The marina at Dbayeh was quiet that morning, its yachts gently rocking in the cold breeze. Chadi Saad zipped up his jacket and leaned against the railing, scanning the water with practiced eyes. The sea was grey and glassy — and then he saw it.
A Black-headed Gull.
Small, graceful, with a dainty red bill and legs, it floated calmly among the larger yellow-legged gulls. In winter plumage, its head was not black, but white with a soft charcoal smudge behind the eyes — like ink brushed in haste.
Chadi smiled. He always looked forward to these winter visitors. The black-headed gulls migrated south from Europe, escaping the cold to spend the season along Lebanon’s coast. Dbayeh, with its sheltered waters and gentle human rhythm, made for a peaceful stop.
The gull dipped its beak into the sea, picking at invisible morsels. Then it rose into the air with a sudden elegance, wings arched, body light, as if the sky had always belonged to it.
Two children tossed bits of bread from the dock. The gull circled once, twice, then swooped and caught a crumb mid-air. Quick. Precise. Playful.
Chadi captured the moment — wings wide, feet tucked, eyes fixed forward.
He whispered to himself, “Not just a gull… but a guest from the north.”
As the sun broke through the clouds, the gull joined a small flock gliding above the water, their calls crisp and cheerful. In that moment, the concrete marina turned wild again — reclaimed, even briefly, by wings and wind.
In his notebook, Chadi wrote:
“Black-headed gull. Dbayeh Marina. A whisper of winter on the Mediterranean.”
And so, another quiet encounter became a page in the story of Lebanon’s birds — and of the patient eyes that follow them.
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