It was morning and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.
A mile from shore a fishing boat chummed the water and the word for Breakfast Flock
flashed through the air, till a crowd of a thousand seagulls came to dodge and fight
for bits of food. It was another busy day beginning.
But way off alone, out by himself beyond boat and shore, Jonathan Livingston Seagull
was practicing. A hundred feet in the sky he lowered his webbed feet, lifted his beak,
and strained to hold a painful hard twisting curve through his wings. The curve meant
that he would fly slowly, and now he slowed until the wind was a whisper in his face,
until the ocean stood still beneath him. He narrowed his eyes in fierce concentration,
held his breath, forced one…single…more…inch…of…curve. …Then his feathers ruffled, he
stalled and fell.
Seagulls, as you know, never falter, never stall. To stall in the air is for them
disgrace and it is dishonor.
But Jonathan Livingston Seagull, unashamed, stretching his wings again in that
trembling hard curve…slowing, slowing, and stalling once more…was no ordinary bird.
Most gulls don't bother to learn more than the simplest facts of flight…how to get
from shore to food and back again. For most gulls, it is not flying that matters, but
eating. For this gull, though, it was not eating that mattered, but flight. More than
anything else, Jonathan Livingston Seagull loved to fly.
This kind of thinking, he found, is not the way to make one掇 self popular with
other birds. Even his parents were dismayed as Jonathan spent whole days alone, making
hundreds of low-level glides, experimenting.
He didn't know why, for instance, but when he flew at altitudes less than half his
wingspan above the water, he could stay in the air longer, with less effort. His glides
ended not with the usual feet-down splash into the sea, but with a long flat wake as he
touched the surface with his feet tightly streamlined against his body. When he began
sliding in to feet-up landings on the beach, then pacing the length of his slide in the
sand, his parents were very much dismayed indeed.
"Why, Jon, Why?" his mother asked. "Why is it so hard to be like the rest of the flock,
Jon? Why can't you leave low flying to the pelicans, the albatross? Why don't you eat?
Son, you're bone and feathers!"
"I don't mind being bone and feathers, mom. I just want to know what I can do in
the air and what I can't, that's all. I just want to know."
"See here, Jonathan," said his father, not unkindly. "Winter isn't far away. Boats
will be few, and the surface fish will be swimming deep. If you must study, then study
food, and how to get it. This flying business is all very well, but you can't eat a glide,
you know. Don't you forget that the reason you fly is to eat."
Jonathan nodded obediently. For the next few days he tried to behave like the other
gulls; he really tried, screeching and fighting with the flock around the piers and fishing
boats, diving on scraps of fish and bread. But he couldn't make it work.
It's all so pointless, he thought, deliberately dropping a hard-won anchovy to a
hungry old gull chasing him. I could be spending all this time learning to fly. There's
so much to learn!
It wasn't long before Jonathan Gull was off by himself again, far out at sea, hungry,
The subject was speed, and in a week掇 practice he learned more about speed than
the fastest gull alive.
From a thousand feet, flapping his wings as hard as he could, he pushed over into
a blazing steep dive toward the waves, and learned why seagulls don't make blazing steep
power-dives. In just six seconds he was moving seventy miles per hour, the speed at which
one's wing goes unstable on the upstroke.
Time after time it happened. Careful as he was, working at the very peak of his ability,
he lost control at high speed.
Climb to a thousand feet. Full power straight ahead first, then push over, flapping,
to a vertical dive. Then, every time, his left wing stalled on an upstroke, he'd roll
violently left, stall his right wing recovering, and flick like fire into a wild tumbling
spin to the right.
He couldn't be careful enough on that upstroke. Ten times he tried, and all ten times,
as he passed through seventy miles per hour, he burst into a churning mass of feathers,
out of control, crashing down into the water.
The key, he thought at last, dripping wet, must be to hold the wings still at high
speeds-----to flap up to fifty and then hold the wings still.
From two thousand feet he tried again, rolling into his dive, beak straight down,
wings full out and stable from the moment he passed fifty miles per hour. It took tremendous
strength, but it worked. In ten seconds he had blurred through ninety miles per hour.
Jonathan had set a world speed record for seagulls!
But victory was short-lived. The instant he began his pullout, the instant he changed
the angle of his wings, he snapped into that same terrible uncontrolled disaster, and
at ninety miles per hour it hit him like dynamite. Jonathan Seagull exploded in midair
and smashed down into a brick-hard sea.