"There is a gull overhead!"
I heard someone yell out the warning just a fraction of a second too late. I was on board the ship, standing on the deck in the middle of a rigorous marine inspection. As the chief inspector of the project, I had a massive backlog of work to get through and precious little patience for distractions. Suddenly, I heard a sharp, abrasive squawk sound, followed by an unmistakable wet flop. The bird had just scored a direct hit right on my face.
What made the whole ordeal infinitely worse was that I had looked up just as it happened, catching the entire sequence in excruciating slow motion. I could even see the expression on the arrogant bird's face. It genuinely looked like it had a smug, satisfied smile curving across its beak.
Naturally, the other crew members nearby burst into immediate, uproarious laughter. Even Susan, our stern project manager, was having a hearty chuckle at my expense. I felt an overwhelming wave of humiliation wash over me. And to be thoroughly defeated and degraded by a mere seabird, of all things, felt like the ultimate insult.
The voyage had been long, grueling, and utterly exhausting. Eager to escape the mocking gazes of the crew, I headed straight for the dock as soon as we anchored, needing desperately to clear my head and think about something else. There was a charming hotel nearby, flanked by scenic beaches, but it was getting late in the evening. Looking for a quiet place to unwind, I decided to walk over to the hotel's bistro.
I approached the host to ask what the nightly specials were, hoping for a decent meal to salvage the day. But as I scanned the dining room, my heart sank: there was Susan and several other crew members from the ship. They had decided to visit the very same bistro. I offered a polite, strained "hi" but made it clear I wasn't planning to stay long. I quickly found a small table tucked away near the corner where a live acoustic band was playing, hoping to finally enjoy the relaxed coastal atmosphere.
Then, disaster struck a second time.
Someone at a nearby table shouted, "Watch out!" I heard that familiar, dreaded squawk sound echoing from the rafters. Oh no, I thought, my blood running cold. But I simply did not have enough time to react or duck for cover. A massive gull was flying low right over the indoor dining area, defying all laws of nature and restaurant etiquette. I looked up at the absolute worst possible moment, and the bird dropped its payload directly onto my face for the second time that day.
I froze, wiping my brow, and looked around the room in utter disbelief. The live band stopped playing abruptly in mid-song. Susan had just turned around from the bar, carrying a large, sizzling steak on a wooden board. She didn't laugh at first—she probably thought it was too tragic to be funny—until she noticed the thick white mess smeared all over my forehead and dripping down onto my plate of sausages. At that point, the sheer absurdity broke her, and she couldn't help but burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter.
It was the most awful, humiliating ending to a dinner imaginable. Why did my coworkers always seem to materialize wherever I went? I started to wonder if I was genuinely, supernaturally cursed. I glanced up anxiously toward the ceiling to see if any other gulls were lurking in the shadows.
(As a side note of linguistic trivia that crossed my tired mind, I recalled that the Russian phrase for "head" sounds remarkably like "gull over"—and the bird certainly seemed to have a permanent lease out over mine.)
By now, I had entirely run out of patience for this run of bad luck. I started to grow intensely paranoid. Were there gulls overhead right now? I knew that for my own safety, I was walking through a high-risk zone. If a gull was hovering over my head anywhere near these coastal cliffs, they would most likely swoop down for another tactical strike. It was a certified danger zone. I abruptly abandoned the bistro, hurried back into my motel room, and took a scalding hot shower. Even under the rushing water, I could still feel dried bits stubbornly clinging to my hair. I stood there cursing the entire avian species. At least inside the tiled enclosure, I was safe from aerial bombardment.
The next morning, I decided to push past my fears and go for a refreshing morning jog. There was a magnificent wooden walkway stretching right alongside the pristine beach. As I laced up my running shoes, a knot of anxiety formed in my stomach, convinced this route would be a gauntlet of danger. Yet, strangely enough, there were no gulls around whatsoever. Not a single feather in sight.
I thought this sudden absence was deeply suspicious. Were they hiding in the dunes, plotting their next ambush? Later that morning, I asked Susan whether she had any idea why the shoreline was completely deserted of birds. She just shrugged her shoulders lazily, claiming she had no clue. Susan casually suggested that maybe they were still sleeping off their nocturnal habits. I finished my jog feeling surprisingly invigorated, convincing myself that the curse had finally passed. I had survived without a single sticky incident. I genuinely thought I was in the clear.
Afterward, our entire group headed down to the active work site to inspect the structural progress of our new building development. There were dozens of construction workers swarming the area, alongside our usual team of project managers. When I stepped inside one of the unfinished rooms on the second floor, Susan accompanied me, hounding me about a sensitive topic: she was pressing me about the salary raise I had promised her weeks ago.
"I'm sorry, Susan," I snapped back, trying to keep my composure. "I know you want answers, but I simply can't talk about raises right now."
She went quiet, looking displeased, but I didn't have time to coddle her ego. We had a massive commercial structure to complete, and deadlines were looming. As we walked through to inspect one of the prospective master bedrooms, I noticed the large sliding glass window was wide open to the ocean breeze.
"Who on earth left this window open?" I demanded aloud.
Sitting right on the window frame, grooming its feathers, was a massive, insolent gull.
What is happening? I thought in horror.
Susan walked into the room right behind me. Seeing the bird, she called out, "Watch out!"
I was about to wave my arms and scare the intruder away, but the gull was faster. It hopped off the frame, swooped into the room, and—as if executing a carefully rehearsed maneuver—released its package directly onto my face in slow motion.
Susan let out a shriek of laughter, utterly unable to contain her amusement. That was my breaking point. I had officially reached the absolute end of my tether with Susan and her endless amusement at my misery.
"That is quite enough, Susan!" I yelled.
She immediately fell quiet, though a stubborn, amused smile still lingered tightly on her lips. With gull waste smeared all over my face and staining the collar of my shirt, we stormed out of the building site together. A few of the construction workers outside noticed my distress and started chuckling under their breath. Blinded by fury, I vented my frustration by kicking a heavy plastic trash bin hard on my way past.
Later that night, the plot thickened further when I ended up staying over at Susan’s place. Her apartment featured a large, comfortable double bed and a sweeping, panoramic view of the dark ocean. Before getting settled, I had strictly insisted that she close every single window in the flat. Susan had complained quite a bit about the rules, whining about the stale, stuffy air trapped inside the apartment. But I didn't care in the slightest. The gulls felt like they were actively tracking my movements, and I wasn't taking any chances.
We eventually agreed to occupy opposite sides of the room, but when it was finally time for lights-out, I was forced to share the large double bed with her. Susan fell asleep almost instantly, her breathing deep and even. But I could not find sleep. How could anyone possibly relax when they felt like they were being psychologically and physically targeted by airborne pests?
In the middle of the dead of night, I felt a sudden gust of cold, salty air sweep across my face. My eyes snapped open. I nudged Susan awake urgently.
"Susan, did you open a window?" I demanded.
She sleepily shook her head, though in the dim moonlight, I could swear there was a wicked little smile playing on her lips.
"This is not funny, Susan," I muttered angrily.
I threw off the covers, marched out of the bedroom, and discovered the kitchen window pushed wide open to the night air. I shouted back down the hall, "You had better not have been behind this!"
After securing the latch and returning to bed, I forced myself to relax against the pillows. Susan rolled over, trying to offer some soothing words in the dark.
"It's just a bizarre coincidence," she whispered soothingly. "Maybe they don't hate you at all. Maybe they just like you because you're fundamentally a great person..."
I closed my eyes, letting out a long sigh, while the Russian translation of gull over echoing in my mind as head felt like a cruel cosmic joke.
Suddenly, I heard a sharp rustling sound right above my head.
My eyes flew open. Sitting perched comfortably on the wooden bedpost, towering right above my pillow, was a massive, menacing gull. Before I could even scream, it turned around slowly and excreted its heavy contents right onto my scalp.
Susan woke up instantly at the sound of my gasp, erupting into a roaring fit of hysterical laughter. She was laughing so hard that she was gasping for air, claiming through tears that she had actually peed the bed from pure amusement.
That was it. I was beyond furious. I stood straight up in my underwear, glaring down at her, and yelled at the top of my lungs that she wasn't getting her salary raise at all—not now, not ever, under any circumstances. Meanwhile, the unbothered bird kept right on doing its business over my side of the mattress.
"If I ever find out who is secretly behind this sick prank," I bellowed into the night, "there is going to be serious trouble!"