Albert the Albatross's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Albert wedges a length of rope under the hangar's supply shelf, testing its strength with both wings. The fibers hold without fraying. He'll need this on every rescue—something reliable to lower from the cockpit or tie around someone who can't hold on themselves. He coils it and sets it beside the emergency kit, then looks toward the harbor. His gear is ready. Now he needs to watch the water, to learn where trouble appears before the radio crackles with desperate voices. He locks the hangar and flies toward the coast where the buildings give way to open sea. The nest sits wedged into a rocky outcrop where the urban waterfront meets the cliffs, built from weathered twigs and rope fibers tangled with sea debris. Albert lands beside it and settles in, his chest facing the harbor. From here he can see everything—fishing boats cutting through the swells, cargo ships anchored near the docks, the distant line where calm water turns rough. A skiff lists to one side near the southern reef, its engine smoking. Albert watches the crew wave for help, watches another boat move to intercept. He stays until the rescue finishes, until he knows what distress looks like from this height. When the sun drops low, he spreads his wings and glides back toward the hangar, the harbor map now etched in his mind. Morning brings him back to the waterfront where the seaplane hub controls most of the traffic. He pushes through the entrance and stops at the arrivals and departures board mounted on the wall. The weathered wood frame holds brass corner fittings, and split-flap panels click as they update beside hand-painted route names. Albert scans the schedule—cargo flights from distant islands, passenger runs to coastal towns, emergency medical transports marked in red. He memorizes the patterns, the times when the harbor gets crowded, when his seaplane might need to wait or find another approach. A panel flips to show a delayed arrival, and Albert pictures himself adding his own callsign to this board someday, proof that his rescues matter enough to track. He steps outside and watches a seaplane taxi toward the dock, its pontoons cutting white lines through the water. The pieces are all here now—the gear, the vantage points, the routes. All he needs is the call. That afternoon he climbs the old communication tower at the harbor's edge, a narrow structure that rises above every building in Compass Crossing. He settles into a timeworn wooden chair at the top, adjusting his goggles against the wind. The radio receiver sits beside him, speakers pointed toward the sky. Static fills the air, broken by fragments of conversation—fishing crews reporting positions, cargo ships requesting dock space. Albert listens for six hours straight, learning the voices, the codes, the way panic sounds different from routine check-ins. A call comes through near sunset, faint and broken. Someone stranded on a sandbar twenty miles out, water rising. Another boat responds before Albert can reach for the transmitter. He watches through his goggles as the rescue boat cuts across the harbor, its wake white against the darkening water. Next time, he thinks. Next time it will be him answering that call, flying out when everyone else turns away. He climbs down as the stars appear, his mind full of frequencies and coordinates, ready for the moment his reputation begins.