Brant Party of 150 – your table is … I’m still not completely sure what I witnessed that day in Little Compton. And that bothers me, because I like to think I understand birds at least enough to pretend I know what’s going on.
What I saw was not a flock.
It was a convention.
A summit.
A feathered flash-mob of brant — easily a hundred and fifty of them — packed so tightly along one narrow strip of shoreline that it looked like someone had announced free appetizers.
And more kept arriving.
Now, I come from a family where exaggeration is considered a communication style.
“That bag weighs a ton.”
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”
“She talks a mile a minute.”
And my personal favorite, delivered daily in the voice of my beloved Trish:
“I’ve got a million things to do today.”
My reply, of course:
“Well honey… it’s already eight o’clock. Better get started.”
So understand this — when I say there were at least 150 brant crowded into one tight little section of beach, I am speaking with almost total honesty.
Almost.
Because once the number goes past fifty, counting becomes interpretive art.
Brant, for those who don’t obsess over waterfowl the way photographers do, are basically the minimalist cousins of the Canada Goose. Smaller. Darker. More refined. They wear a sleek black neck with a crisp white necklace — like they’re headed to a formal dinner where only seaweed is served.
And that’s the first clue.
Brant are specialists. Unlike many geese, they don’t just graze any random lawn or golf course. Historically they survived almost entirely on eelgrass — a marine plant growing in shallow coastal waters. Modern brant have broadened their diet a little (probably after realizing eelgrass isn’t always on the menu), but they still love sea lettuce, algae, and tender salt-marsh vegetation.
Which means this gathering wasn’t random.
Somewhere along that edge of water was the avian equivalent of a five-star buffet.
Maybe a patch of exposed sea lettuce revealed by the tide.
Maybe a concentration of eelgrass ripped loose by recent wind or surf.
Maybe a perfect mix of salinity and sunlight encouraging growth right there, right then.
Or — and this is my favorite theory — one brant landed and said, “Guys… trust me,” and the rest followed without asking questions.
Because brant are famously social. They migrate together, feed together, and often rest in tight groups. Safety in numbers. Also, apparently, dining in numbers.
The scene felt less like wildlife photography and more like restaurant seating logistics.
“Brant Party of 150 — your table is ready!”
Heads down.
Bodies shoulder-to-shoulder.
Occasional honking arguments that sounded suspiciously like:
“You’re standing in my salad.”
Every few minutes another squadron would arrive low over the water, wings whistling, circling once as if checking Yelp reviews before squeezing into the crowd.
Some landed gracefully.
Others… not so much.
And the thing about brant is they’re long-distance athletes in tuxedos.
These birds breed in the Arctic — way up where maps start to feel optional — and migrate thousands of miles down the Atlantic Flyway to wintering grounds like Rhode Island. They travel through brutal weather, shifting winds, and endless open water just to stand shoulder-deep in freezing surf and argue politely over seaweed.
Honestly, I respect that level of commitment.
I stood there for a long time watching them.
Not because I understood exactly what was happening.
But because moments like this remind you that nature doesn’t owe you explanations. Sometimes you just get a front-row seat to something unfolding according to rules you haven’t learned yet.
All I know is this:
Something irresistible was happening on that shoreline.
Something worth flying miles for.
Something worth squeezing shoulder-to-shoulder with a hundred and fifty of your closest relatives.
And judging by the enthusiasm, whatever it was…
It was definitely better than breadcrumbs.
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