Today in Corvo, Tomorrow in Corvo

Fragments of Corvo

October 2025

This year we arrived on Corvo on the 9th of October. It was the fourth year, and the one in which I ended up staying the longest, both voluntarily and involuntarily. As always, there were adventures and misadventures. I chose three stories from the many that took place there. Three more fragments for future memory.

October 11th – Barolo's Shearwaters at Sea

Hadoram Shirihai, whom I have the privilege of knowing, has devoted an entire lifetime to birds and is deeply passionate about the pterodromas' family. He told me he believes there is still much to be discovered in the waters of the Azores, especially in the Flores–Corvo area. It didn’t take much for him to turn me into a believer as well, and I embarked on the adventure, within my possibilities.

Little shearwater within arm’s reach (Puffinus baroli)

This year, in partnership with Carlos Mendes, a skipper well known throughout the archipelago, four pelagic trips with chumming were scheduled in that area. The ultimate goal was to see very special birds such as the Bermuda Petrel or the Black-capped Petrel, among others. It sounds like science fiction, but the GPS data collected year after year does not lie. These and other species from the family roam those waters and do so regularly.

We already knew that logistics is complicated in that corner of the world, with weather as an added constraint. That was why, between mechanical issues and unfavourable conditions, only at the third attempt we managed to get out to sea. Carlos came early in the morning from Flores to Corvo with Hadoram and his boat, clearly the best in the area. We boarded and off we went. The boat was intentionally not full, so everyone would have space to move around with their cameras. We were just over a dozen people, all brimming with hope of seeing unicorns.

The swell was neither large nor small. I quickly realised that Carlos is highly skilled at the helm, minimising passenger discomfort as much as possible. When I later told him so and congratulated him, he replied, somewhat shyly, “well, it is thirty years of experience, after all.”

Leach's Storm-petrel (Hydrobates leucorhous)

We worked our way through the points indicated by Hadoram, and things began to appear. In addition to the ever-present Cory’s shearwaters, we had more than a dozen Leach’s Storm Petrels very close to the boat. It was a spectacle to see them like this, going about their lives, rather than appearing after a storm. The surprise of the morning was two or three Little Shearwaters (Puffinus baroli). One of them gave us the observation of a lifetime. It was resting relatively close to the boat when we detected it and remained nearby, feeding. It made short runs along the wave crests and dipped its neck to capture whatever it found. It did this for a good twenty minutes. I will never forget watching that spectacle, photographing what I could, and hearing beside me, in French, “Incroyable! Incroyable!” It truly was. I never imagined I would see that cryptic, elusive species so close and feeding almost as if we weren’t there. The show was enhanced by having someone like Carlos at the helm, working in tandem with Hadoram’s instructions, positioning the boat so that the angle was always the best possible in relation to the bird, the sun, and the waves.

Sperm Whale (Physeter macrocephalus)

Later in the afternoon, when the wind began to increase—conditions more favourable for petrels to pick up the scent of the chum—we headed for point P, for pterodroma. Along the way we saw sperm whales, dolphins of various species, and more shearwaters and storm petrels. The action never stopped.

We arrived and stayed there for about two hours. The wind was in the right direction and conditions were good, but the truth is that petrels were nowhere to be seen. Positive thinking, prayers from the religious among us, or special chumming recipes made no difference. I imagined, several times, a petrel skimming low over the waves in that sea but nothing happened. When time ran out, we had to head back without any petrels. Was it because we hadn’t stayed long enough? Because there wasn’t enough wind? We will never know.

Atlantic Spotted Dolphin (Stenella frontalis)

When we disembarked on Corvo and said goodbye to Hadoram, Carlos, and his crew, I saw no unhappy faces. We hadn’t hit the jackpot, but we certainly couldn’t complain. Those seas still hold much left to explore, and they do not yield their secrets easily.

October 4th – Ruby-crowned Kinglet

The day was gloomy. One of those days when, if I had to bet, I’d say nothing at all was going to appear. Sticky humidity, fog — honestly, if this were Lisbon, I wouldn’t have left the sofa.

But Corvo is a permanent Twilight Zone. The usual rules don’t apply. Staying at home is forbidden.

That day, we chose to go to Ribeira da Ponte, better known as “Da Ponte” among non-Portuguese birders. The idea was to look for the Northern Parula that had been seen there the day before. Maybe it would show up again — who knows. And if it rained, at least the trees would offer some shelter.

Apparently, others had followed the same line of thought, and we ended up being five at that spot that day: Sandra and I, the Swede Jesper, and two Finns, Pekka and Petri. Judging by the faces, no one was especially enthusiastic.

It was just before nine when we started the grind. I left the speaker on the stone wall and began playing the usual sounds. One call, then another, then yet another. Nothing. I waited a few minutes and tried again. One call, another call.

There was a flicker of movement up in the canopy that quickly vanished. It was neither a chaffinch nor a blackcap. Could it be the Parula we were looking for? Probably — but the view was just a split second, too brief to draw any conclusions.

I played one more sound. We saw movement again, this time to the left of the bridge. I quickly pocketed the phone and raised my bins. I had barely had time to lock onto the bird when I heard Petri shouting beside me: “Ruby-crowned Kinglet!!!!” And there it was. Materialised out of nowhere. No doubt about it. A true unicorn. A kind of faint little goldcrest — but this one was special.

Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Corthylio calendula)

The star of the season

Only one had ever been seen on Corvo before, in 2015, and in the Azores as a whole there were just two records (2013 and 2015). And there it was, right in front of us, on a day that had promised absolutely nothing.

I raised the camera. The bird wouldn’t sit still, and the light was exactly what you’d expect, but I did what I could. The kinglet hopped from left to right, then crossed to the other side of the road, before flying into the trees behind and vanishing. The whole trance lasted less than three minutes. By nine o’clock it was over.

I checked the camera. The shots were poor and full of grain — but the bird was there. No doubt about it. I looked around and noticed Petri was completely out of himself: “Ruby-crowned kinglet! Oh my God! Oh my God!” His hands were shaking like green leaves. I’d never seen a Finn in that state. There’s a first time for everything.

I finally started thinking straight and asked whether anyone had already put the news of the sighting out. Jesper said yes. I calmly waited for what was about to come — that is, everyone else on the island, including the veterans who’ve been coming for twenty years.

“Calmly” is a manner of speaking, because I began to realise I was carrying a deep sense of anguish. This was one of those birds so important that, if by any chance not everyone managed to see it, we’d earn ourselves a lifelong legion of haters.

Stampede at Da Ponte

People began to arrive little by little, dripping in, all wearing that same desperate look — the uncertainty of not knowing what was going to happen. I told the story to those who asked, but quickly realised it wasn’t cathartic for me, nor for anyone else. There was only one way to resolve this: the kinglet had to do its part and show up again.

When absolutely everyone — and I really mean everyone — was finally there, the work began, that is, calling to see if the bird would appear. I’ll admit it looked tricky. Several tense dozens of minutes went by before the little star decided to grace us again with its presence. By my reckoning, it only showed up around eleven fifteen, more than half an hour after the first attempts.

It was then that I managed, in full David Attenborough mode, to witness a phenomenon I’d heard about but had never actually seen there: the stampede. When the bird appeared, someone unidentified shouted, in some language, the well-known “It’s there!!!”, and the crowd, as if it were a single living organism, ran as fast as it could for a dozen or two dozen metres, trampling over one another. Luckily, we were on tarmac. Had it been some muddy valley, the story might have ended differently. A few accidents I’d heard about flashed through my mind.

Baltimore Oriole (Icterus galbula)

One of the most beautiful birds of the year

The star appeared and was kind enough. It made everyone happy. It even went so far as, right at the end, to perch on some bare branches and allow those who wanted to get some decent photographic records. Ten minutes of pure adrenaline.

And that’s how a day that promised nothing turned into a day from another world. The moral of the story — one I’ve referred to many times in this lister life — is that the best way to find one thing is to go looking for something else.
Ruby-crowned Kinglet. The name says it all.

October 19th to 23rd — Today on Corvo, tomorrow on Corvo

Sunday the 19th arrived. It was the end of my fourth stay on Corvo — or at least that’s what I had in mind when I woke up that morning. Little did I know it was the beginning of yet another odyssey.

The flight was at eleven and, bags packed, we headed to the airport a good half hour early. That alone shows we’re not Corvo veterans. Those who know the drill only go to the airport when the plane lands — or, at most, when it leaves Faial. I was just leaving the hotel when I heard someone remark, “Well, it’s delayed because it hasn’t even left Ponta Delgada yet.” I didn’t pay much attention and carried on.

At the airport we checked in and waited. On Corvo, the departure lounge is right next to check-in, and the entire terminal is about the size of a dining room. Anything bird-related can always turn up, so it’s normal to only go through security at the very last second. Best to "keep one eye on the donkey and the other on the gypsy" (portuguese expression).

We waited and waited and never even made it to the departure lounge. Departure time came and the plane was still in Ponta Delgada. Rumours started circulating that it had a mechanical problem. Eventually, we began to see the ground staff packing up, the police officer leaving — a definite end-of-the-party atmosphere. It all ended with an embarrassed announcement from the check-in clerk that there would be no flight, followed by the printing of vouchers for food and accommodation.

Cape May Warbler (Setophaga tigrina)

In that tiny world, news travel at the speed of light so, in time we learned that the plane needed a part coming from Canada and that the repair would take a while. More details were added along the way, though by then I’m not sure whether we were still in the realm of fact or had crossed into fiction and urban myth.

Monday and Tuesday fell into the bleak routine of waking up in the limbo of not knowing where you’d eat or sleep that day. Wake up, grab your bag, go to the airport, no flight, collect the vouchers, go back to the hotel. As the days went by, more and more fellow sufferers joined us. I don’t know if it was true, but at one point I was told there were fifty people waiting to leave Corvo. Everyone had their own personal drama to deal with — skip work, medical appointments, surgeries, who knows what else. The Portuguese had heard that something like this could happen, but for the foreigners the situation was incomprehensible. To make matters worse, the sea wouldn’t allow an escape to the neighbouring island of Flores. It felt like we were in prison. “How is this possible? Where is the Air Force?!” I heard some tourists ask. They weren’t entirely wrong, but this is Portugal — and that says it all. Those days I decided to share the story with my cousins in São Miguel, who replied, quite aptly, “Now you see what insularity really is!”

On the one hand, insularity, sure. On the other, you also see what decades of continued incompetence at the highest level look like. Having only two planes capable of landing on Corvo and scheduling one for maintenance right after summer means that, if anything happens to the remaining one, you’re in serious trouble — as we clearly were. Opinions are plenty and the wind carries them away, but I’ve always heard that, to maintain any kind of operation you need at least three of everything: one in maintenance, and the other two backing each other up in case of failure. I don’t know the whole story, that’s true, but the fact is that SATA only has two of those precious little planes. There it is — Portugal at its finest. I also learned that this situation was by no means unprecedented.

Yellow-billed Cuckoo (Coccyzus americanus)

That said, nothing but praise for everyone we dealt with at the airport. SATA staff, the Police — all impeccable, professional, and even supportive. Over the days we’d run into each other all over the place, always greeted with that knowing smile: “So, still here?”

It was also around then that we learned one of the most famous local sayings: “Today here, tomorrow on Corvo.” Sometimes we heard variations: “I don’t think you’re going home today. I think it’s today on Corvo, tomorrow on Corvo.” We’d manage a smile, but the underlying feeling was one of sadness and helplessness. Others tried to cheer us up by saying it was much better for the plane to break down on the ground than in the air. In any case, everyone there knew exactly what was going on.

The hardest day for me personally was Wednesday. The news was that the plane had been fixed and there were three flights scheduled for that day. Ours was the third, at 6 p.m. We saw the first one leave Ponta Delgada on FlightRadar and I swear I heard fireworks going off in my head. Clearly those were fireworks before the party, because fifteen minutes later we saw the plane turn back to where it had started. The first two flights of the day were cancelled. Bad omen! Another day of today on Corvo, tomorrow on Corvo? Oh, the problem is small and the 6 p.m. flight will still go ahead.” Hmm, we’ll see, I thought. In the meantime, here’s another lunch voucher…

Later in the afternoon we saw the precious little plane take off and finally land in Faial. Today was the day! Just forty minutes to go.

Time passed, and the plane didn’t leave Faial. Who knows why — nightfall, or something else entirely. Eventually, someone came out to say there would be no flight. Here are the vouchers. Again.

The view from the room on the last day

It felt like the sky had fallen on my head. I stood there in silence, without reacting, for a good ten minutes, staring into infinity. This time we even had to change accommodation, as the original one was full. It was hard, but I accepted my fate. Every cloud has a silver lining. That night’s lodging had one of the best views on the island, and the owner even offered us dinner. And apparently the plane really was fixed. Maybe tomorrow we’d finally go home.

As nothing bad lasts forever, Thursday was the day. The plane landed around lunchtime, after a week-long absence, greeted by shouts of joy. It was the rarity everyone wanted to see. We headed home, and there was still time for a few drinks with some cousins in Ponta Delgada. At last, it was “today on Corvo, tomorrow in Lisbon.”

Back home, a few days later, I thanked one of Corvo’s most famous residents for her hospitality — she had hosted us on the last day. I also told her that, despite the misadventure of those final days, we’re not giving up.

Until next year!

Stranded in Corvo.
I posted this photo on Facebook and had a little moan about life.
The reactions were anything but sympathetic.

#canaldoxofred

The Longest Day

Off Marion Island, South Africa

27 January 2025

There’s an island in the middle of nowhere, halfway between the Cape of Storms and Antarctica. On Marion Island and its neighbour, Prince Edward Island, about two million seabirds of 29 species nest.

The importance of these islands is vital. Just one species – the wandering albatross (Diomedea exulans) – has some 40 % of its total global population breeding there.

Sooty Albatross

Life in the “Roaring Forties” isn’t easy, but humans, as always, have complicated it further. In the early 19th century, whaling fleets that frequented the area brought along domestic rats, which adapted incredibly well and began feeding on chicks that had no defenses against them. 

It was against that backdrop that BirdLife South Africa conceived the ambitious Mouse-free Marion project to rid the islands of rats once and for all. The idea is excellent — but it needs money. Lots of it.

One of the initiatives they thought up to raise awareness — and funds — for the project was the Flock to Marion: a luxury cruise to the islands with hundreds of birders aboard.

Northern Giant Petrel

I had been following the inituative from afar since 2022, when the first cruise sailed. But at that time we were still in the thick of the pandemic, or just coming out of it, and I never considered signing up.

As the saying goes, what goes around comes around and, three years later I ended up booking the Flock to Marion 2025. The path was not fdorect and had one or two extra turns but, I finally signed up.

The registration was done almost a year in advance, but time passed — as always — and I was genuinely excited to land in Durban the day before boarding the MSC Música.

The giant MSC Musica,
behind Nelson Mandela cruise terminal, in Durban

Finally, on Friday, 24 January 2025, after almost a one year wait, the big day arrived. Among the small crowd of about 1900 people boarding the ship in dribs and drabs, there I was, along with seven other Portuguese birders. The embarkation procedures were much simpler than I had imagined, and I soon found myself on starboard Deck 7, watching the birds that frequented the harbour.

The ship sailed late in the afternoon, and we knew we wouldn’t reach Marion until Monday, the 27th. We were told that the days at sea would be for resting, and that the real birding effort should be focused on the island days — the 27th and 28th. I heard that advice, but I turned a deaf ear — after all, how often does one find oneself in the Southern Ocean? Looking back now, of course those who advised caution were right.

Wandering Albatross

Every day of the cruise was special — but one was more special than the others. And that’s the one I’m going to talk about. We sailed up to what I came to call our D-Day: 27th of January, The Longest Day of the trip.

The excitement had been building since day one. Sunday the 26th had already been excellent, with wandering albatrosses showing up here and there. Smaller albatrosses and prions too. By the end of that day, I’d seen my first giant petrel, and I was thrilled, with a hint of a tear in the corner of my eye — almost all the goals I’d set out for the trip had already been met.

Could there be a better day still? Plenty of people who had sailed this route in 2022 had warned us, “Wait until you get to the island — you’ll see.”

I always thought they were exaggerating.

Soft-plumaged Petrel - dark morph 

Because it's better to be safe than sorry, I agreed with my roommate, Rui Pereira, to set the alarm at 3:20 am (!!!). By 3:45 I was on deck — it was dim, more dark than light. Of course I wasn't the first up but, there were only a few silhouettes in sight. There was an eerie silence among the guides and fellow early risers — by which I mean crazy people.

Suddenly I realize there was an american guide a few meters away, calling "Possible this, Possible that" to the dark silhouetes. I laughed to myself, Perhaps he was right. With that light, anything was possible.

I quickly arrived to the conclusion that I’d woken up too early — it wasn’t worth raising binoculars or camera for another half hour or so.

Light-mantled Albatross

Once the light improved, the show began to unfold. Birds were everywhere. Thousands of them. 

Instead of processing emotions or philosophizing about life, I just started working: shooting photos and recording everything I could see. After all, I had brought 20 memory cards — what were they there for if not to be filled?

Albatross for breakfast

Before breakfast, the star of the show was the first Light-mantled Albatross of the trip — perhaps the most beautiful of the seven albatross species we’d observe on this expedition. The subtlety in the variation of brown and silver tones is out of this world. 

The surprise was the common diving petrels: little auk-like birds with tiny wings, flying awkwardly as they skimmed and dipped across the waves. the name "diving" suits them really well.

The show had skuas, giant petrels, storm. petrels, several species of albatrosses, all in great quantity. An extraordinary mental strenght was required to turn my back on all of that and get some breakfast. Despite this early burst of excitement, it was only about 6 am.

The good thing was that even from the table on the 12th floor you could still see the wildlife. I didn’t eat alone, because I ran into one of my travel companions there, Hugo Blanco, who had also picked up the habit of having breakfast at the same hour. there are tastes for everything.

Common diving-petrel

After that first pit-stop of the day, we headed to the stern. 

The spectacle went on. There were great shearwaters in abundance, as well as wandering albatrosses and smaller albatrosses. Sometimes there were what looked like condominium meetings, with five, six, ten birds resting on the water. Many of them would rise to the height of our deck, on the twelfth floor, and even above our heads. To complete the scene, prions went by, along with several kinds of gadfly petrels. I was shooting constantly, and when I stopped to rest my arm, I simply stood there admiring the show. It was one of the best moments of the expedition: being able to see so many giant petrels so close. It’s one of those birds that looks as if it came from another age — a flying dinosaur with the looks of an assassin. It was my main goal for the trip, a bird I had only glimpsed for a few seconds the day before. The excitement was intense, but I didn’t let it take over the moment. I made the most of the opportunity and enjoyed it, while also filling the cards with a few more thousand records.

Salvin's prion

When we thought we’d had enough giant petrels, we decided to change our perch. We stayed astern, but went down two or three decks.

It hadn’t been long when we started hearing a real commotion coming from a bit of everywhere. A Cape petrel (Daption capense) was circling the ship. Madness ensued. It wasn’t a rare bird, but it was completely unexpected for that place and time of year. Apparently, it was on the opposite side of the ship. We were on the left and, it seemed, it was being seen on the right. These deck-switching manoeuvres rarely end well, so we decided to stay put and search from there. Not even two minutes had passed when I spotted the bird in the ship’s wake. “It’s there!”

There it came, performing acrobatic manoeuvres over the turquoise-blue water. Hugo still had to ask several times the usual question in situations like this — “Where? Where is it?” — and I had to give the reply that had already become famous on the trip: “Mate, get in behind me!”

Eventually, he spotted it too. The Cape petrel, besides being beautiful, was kind enough to stick around for a while. The photos weren’t easy, but they turned out well. Going from shearwaters and albatrosses to Cape petrels is tricky — it’s like switching from truck racing to Formula 1.”

Pintado petrel at the stern

Euphoria had taken over much of the ship. It was sheer popular joy. Hugo was in a trance — I can still feel the congratulatory slaps he gave me on the back.

I thought the day was already won, but the problem was that it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.

We went back to deck 7 and the feast went on. Birds in their hundreds kept appearing. Our eyes never had a minute’s rest.”

Marion Island

We had already passed Prince Edward Island and, around nine o’clock, Marion Island could be seen in the distance. I was impressed by its size, but above all by its height, which I was told exceeds 1,200 metres. Up high, you could still make out patches of snow. In my mind I had pictured a small rocky islet, but what I saw was a proper island. A pity we weren’t allowed to approach closer than twelve miles.

Indian Yellow-nosed Albatross

It was around 10:30 that we started hearing people shouting ‘penguin!’. I had hoped to see one, but now hope was quickly turning into possibility. ‘Penguin at two o’clock!’ someone yelled, and immediately all eyes swung to that sector, scanning the water for the birds.

It still took a few iterations to fine-tune our vision and understand what a penguin actually looked like out there, and a few more to manage to photograph them. Clearly the hardest animal to spot — and, consequently, to photograph — during the entire expedition. The damn things were constantly on the move, diving nonstop. You had to figure out roughly where they were and then be lucky enough to catch them as they broke the surface. Most of the time you’d only see splashes or the water bubbling but, with patience I managed to see four species over the course of the day. The penguin saga went on all day long. In the end anything became possible — even photographing penguins in flight.

Macaroni penguin
(Yes, they can fly)

The morning had been lively, but it was time to go for lunch — preferably early. That way we could secure one of the window tables. Everyone had already realised that on this trip you had to keep one eye on the ball and the other on the surroundings at all times.

We were happily eating when Hugo said, 'Look over there, isn’t that the albatross we need?’ We looked over and saw two or three albatrosses passing by, one of them with an orange bill. It was undoubtedly a black-browed albatross.

The next minute was dramatic. How do you photograph an albatross through a salt-smeared window? With some effort, I managed to get the evidence. It wasn’t a great shot, but it was a record. And just like that, three lifers at once: a black-browed albatross, photographing through the ship’s window, and photographing while having lunch at the same time. This is not for everyon.

Black-browed Albatross
at lunch, through the glass

After the buzzing lunch, we went back to work — a cruise like this is no place for the lazy. During the afternoon, besides penguins, prions and multiple black-bellied storm-petrels, among many others, a few new stars appeared in the firmament. One was the grey-backed storm petrel. To spot it, I had to learn to recognise kelp — a squid-shaped seaweed they often associate with while feeding. Always learning...

The other was the blue petrel. It looks similar to a prion but has a white tail tip rather than a black one. In truth, that one earned true star status, to the point of causing repeated stampedes of dozens of observers. ‘Blue petrel to port!’ and off the herd would go from starboard to port, right through the casino. ‘It’s back to starboard!’ and everyone would rush back to square one. I did that several times over the course of the trip, more often with poor results than good ones.

On one occasion I clearly remember hearing the casino staff’s voices: ‘Bird! Bird!’ The important thing was that everyone was having fun. What we do in the name of science…

Blue petrel

It was also after lunch that the Portuguese, collectively, showed signs of life and made themselves known to the crowd. We reached Deck 7, and immediately Rui Pereira spotted and photographed a fairy prion, setting everyone nearby into motion, searching for the bird, which is not at all easy to find and identify among the hundreds of other prions. A few minutes later, Luís Custódia was complaining that he still hadn’t managed to see a blue petrel — and right then Bruno Silva spotted one, causing another stampede on board. A few minutes after that, the same Bruno spotted a white-headed petrel, which many people, including himself, hadn’t seen yet. Another little crowd in motion. All of this happened in less than half an hour. That’s when I noticed we were surrounded by people and said it was our turn, the Portuguese, to ‘spread a little magic’ — and laughter broke out. With that said, we decided to go ‘spread our magic’ somewhere else.

Bruno's White-headed Petrel

A slightly more delicate note was the visit to the ship’s hospital around four in the afternoon. Luís had had a rough night and wasn’t feeling well. Was it from the excitement? Having known him since 2010, I didn’t think he was joking. Throughout the day I kept telling him that if he wanted, I’d go with him to see the doctor, since English isn’t isn't one of his strenghts.
So, at 4 p.m. we went to the ship’s hospital — another lifer. The doctor was rather good-looking, by the way. Besides prescribing some medication, she also recommended a nebuliser treatment. We went to the treatment room and spent quite a while there. Fortunately, the room had a porthole, so we could keep an eye on the albatrosses the whole time. I even picked up the binoculars. Could it have been a world's first? Birdwatching from the ship’s hospital treatment room. I think I saw a smile — maybe a teasing one? — on the faces of the nurses and the doctor herself… The important thing was that, at the end of the ordeal, Luís felt better. His wallet felt lighter too, as consultations on cruises aren’t cheap.

Visit to the hospital, always with the albatrosses in sight.

We returned to Deck 7 and stayed there, enjoying every last second, until twilight faded into dusk. The last image I remember is of the swarm of birds trailing the ship. Thousands of birds of every species going about their business, all bathed in the late afternoon light. A vision from another world, but in a way it made sense — after all, we were at the end of the world.

View of Deck 7 starboard 

During the day, several guides asked me what I thought of the experience. My answer came straight from the heart:
‘You could tell me a thousand times what it’s like. Only by living it do you understand.’
I returned to my cabin with a full heart. I asked Rui, the owner of one of those wristwatches that track everything, how far we had walked that day — and I was astonished by the answer: ten (!) kilometres. On a 300-metre-long ship it’s hard to believe, but the watch said it, so it must be true.

Wandering Albatross

Despite being tired, the day ended like all the others. We went to dinner at one of the ship’s restaurants, the Belle Époque. I dressed more or less formally — traditions have to be respected. I was probably one of the few on the expedition doing so, and I’d been told on the very first day that I was among the best-dressed at dinner. Not sure if that was a compliment or a dig, but I didn’t care. You could see and feel how happy I was — and the rest of the group too.
And the best part? We were only halfway through. 

Dinner at the Belle Époque

#canaldoxofred

The First Goshawk of the Azores

Fragments of Corvo
October 2024

A beginning is always difficult. How do you start writing about a microcosm that has so much to tell over so many years, and where each of us ultimately becomes a drop of water flowing into the all-encompassing ocean that surrounds everything? The Fragments of Corvo are episodes I experienced on the island — flashes of a much larger reality that unfolds there every year between September and October.

Corvo is the smallest island of the Azores but, when it comes to birdwatching, it is clearly the most sought after. Every year, a few dozen birders from all over Europe travel there in autumn, hoping to add American birds to their already extensive lists. Portuguese birders have gradually joined in, and nowadays there are around ten of us who go there annually with the same goal.

American Goshawk (Astur atricapillus)

In 2024 it was my third stay. I was already getting used to how everything works in that small world and to enduring the physical effort which, to me, feels like military training. Every bird is hard-won, physically demanding, and one does not get any younger. That October, I stayed for ten days.

On the 17th — the seventh day, a Thursday — we decided to go down into the caldera to try our luck with the elusive Lapland longspur. The elusive part, apparently, only applies to me, since everyone else but me always manages to see them down there. Tradition held firm, and once again there were no longspurs. An American rough-legged buzzard flying overhead tried, without success, to save the day.

The caldera is truly breathtaking, especially on the climbing back up part, but I hadn’t gone there to admire Nature. We conceded defeat and headed back. Without longspurs, the ascent naturally felt much harder.

Reaching the parking area and catching our breath, we still had another hundred metres to walk to call the taxi. The wind was so strong it nearly knocked me over onto the asphalt. With some effort, I made it to the top and sent the message. Miraculously, the phone wasn’t torn from my hands by the wind. Half an hour passed — no taxi. Sandra went up to check for a reply. Nothing.

Sheltering besides the roadside sign, we began reflecting on life. It was still several kilometres to the main road, and a bit further to the village. Do we walk or do we wait? It felt like being on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

At some point, above the roar of the wind, I thought I heard an engine in the distance. I didn't say anything — these are the moments when your mind likes to play tricks on you. But no, it wasn’t just my imagination. The sound grew louder, it was clearly a car. Was it the taxi?

Rough-legged buzzard (dark morph)

The highlight of the descent into the Caldeira.

When it finally appeared, we saw a large black jeep pass by. To my amazement, the driver immediately began waving goodbye. It was Pedro Silva, whom I had briefly met in Pico island back in 2021. It felt like a mirage. Cars on the island are few, and there, at that precise moment, one appeared driven by someone I knew. How was that even possible?

“Hi Fred. I’m Pedro. Remember me?”

Conversation flowed naturally. He had arrived on that day with a journalist to do a report on Corvo and the birders who visit the island in October.

“Would you mind doing an interview right now?”

How could I possibly refuse such an offer, with a free ride included?

We headed down together. The journalist introduced herself: 

"Hi. I'm Patrícia, from Fugas, the travel supplement of the newspaper Público." 

I answered all her questions — how I got started, why I was on Corvo, and a few other things. That was how a partnership began, one that would prove remarkably fruitful for all, over the following three days.

Norther harrier (Circus hudsonius) in the reservoir

The rest of the day was spent showing Pedro the birds that were still around and that he hadn’t yet seen. The great surprise came when we found an American northern harrier near the reservoir. Still, that day I didn’t add any new species to my own list. That’s just how it goes — birds appear when they choose to, and most of the time effort alone doesn’t make the difference.

The next day, Friday, I woke up feeling low. I had seen some interesting birds that year, but missing the longspurs the day before had probably taken its toll. News came from Lighthouse Valley that a Blackpoll Warbler had been seen there the previous day — a lovely bird. Ruben had already asked me if I planned to go look for it, but for someone with unreliable knees, Lighthouse Valley feels almost like a trip to the moon. So, I decided to stay closer to the village, wandering through the fields.

Mid-morning brought fresh news: a black-and-white warbler had been spotted near the campsite. That's a symbolic and special bird for so I rushed over, only to find the bird gone. Typical! 
The familiar scene awaited me — half a dozen people staring at half a dozen willows. Talking with the finder, Lucas, from Austria, sounded equally familiar “Yes, it was here, then it went there, and now we don’t see it.” We waited a good half hour, but the warbler never reappeared. Eventually people drifted away, and I decided to walk around the nearby area.

A few minutes later, almost back at initial spot, I thought I heard voices and excitement behind the willows. In a split second, I see Lucas beside me saying “black-and-white warbler,” and the bird flew right across the road, barely a metre from us. It lasted only one or two seconds, but it made hours worthwhile. I was genuinely moved. I hugged him and thanked him. The tide seemed to be turning...

Black-and-white Warbler

The Corvo carousel began to spin. Around lunchtime came news of another warbler — a northern parula — near the same spot. After coffee, decisions had to be made. The options were two: stay down, in the lower fields, to look for the parula, or head up to Lighthouse Valley to try the Blackpoll Warbler. My companions — Sandra, Pedro, Patrícia, and Nuno Gonçalves — leaned towards going up. Besides the Blackpoll Warbler, there was also an America Redstart there, also missing in their lists. In the end, the decision was easy: After all, I had a ride, and Nuno promised to show me an easier route.

And so, I found myself in Lighthouse Valley — a place of dread for weak knees. The trail turned out to be gentler than I remembered and, within fifteen minutes, I was scanning the junipers where, in theory, the birds should be. The first bird appeared almost immediately, but unfortunately it wasn’t the one I needed. Nuno had warned me that the other bird, the blackpoll warbler, was more elusive and only showed sporadically. After twenty minutes, we still did'nt have white smoke. We kept changing positions. Still nothing. Meanwhile, the other warbler - American redstart - kept flying right in front of us. It’s always like that — when you don’t need it, it’s much easier. Two years earlier, one of those had caused me real trouble at that very same spot. 
Anyway, that's water under the bridge. Suddenly, split of a second, I spotted another bird — more yellow, with two wing bars. It vanished again, not even allowing an out-of-focus picture. Another few minutes, it reappeared triumphantly, and I finally managed field-guide-worthy shots. The junipers and the blue sky completed the scene. When I checked the photos on my camera, I could hardly believe them.

Blackpoll Warbler

I was getting ready to take a deep breath and savour the achievement but, on Corvo there are days when not even that is possible. Suddenly I hear Pedro’s voice behind me: "Raptor! Raptor! Raptor!"

There are no resident raptors on Corvo — any appearance is significant and demands full attention. Eyes to the sky, we clearly saw a medium-sized bird of prey amid panicked flocks of starlings. It reminded me of a goshawk back home, but it didn’t fully match anything familiar. On one hand it felt known; on the other, not quite. Maybe it was the colour — these things are hard to explain. The bird showed no hesitation and, before heading north, even circled the valley two or three times. Those with cameras fired away as fast as they could. The cameras were boiling. 

In an adrenaline rush, we tried to make sense of what we’d seen. I checked the bird apps on my phone but found nothing that fit perfectly. We were discussing what to do next when we heard the radio crackle. We couldn’t make out a word. We asked for it to be repeated, with the same result. Apparently, whoever it was could hear us just fine; the other way around was more complicated. We only learned later that it was the Swede, Olof, calling to say he was seeing ‘our’ raptor.”

We had to act quickly. There was no mobile signal, and even the radio was unreliable. The sighting had to be shared. Nuno, a mountain guide from Pico and by far the strongest climber among us, offered to run uphill in search of reception. “We need to get the news out. Identification can come later.”, he said. We hugged colectivelly, and he took off at full speed, carrying a few back-of-camera photos. Even poor images would help solve the puzzle.

When we saw him again, up on the road, more than half an hour later, we began to grasp the magnitude of the situation. There was a strong suspicion that the bird was something unprecedented — an American goshawk (Accipiter atricapillus). If confirmed, it would be a first for the Azores and for the entire Western Palearctic. Meanwhile, Olof’s message had reached the wider birding community, and people were frantically trying to arrange transport up to our location. The regular taxi was unavailable, and panic set in. 

A brief parenthesis is needed here: two days earlier, Vincent — one of Corvo’s most frequent visitors — had photographed two distant raptors against a white sky. No one made much of it, as "mosquito" raptor photos can be deceptive. I remember looking at the image and casually saying “accipiter,” based on the shape. "Accipiter, Vincent, accipiter" — I had no idea then what that offhand comment might imply. The problem was simple: no goshawk of any species had ever been recorded in the Azores (see also the translation note below). I remember that afterwards we talked about what might be moving around the island, and he mentioned, "what’s still missing is figuring out what that raptor in the photo is — it hasn’t shown up yet."

And it ended up appearing right above us, in one of the island’s most remote valleys. Sometimes you don’t need a scriptwriter. The story writes itself.

American Goshawk and the panic of the starlings

The caos was installed for a few dozens of minutes but eventually everybody managed to come up. On the other hand, the bird cooperated briefly, and all present were able to see it. Once or twice it appeared near the cliffs below, surrounded by starlings fighting for survival. Distant, yes — but enough. Gradually, collective tension eased.

That late afternoon we returned triumphantly to the village, certain we had witnessed something truly special. The car felt like a golden museum carriage. People even waved as we passed — perhaps because we were riding in the Mayor’s vehicle.

After dinner, despite our confidence that the bird belonged to the Accipiter family, a definitive species identification was still needed. Pierre, another regular visitor, took charge of the investigation and contacted the experts. It was already after 10pm when I finally managed to send photos clearly showing the underside of the tail — enough to clinch the ID.

A few dozen minutes later, confirmation arrived from the experts:

“Congrats, it’s a Yankee!”

It was, indeed, an American goshawk (Accipiter atricapillus). The first confirmed in the Azores and the Wetern Paleartic. 

And that is Corvo. On a Friday that began without great promise, five Portuguese birders shared a moment for life — a day like no other on a remote rock in the middle of the Atlantic.

#canaldoxofred

Translation note: In Portuguese, the word for Goshawk is Açor. So, Açores (Azores) means literally "Goshawks". 

It is intriguing how an arquipelago is named based on a bird that has never been recorded there. It all comes to an error made by the early discoverers. They were seeing common buzards all over the place, but called them Goshawks instead.