Ocean Watch

Reader Ira Tagawa recently wrote, “I was wondering if you have written about the aukuu, also called the night heron. These birds are fascinating. I have seen them hunting for fish at Ala Moana Park, West Loch Golf Course and Honolulu International Golf Course.”

I have not written about black-crowned night-herons because they aren’t marine. But even though these Hawaii natives are classified as freshwater marsh birds, they aren’t picky about where they hang out. Whether the food is in fresh, salt or brackish water, aukuu show up for dinner.

Black-crowned night-herons are native not only to Hawaii, but to just about everywhere else in the world too. This thriving species is found throughout most of the U.S. mainland, ranging to the tip of South America, southern Eurasia, Africa, the Caribbean and parts of the Pacific.

To me, aukuu look like little thugs in bad humor, standing sulkily at the edge of ponds. I say this because these capable predators often stand with their thick necks pulled in, making their heads look hunched upon their shoulders. This, however, is simply the birds’ hunting posture, making them ready to spring upon an unwary fish, frog, mouse, insect or even a downy chick of another species.

Also, the features of the aukuu’s face are those of a bird that means business. Adults have fiery red eyes, a long, hefty bill and feather patterns that give the bird a glowering scowl.

But before you can check out this bird’s features, you first have to find the bird. Decked out in beautiful pearly grays, with a black back, bill and cap (hence the name), black-crowned night-herons are so well camouflaged that one can be standing right in front of you, and you might still miss it.

That happened the other day at a pond in the Hilton Hawaiian Village. I took a friend there for brunch, and as we were leaving, I spotted an aukuu not three feet away. “Look,” I said, “a night heron.”

Even that close, my friend didn’t see the bird until I practically touched it.

We stood quite close to the fine-looking heron, yet it remained motionless, staring at the water with glistening red eyes, ready to nab one of the hotel’s fish.

One of the qualities that endears black-crowned night-herons to many of us is this tendency to become town birds.

I have a favorite I named Prince because of its regal stance at the edge of the Ala Moana Beach Park canal. Once, I watched Prince catch a tilapia from the shallow water there. The strike was so fast I didn’t see it. First the bird didn’t have a fish in its beak; then it did.

But the big tilapia lay sideways in the bird’s bill. I watched the heron turn the wiggling fish inch by inch until its head pointed toward the bird’s throat. With a jerk, the aukuu tried to swallow, but the fish was too big. Then, amazingly, the bird let the fish go, and it swam away apparently unharmed.

Not everyone is fond of black-crowned night-herons. Aquafarmers consider these birds a threat to their shrimp, and people with private ponds aren’t thrilled about the herons stealing their fish stocks.

Still, it’s hard not to love a bird that’s learned how to exploit humans, especially since we stole most of their wetland habitat.

Aukuu are native survivors that deserve their own column. Thanks, Ira, for reminding me.