Baby Ducklings Trapped in a Whirlpool Beside a River Pump Station

A river pump station in Wisconsin is a place of concrete and water and machinery, a place built to move river water, to control it, to pump it where it needs to go, a place with a trash rack — a metal screen, a debris screen, built to keep trash, logs, and other things out of pumps — standing in the river like a fence, a fence that water flows through, that trash collects against, that creates, on its downstream side, eddies and swirls, small whirlpools where water turns back on itself, where a leaf can spin for a while before it moves on, where a small, light thing on the water can become caught in a circle, going round and round, not moving forward, not moving back, just circling, held by water that is not fast, not violent, but persistent, water that turns, that holds, that does not let go easily.

That was where four baby ducklings found themselves: four small, yellow, fluffy ducklings, still downy, still tiny, still learning to swim, still meant to be following a mother duck in a line, paddling in open water, not circling beside a trash rack, not swimming against a whirlpool, not huddled together because huddling is the only thing that makes a whirlpool feel less frightening, not trying to get past a metal screen that water flows through but ducklings cannot, not in a place where pumps have been stopped and flow has been reduced, but where flow, even reduced, is still enough to hold four small bodies in a circle, to keep them from swimming to open water, to keep them from a mother they cannot see, from a bank they cannot reach, from a future that is not a whirlpool beside a pump station.

The ducklings had not gone looking for trouble. Ducklings follow their mother, they paddle where she paddles, they investigate where she investigates, and a river near a pump station, with its concrete edges, its trash rack, its swirling water, is exactly the kind of place a mother duck might lead her brood, or a place a brood might drift into when a current shifts, when a mother is distracted, when four small bodies, paddling hard, find themselves in water that turns, that holds, that circles, that does not let them paddle out, not because they are weak — ducklings paddle with astonishing determination for their size — but because a whirlpool, even a small one, is a circle, and paddling in a circle, however hard, does not take you out of the circle, it takes you round it, again and again, until you are tired, until you are cold, until you are huddled with your siblings because huddling is warmer, because huddling is safer, because four ducklings together are harder for water to push around than one duckling alone, even if four ducklings together are still not strong enough to paddle out of a whirlpool beside a trash rack, not without help, not without a net, not without hands that can lift them, gently, out of circling water, into a towel-lined box, to a check, to a reunion with a mother, to safety.

Four ducklings in a whirlpool beside a pump station are in danger from the water itself, from its cold, which saps small, downy bodies quickly, from its circling, which tires them, which makes every paddle a paddle against a current that returns them to where they started, from its trash rack, whose metal bars can catch a small body, can hold a duckling against it, can turn circling into pressing, into a duckling held against metal by water, and from the simple fact that four small ducklings in a whirlpool cannot stop pumps that have already been stopped, cannot reduce flow that has already been reduced, cannot do any of the things that would get them out of a whirlpool on their own, no matter how hard they paddle, no matter how tightly they huddle, no matter how much they want to be out, to be in open water, to be with a mother, to be ducklings again, on a river, not in a whirlpool, not beside a trash rack, not in a place where pumps are supposed to move water, not ducklings, not four small, yellow ducklings that should be in open water, with a mother, with futures that are, for ducklings, defined by paddling, by following, by growing, not by whirlpools, not by trash racks, not by concrete pump stations.

Two wildlife rescuers in waterproof gear arrived, with a soft mesh net and a transport box, because a whirlpool rescue is not a rescue you do with your hands alone, not when the animals are four, small, and in moving water, not when a hand that reaches into a whirlpool can scatter a brood, can push one duckling into a rack, can turn four huddled ducklings into four separate ducklings, each circling alone, each harder to catch, each colder, each more frightened. A net, soft, with a fine mesh, is a way to lift ducklings together, to scoop them from water without grabbing, without squeezing, without a hand that closes around a tiny body and risks injury, a net that can be held steady in water, that can be angled, that can wait, that can catch, that can lift, that can transfer, gently, into a towel-lined box, a box that is warm, that is dark, that is safe, that is a place where four ducklings can huddle together again, not in water, not in a whirlpool, but in towels, on a boat or on concrete, on their way to a check, to a mother, to safety. The pumps had been temporarily stopped and flow reduced, which mattered, because a whirlpool with pumps running is a whirlpool that is stronger, that holds harder, that turns faster, and a rescue that starts before pumps are stopped is a rescue that fights water that does not need to be fought, that risks ducklings being pulled toward a rack, toward machinery, toward a danger that stopping pumps removes, a danger that, once removed, leaves a whirlpool that is still a whirlpool, still circling, still holding, but holding less hard, holding slow enough for a net to work, for hands to work, for four ducklings to be lifted, one netful at a time, or, if the team was lucky and patient, all together.

The camera looked down in the opening seconds, and the image it gave was the image of four small bodies holding together in moving water. The ducklings swam close together beside the trash rack, their yellow down bright against grey concrete and brown water, their small bodies paddling, paddling, paddling, not moving forward, not moving back, just holding, just circling slowly, just staying together, because together is warmer, because together is safer, because four ducklings in a whirlpool are, in the way ducklings understand safety, safer than one duckling alone in a whirlpool, even if four together are still trapped, still circling, still in need of a net, of hands, of a box, of people who understand that ducklings in a whirlpool need to be lifted together, not grabbed one by one, not scattered, not chased, but netted, gently, as a brood, as a group, as four small bodies that belong together, that should stay together, that should be transferred together, into a box, to a mother, to safety. A rescuer held the boat — or, in this case, held position on the concrete edge — steady, kept his voice low, and spoke down to the water, not because ducklings understand words, but because a low voice is a steady thing in a place of moving water, because people who speak low tend to move slowly, and slow movement is what a whirlpool rescue needs, slow nets, slow angles, slow lifts, not rush, not chase, not a net that plunges and scatters.

“Hey, little ones… I see you down there. Hang on, we’re coming to you.”

The ducklings did not answer, of course — ducklings peep, they do not answer in words — but they stayed huddled, which was, for four ducklings in a whirlpool, the most sensible thing they could do. Staying huddled meant the net could find them together. Staying huddled meant a rescuer did not have to chase four separate circles. Staying huddled meant that when a net came down, it would come down around a brood, not around a single frightened duckling that had broken away, that was circling alone, that was colder, that was harder to catch, that was, in every way, a worse rescue than a brood rescued together. The rescuers spoke to each other in short, clear sentences — net, angle, hold, steady — sentences that left no room for misunderstanding beside a pump station, with four ducklings in water, with a trash rack to respect, with a whirlpool to work with, not against, and they spoke to the ducklings in longer, softer sentences, sentences that were not commands but reassurances, sentences that said, in tone, that the net was coming, that the box was ready, that there was no hurry, that the ducklings could stay huddled, could stay together, could take all the time they needed, because time, beside a stopped pump, is a thing that can be given, as long as flow stays reduced, as long as the net stays steady, as long as the rescuers work slowly and the ducklings stay huddled and learn, in the way ducklings learn, that a net is not a predator, not a trap, but a way out, a way to a box, to towels, to a mother, to safety.

From three to seven seconds, a rescuer lowered a soft mesh net into the water, while a teammate held position at the concrete edge. The net’s lowering mattered, because a net lowered too fast can scatter a brood, can push water ahead of it, can turn four huddled ducklings into four separate ducklings, each circling alone, and a net lowered slowly, held steady in water, angled to the current, is a net that ducklings can swim into, or be guided into, without panic, without scattering, without a chase, a net that, for the duration of the rescue, would be as steady as a basket, even though it was in moving water, even though a whirlpool turned around it, even though a trash rack stood beside it, a net that, once lowered, allowed ducklings to be lifted, gently, out of circling water, into air, into a box, into safety, a net that turned a whirlpool into a doorway, a way out, a path from water to towels, from a pump station to a check, to a mother, to safety.

The ducklings watched the net come, or rather, felt it, in the way ducklings feel water change around them, felt a mesh surface in water that had previously been only water and rack, felt a new thing, a soft thing, a thing that did not chase, that did not grab, that simply waited, held steady, angled, in the water beside them, a thing that, for four huddled ducklings, must have felt like a bank, like a shore, like a place to paddle toward, rather than away from, because a net held steady in water is, to a duckling, less frightening than a hand reaching, less frightening than a chase, less frightening than a whirlpool that turns and turns and does not let go. Three ducklings moved into the net’s area, paddling, huddling, staying together, and the net, lifted slowly, held them, three small, yellow bodies in mesh, safe, out of water, on their way to a box, while the fourth duckling, the last one, swam around the rack’s edge, circling, paddling, not yet in the net, not yet safe, not yet with its siblings, a single duckling in a whirlpool, which is, in every way, a worse place to be than three ducklings in a net, a lonelier place, a colder place, a place where a duckling paddles alone, where a rescuer must change angle, must wait, must try again, must not rush, must not chase, must let a single duckling find a net on its own terms, at its own pace, in its own time.

Between seven and twelve seconds, three ducklings were in the net, and the last duckling swam around the rack’s edge. A rescuer changed the net’s angle to meet it. That change of angle was the work, and the last duckling swimming out of the net while the other three were already safe was its climax, the moment when a nearly completed rescue became a place of new difficulty, not because the net had failed, but because a single duckling, frightened, tired, alone, had swum out, had circled away, had chosen, in the way ducklings choose, to paddle around a rack rather than into a net, to stay in water it knew, even if that water was a whirlpool, rather than enter a net it did not know, even if that net was safety, a duckling that, for a few seconds, was the whole rescue, the only duckling left, the one that mattered most, because three safe ducklings do not make a rescue complete, because a brood is four, not three, because a mother waiting for four ducklings will not be satisfied with three, because a rescue that leaves one duckling circling beside a trash rack is a rescue that is not finished, that must be finished, that must change angle, must wait, must try again, must not rush, must not chase, must let a single duckling find a net, find a brood, find safety, on its own terms, at its own pace, in its own time.

The rescuer who had spoken at the start spoke again, still low, still steady, talking to the water, to the net, to the last duckling, the way people talk when they want a frightened animal to come closer, not further, when they want it to trust a net that has just held its siblings, when they want it to believe that a net is safe, that a box is safe, that people are safe, that the last duckling will not be left alone, will not be left circling, will not be left beside a trash rack, but will be netted, gently, as its siblings were, and transferred, gently, into a box with them, to towels, to a check, to a mother, to safety.

“Easy… just a little more. Come on, little one, your brothers and sisters are waiting.”

A duckling chased at that moment, pursued by a net that moves fast, will scatter, will dive, will circle faster, will become harder to catch, will become colder, will become more frightened, will turn a rescue into a chase that helps no one, least of all a single duckling in a whirlpool, beside a trash rack, in Wisconsin, far from a mother, far from open water, far from safety, except for rescuers who would wait, who would change angle, who would hold a net steady, who would let a duckling come to them, gently, when it was ready, at its own pace, in its own time. A duckling given a steady net, given time, given a voice that does not rush, will paddle in, and the team gave it a steady net, gave it time, gave it a voice that held the whirlpool in its tone, that said, the water circles, but I am holding the net, the rack is there, but I am holding the angle, you can paddle, and I will hold, until you are in, until you are with your siblings, until you are safe, until the whirlpool is behind you, not around you, until a trash rack is behind you, not beside you.

The last duckling, after a moment of circling, of considering the net, the steady hands, the rescuer’s voice, the siblings in mesh, paddled in, slowly, paw by paw — or rather, foot by foot, webbed foot by webbed foot — into the net, into safety, into a group again, into a brood again, into four ducklings together, not three in a net and one in a whirlpool, but four in a net, four together, four safe, four on their way to a box, to towels, to a check, to a mother, to safety, its small, yellow body moving with the careful, deliberate paddling of a young animal that has decided, finally, that a net, even a net held by strangers, is better than a whirlpool, that siblings in mesh are better than circling alone, that a box, even a box it cannot see from water, is better than a trash rack, that leaving, even after swimming out once, even after circling alone, is better than staying forever in a whirlpool, beside a pump station, in Wisconsin, far from a mother, far from open water, far from safety, except for rescuers who would change angle, who would wait, who would hold a net steady, who would let a duckling come, gently, when it was ready.

In the final seconds, all four ducklings were transferred into a towel-lined transport box, ready for checking and reunion with their mother, clear of the whirlpool, clear of its circling water, clear of its trash rack, out into a box that was warm, that was dark, that was safe, that was, for four ducklings, the world as it should be, a world of towels, of siblings huddled together, of a check area where ducklings could be examined, given warmth, given rest, given time, to become, again, ducklings that are not in a whirlpool, ducklings that are in a box, ducklings that are safe, ducklings that will be reunited with a mother, on a river, in open water, not in a whirlpool, not beside a trash rack, not in a place where pumps are supposed to move water, not ducklings. The rescuer who had netted them closed the box gently, checked the latch, and spoke softly through it, his voice now warm with relief, because four ducklings that had circled beside a trash rack were now in a box, safe, on their way to a check, to a mother, to safety, to a future that was not a whirlpool, because the rescue that had almost failed at a last duckling swimming out had succeeded, because patience had won over haste, because a low, steady voice had won over a chase, because whirlpools, however circling, however holding, can be netted, angle by angle, duckling by duckling, until a brood is together again, even beside a pump station, even in Wisconsin, even for four small, yellow ducklings that paddle hard, that huddle together, that come to a net when given time and a steady angle and a box to go into.

“There you go… all four together, little ones. Safe now, you’re out.”

They would be checked for cold, for exhaustion from paddling in a whirlpool, for any injury from a trash rack, for the general condition of four ducklings found without a mother, and, if they were fit, reunited with their mother, on a river, in open water, where ducklings paddle in a line, where mothers lead, where whirlpools are not beside trash racks, or where trash racks are maintained, are checked, do not trap ducklings, a river where ducklings can paddle, can grow, can live, without needing nets and boxes to save them from whirlpools beside pump stations. The pump station, its pumps to be restarted, its trash rack to be cleared, its flow to be monitored, stayed on its Wisconsin river, a pump station with a story in it, a reminder that rivers, even rivers as ordinary as a Wisconsin river near a pump station, are places where ducklings can become trapped when water circles beside racks, and that trapped ducklings need people with nets, boxes, steady hands, and voices that hold a whirlpool steady in their tone, that do not chase a last duckling, to bring them back to open water, to a mother, to safety. The four ducklings that had circled beside their trash rack were in a box, safe, together, because two people with a soft mesh net, a towel-lined box, and a voice that waited, that changed angle, that did not chase a last duckling, had given them back open water, and open water, for ducklings that have been in a whirlpool, is everything, is paddling without circling, is a mother, is a river, is home.