It was early morning on the quiet Dbayeh beach, where the sea kissed the shore with calm, rhythmic waves. The city buzzed in the background, but here, only the sound of gulls and water remained.
Chadi Saad walked slowly along the tide line, his binoculars ready. Shells crunched beneath his feet, and seaweed curled between the rocks. Then — a flicker of movement caught his eye.
A Green Sandpiper.
Slender, dark-backed, white-bellied, and standing alone just where the waves met a patch of wet sand. Not the usual crowd of gulls or pigeons — this was a quiet migrant, a bird built for stealth and distance.
It bobbed once, then paced carefully along the foamy edge, its long legs adapted perfectly for navigating rocky beaches. With short, quick pecks at the sand, it searched for tiny crustaceans left behind by the tide. Occasionally, it paused to scan the horizon — ever alert, ever aware.
Chadi watched in silence. The green sandpiper was a rare visitor here — not common along open coastlines, but perhaps blown slightly off-course on its way from a northern riverbank to an African wintering ground. It didn’t stay long.
With a sudden lift, the bird flew low over the water, wings beating fast, its white rump flashing as it disappeared toward the marina breakwater.
Chadi scribbled in his journal:
“Green Sandpiper. Dbayeh. Beachside wanderer. Alone, brief, precise. Like a secret between sea and sky.”
And for the rest of the day, that fleeting glimpse lingered in his memory — a reminder that even on familiar beaches, the unexpected can appear with the tide.
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