold their breath close to a minute. They have solid bones, not hollow like most birds, which makes them heavier but turns them into underwater torpedoes. Their legs are set so far back they walk on land like someone trying to exit a wedding after discovering the open bar. Elegant swimmers. Terrible pedestrians. Deeply relatable.
Another fun fact: they swallow small pebbles to help grind fish bones in their gizzard. Translation: somewhere out there is a loon with better digestion planning than my entire family at Thanksgiving.
As I watched him, the winter sun polished the gentle scales on his back and lit that pale throat like brushed porcelain. The water was cold enough to make the thermometer seek counseling, yet this bird treated it like a spa appointment. Dive. Catch. Swallow. Repeat. Meanwhile, I was considering thermal underwear with a loyalty program.
And here’s the part that matters: this was my first loon sighting ever. After years of photographing ospreys, eagles, herons, and more ducks than a bakery window, the loon had somehow remained a rumor with feathers. Seeing one at last felt like meeting a celebrity who doesn’t know they’re famous.
So tell me again—what’s common about a bird that can outswim a gull, outmystify a foghorn, and make a grown man grin like he just found a twenty in an old jacket?
Nothing, as far as I can see.
Just a loon.
Dressed in its everyday clothes.
And extraordinary all the same.
Around here, the only thing common about a loon is how uncommon it feels to meet one—especially the very first time.
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