by Ian Harding
“Apparently there’s a shipwreck thirty minutes from here. It could be cool.”
Walter looked at me and shrugged. “Let’s check it out.”
* * *
When we got to Palos Verdes, the closest town to the wreck, the first thing we noticed was the view. The sky had parted, and the sun illuminated the beach.
We got lost in a neighborhood trying to find the path down to the shipwreck, finally parking along the ocean across from a few palatial estates. On the other side of the road, the ocean sparkled in the light. We had arrived on the edge of a cliff, and a picturesque beach lay a hundred feet below. Wave-smoothed rocks lined the shore—and there didn’t seem to be an easy way to get down to them.
We agreed to split up and try to find a trail down. Walter went to the left and peered over a ledge. Then without much fanfare, he jumped.
John and I, wondering if our friend had just casually killed himself, sprinted over to see what had become of him. Walter had landed roughly ten feet below, on a rocky outcrop on the cliff face. He waved to us, then skidded down on his heels to about the halfway point of the wall. He motioned for us to slide down and join him, but neither John nor I liked our odds of survival on the near-vertical cliff face, so we kept walking to see if there was a slightly more gradual trail available.
As we walked along, John started humming a tune that I quickly recognized as “One Headlight” by the Wallflowers.
“Please stop that,” I said. I tried to walk faster so I could get away from him.
It was too late. Certain songs are earworms. They enter your ear, innocently at first, then get stuck in the core of your brain, and nothing can shake them out.
By the time we found a trail down the cliff, John and I were both several verses in, belting out Jakob Dylan like our lives depended on it.
John started laughing. “He really was the better of the two Dylans,” he said.
“Whatever happened to him?”
John shrugged. “I don’t know, man. Whatever happened to any of the nineties pop stars? He probably settled down and opened a bike shop somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.”
The path we were going down was treacherous, and rocks crumbled beneath our feet as we scrambled our way down to the beach below, where we found Walter patiently waiting.
* * *
Sailors can be superstitious folk. To this day, many of them still refuse to set sail on Fridays. They avoid bananas and redheads. They don’t like whistling—and not because it’s annoying, but because they say it causes storms.
For all of the superstition of sailors, the people who actually name the ships clearly don’t buy into the idea of bad luck. I don’t know who it was who first spread the rumor that the Titanic was unsinkable, but trust me, it wasn’t a sailor. Openly advertising that level of hubris is flirting with disaster.
Similarly, naming a ship the SS Dominator begs for the ocean to destroy it. And that is exactly what happened to the SS Dominator, a freighter bound for Los Angeles in the spring of 1961—it got dominated.
Nobody died in the wreck. Bad weather drove the ship aground, battering it into the rocks, where it remained. Attempts to pull the boat back out to sea were fruitless. The Dominator was then auctioned off, but the new owners weren’t able to salvage much.
The coastline is now littered with bits and pieces of rusted freight ship. The larger pieces are bright orange with rust or covered with multiple generations of graffiti. Here and there around the wreckage you can see spiny lobster traps, dented by sea lions that have tried to break through the metal grates in hopes of a free meal.
We stayed down by the shipwreck for a little under an hour. We watched some crabs fight, cast bets on our favorites, hung our heads in disappointment when they reached a truce, and decided to hike back up to the car.
As we walked back up the cliff to the car, I started thinking about the SS Dominator and its terribly ironic name. Once a ship runs aground, nobody remembers what it did or what its purpose was; we just remember that it crashed. All we think about is how it ended.
This got me thinking about endings. I was a few months away from ending what, for the past seven years, had been my life. Pretty Little Liars would soon be over—I was less than four months away from the end of filming—and I’d been mulling over the coming changes in my life ever since my hike with Keegan.
A few weeks before the trip to San Pedro, my mom had emailed to ask if I wanted her and Aunt Jules to fly out to LA to celebrate the end of the show—sort of a small family wrap party. She had also asked how I was feeling about the show ending, and I told her I didn’t really know yet.
I read somewhere that, when Shakespeare was alive, nobody really liked the plays that we now consider to be his classics. Nowadays, we remember Shakespeare for plays like Hamlet, Macbeth, and Othello. But in his lifetime, those shows weren’t the favorites. Everyone kept asking him to write more plays like Titus Andronicus and Pericles—violent, sex-filled crowd-pleasers.
If someone as gifted and hardworking as Shakespeare didn’t get to have any say in the trajectory of his career, what chance do the rest of us have? You could spend thirty years working on Greek tragedies, and all anyone would remember you for was a smoothie commercial.
Thinking all of this, I started to feel guilty. I was lucky to be where I was. It’s a rare enough thing to get to make a living as an actor—I knew I needed to stop overthinking it all and just be grateful.
But you can’t turn off thoughts like that. They’re like Jakob Dylan songs—they just get stuck in your head for hours and hours.
We got back in the car and debated about what to do next.
About a mile down the road, I pulled off at another overlook. Living in LA, I don’t get to see the ocean nearly as often as you might expect, and I wanted to get one last look before we headed home.
There was a trail near the turnout, and Walter suggested we go down it a ways to see if there was anything to see.
As we walked, a thought struck me. I turned to Walter. “There are about ten thousand species of birds, right?”
“God, I hope not,” John said.
Walter nodded, “Yeah, just about ten thousand.”
“Nobody’s ever seen them all, have they? Like, that’s not possible. Nobody could ever do that.”
“You’re right,” Walter said. “It’s probably not possible.”
“Because that’s not the point of it, right? I mean, even though we try to see as many as we can—and we keep life lists and call each other whenever we see a new bird, it isn’t about the numbers. Not seeing every last bird doesn’t diminish the joy of birding.”
“When you guys have seen them all, will you please stop tricking me into going on these birding trips?” John asked. I’d completely forgotten that I’d promised to take him to a bookstore.
We arrived at a bench on the side of the sea, and we sat down. Walter took out his binoculars and scanned the coast. I thought I saw a loon in the distance, but it was too far out to be sure. I thought about my aunt Jules.
A gray blur shot by us. I tracked it with my eyes and turned to follow it but wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t see where it landed. It had disappeared somewhere in the bushes.
“Did you guys see that?” I asked.
John pointed to some brambles about a hundred feet from us. For someone who claims to hate birds, he’s pretty good at spotting them.
Walter perked up. “That’s a California gnatcatcher. They’re a coastal specialty.”
It was the first time I’d ever seen one.
* * *
We drove back to San Pedro for fish and chips, then headed home.
As we sped along in my station wagon, we talked about taking another trip. John told us he wanted to go to Oregon to do some white-water rafting, and he invited us to join him. I told him it would depend on when I was filming—as the show got closer to ending, my schedule was becoming more erratic.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I forgot about the show ending. How
are you feeling about that?”
“You know honestly, I don’t know,” I said. “Everyone keeps asking me that, and I wish I had a better answer to give. But I’m still in it now. Filming these last couple of episodes hasn’t felt any different from filming the rest of the show. I don’t feel a loss, or an absence in my life, or anything like that. When I stop filming, then I know I’ll start to feel something, but as long as I’m working on it I can’t really imagine what it will feel like to say goodbye.”
In the backseat, John pulled a pack of Twizzlers out of his backpack and offered them around.
“And I know that once it’s done there will be some big changes,” I said. “Like my hair. I’ve been contractually obligated to have the same haircut for the last seven years. Whenever it gets long, I text Kim to see if I can come in during my lunch break to get it trimmed—I’m not supposed to go to anybody else. It will be strange to not have her cut my hair anymore. Or when my chest hair grows back and I don’t have to worry about shaving it again for work, then I’ll be reminded that the show is really over. That might be when I start to feel nostalgic. Then I’ll be sad. But right now, I’m still busy with it. My mind can’t be here and four months in the future at the same time, you know?”
Walter nodded. John was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke up.
“When the show’s over, can you do me a favor?” he asked.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Shave your head and grow a mohawk.”
* * *
When I was a kid, I couldn’t count to thirty.
My brain would always skip the number. I’d try really hard to count correctly. I’d start out: “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine … forty.” Every time. Something about the number eluded me.
When this book is published, I will be halfway through my thirtieth year—a number I could never imagine. It isn’t frightening. It isn’t thrilling. It doesn’t feel that different at all.
The thing about uncharted territory is, once you get there, it just becomes familiar terrain.
* * *
I dropped the guys off at their homes in LA. Walter went back to his writing and editing, and John returned to his library and his beloved Chopin records.
As I drove home—my car winding through the hills of East LA—my mind returned to the ocean. We hadn’t seen many birds, but I had found myself looking out at the horizon all morning. I was looking for something. I knew, even though I couldn’t see them, that there were birds out there.
There’s a set of birds called the pelagics. They’re the first ones in most birding books: the albatrosses, petrels, shearwaters, and so on. The thing about these birds is most people will never see them. Every bird book starts with pages and pages of pictures of birds that most people will never lay eyes on.
The reason nobody sees these birds is because they never come to us. If you sit in your yard and wait by the feeder your whole life, you’ll never spot a pelagic bird. If you want to see one, you’ll have to hop in a boat and actually leave the land to meet them on their own turf.
Pelagic birds live at sea, and some species will go five years without ever seeing dry land. Their life is constant movement. They eat while flying. They sleep while flying. When the wind stops, they float in the sea and wait for the next gust, but there’s no stopping. They hatch out of their eggs, and once they fledge, they’re up in the air for life. An albatross or a shearwater will live for forty years, and every day of that life is spent either floating or flying.
As humans, we tend to crave solid ground. We want stability, comfort. Some of us live our whole lives waiting for that moment when we can say, “Now. Now I’m here. Now I’m where I need to be, and everything’s okay.”
But not all of us are the same kind of bird.
Some people need to nest. They need to make a place that they can call home, and that’s what makes them happy. Others are like falcons: they live for the hunt, for the rush of competition and moments of intense, beautiful conflict.
I think I may be more like one of those pelagics. I can’t look forward and say, “There. There is the place where I want to land.” My show is ending soon, and with any luck I’ll book something new—or I’ll just keep flying, waiting for the next gust of wind.
If the goal is to find a comfortable place to perch and watch the world go by, I know that doesn’t exist for me. At least not now.
I think the secret to a happy life is to keep moving, to keep trying to do the things you love.
And maybe—just maybe, if you’re really lucky—while you’re out there flying and flapping for years and years, you’ll see some pretty incredible things.
Acknowledgments
Publishing a book and starring in a television show are shockingly similar; both involve the creation and telling of a story by hundreds of people, for which the lead of that book/show gets all the credit.
Here I wish to thank the many, MANY people without whom this book wouldn’t have been possible.
For my ever-loving and ever-supportive family: I owe you all. Thank you for encouraging my imagination over the years, and for showing me that a life on the stage is not only a career, but also a calling.
John McKetta and Walter Heymann, for your support, wisdom, and deep love of all things avian. Especially you, John.…
For the Herndon fellows: I miss you all daily. Thank you for the childhood from hell/heaven.
For my PLL family: Thank you for an epic seven years. It was an honor to grow with you all.
Scott Mendel, for pushing me to write the book I wanted to write, and for the attentive ear.
Vikram Dhawer, Steve Gersh, Nick Collins, and Kyetay Backner, for your guidance and for giving me the opportunity to chase my dreams.
St. Martin’s Press, for taking a chance on an actor with a crazy idea. Most especially thanks to Sara Goodman, for your keen eye and ability to clarify everything I’ve written. For the rest, Alicia Clancy, Anna Gorovoy, Olga Grlic, Jess Preeg, Laura Clark, Jessalyn Foggy, Meryl Gross, Eva Diaz, and Jim Tierney: thank you for your hard work.
To those of you who have watched Pretty Little Liars with the same passion I had in making it: thank you. I would not be half the person I am today without you.
Lastly, but oh, so importantly; Sophia: What we have cannot be reduced to the written word or a token of thanks. I do not know where I end and you begin.
Jacket photo outtake. Apparently, posing makes me sneeze … (photograph by Sophie Hart)
Last day, taking it all in with Troian Bellisario. We began the journey together as two kids fresh out of drama school. Now we’re old. Just. Old.
This photo was taken by yours truly on Keegan’s last day. Oddly, I didn’t cry in any of the farewell moments with the rest of the cast. The only time I shed a tear was right after this photo was taken. Keegan looked me in the face, sighed, and said, “Well, I guess we’re done man.…”
About the Author
Born in Heidelberg, Germany, to a U.S. military family, Ian Harding discovered acting at a young age. He attended Carnegie Mellon University’s School of Drama and moved to Los Angeles shortly after graduating. He is best known for his role as Ezra Fitz on Freeform’s Pretty Little Liars, for which he has won seven Teen Choice awards. Ian is passionate about birding and nature, and he tries to spend as much time outdoors as humanly possible. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Introduction: Bridge to Nowhere
1 Family Cardinals
2 Redisco
vering Birds
3 H Is for Mr. Hawkins
4 My Inner Animal
5 Coming to Los Angeles (Twice)
6 Lucy Goosey
7 Il Buio Oltre la Siepe
8 Death and Loons
9 Spring Migration
10 Put Your Best Feather Forward
11 Rehab
12 Life in the Wings
13 No More Duck for Bailey
14 How to Look Sexy on Camera
15 The Birds and the Bees
16 Fifty Shades of Thanksgiving
17 The California Condor
18 Not That Kind of Bird
19 ’Splores with Keegan
20 And All the Birds at Sea
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
ODD BIRDS. Copyright © 2017 by Ian Harding. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photograph of Ian Harding © Sophie Hart; bird illustration © Jim Tierney
Title-page illustrations by Jim Tierney
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harding, Ian, 1986– author.
Title: Odd birds / Ian Harding.
Description: First edition.|New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017001939|ISBN 9781250117076 (hardcover)|ISBN 9781250156488 (signed edition)|ISBN 9781250117083 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Harding, Ian, 1986–|Actors—United States—Biography.|Birds watching—Anecdotes.|BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Entertainment & Performing Arts.|NATURE / Animals / Birds.|BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Rich & Famous.
Classification: LCC PN2287.H225 A3 2017|DDC 791.4502/8092 [B]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017001939
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