It almost doesn’t matter the language–whether it’s penguin, pinguoin, pingüino, something happens midway through, roughly around the “g,” the simple act of saying such a silly sounding word makes me chuckle.
You just can’t help being a glass-half-full type of person in the company of penguins.
We first see them swim alongside us, little blips of rounded water following us along like miniature dolphins, their blimp bodies black under the current, carrying to their home, the climax of this trip, the pinguenera.
Wow, this is totally rad, the catamaran turning at mach speed to their paradise home, shocking us all when he perches onto the rocky beach like an orca on the hunt, curious little penguins coming to investigate and explore, black and white tuxedo-wearing waddlers.
The babies molt to adulthood, their fleecey baby fur blooms of brown down replaced by sleek black and white.
Others stand to attention, diligent pupils, and still others do nothing more than balance on their rounded bellies.
There are hundreds of penguins here, bopping in and out of the water like projectile missiles, squawking, talking, chirping and just otherwise causing a major ruckus, each one heading in a seemingly disparate direction, askance, coming together to make one huge penguin colony.
Next to pelicans and puffins, the penguin might just become one of my favorite birds with its curiosity-killed-the-cat demeanor and Mary Poppins shuffle.
Bye, bye, little penguins. Happy to have met y’all.