Whitsundays

The cockatoos are mobbing your balcony. When the first landed, you darted inside and slammed closed the sliding glass door. Now there are three of them. You think that cockatoo is a word ill-equipped to capture their menace; googly-eye zombie parrot seems more appropriate at the moment.

They warned you about them at check-in and, even if they hadn’t, you know they are no-good because you saw one steal a whole waffle at pool-side breakfast this morning. Still, you recall the clerk’s admonition effortlessly: “they can open the minibar.” Your eyes search the room for an implement of self-defense. The corkscrew is too small and the riesling too precious. The clothes iron might work; you consider plugging in, but then you’d get tangled in the cord as you swung wildly at their white feathered bodies.

Glancing over at the nightstand, there’s Jennifer Lawrence on the cover of Vanity Fair with another of those damned cockatoos standing on her wrist. She looks to have her wits about her. But this is no time to regard her semi-submerged breasts.

You take a step backwards, almost tripping on the bed. The wooden chair at the desk looks heavy so you grab it and barricade the minibar with it. You’re about to rip the non-removable hangers from the closet when one of the birds gets bored and flies off. Then another. The last one locks its right eye on you before shaking its wings and soaring off the railing.

At dusk, you’ll learn about the island’s colony of huge fruit bats.