It was just past noon when Chadi climbed the small dune overlooking the rocky stretch of Qlaileh’s coast. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed seaweed. As he settled behind his binoculars, a sharp, piercing call echoed across the sky.
A Yellow-legged Gull soared into view — broad-winged, confident, and commanding. With its bold yellow beak and pale grey wings tipped in black, it circled the tidepools like a sentinel guarding its realm.
Chadi had seen these gulls many times before. To most, they were ordinary — loud, sometimes aggressive scavengers. But to Chadi, this particular one was different. It didn’t go straight to the fishing boats or the trash-strewn jetty. Instead, it landed on a jagged rock in the shallows and stood tall, like a general surveying a battlefield.
Moments later, two younger gulls approached — their mottled plumage still unfinished, their movements hesitant. The elder bird let out a warning cry. The juveniles backed off, flapping awkwardly. A lesson in territory, in presence, in survival.
Chadi clicked a few frames. But mostly, he watched. The gull’s yellow legs gleamed in the sunlight, planted firmly like roots in the stone.
Suddenly, the gull launched into the air, gliding low over the water before diving — not for fish, but to snatch a piece of bread drifting from a fisherman’s lunch. Efficient. Decisive. Wild.
By evening, the tide had risen and the rock was submerged. But Chadi’s camera had captured the moment — not just the bird, but its authority, its story.
He wrote in his field notes:
“The yellow-legged gull is not a visitor here. It is a resident. A ruler of the shoreline, born of wind and salt.”
And in that, Qlaileh’s coastal story lived on.
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